Volume Ii Part 5 (1/2)
Months rolled over: the summer went by, and the autumn itself now drew to a close; and the various preparations for the coming winter might be seen in little hand-barrows of firewood deposited before each door, to be split up and cut in fitting lengths for the stoves. Fur mantles and caps were hung out to air, and some prudent and well-to-do folks examined the snow-windows, and made arrangements for their adjustment.
Each in his own way, and according to his means, was occupied with the cares of the approaching season. There was but one unmoved face in the whole street--but one, who seemed to take no note of time or season--whose past, and present, and future, were as one. This was Fritz, who sat on his accustomed bench gazing at the birds, or occasionally moving from his place to peep into a cage whose occupant lay hid, and then, when satisfied of its presence, retiring to his seat contented.
Had the worthy citizens been less actively engrossed by their own immediate concerns, or had they been less accustomed to this humble dependant's presence amongst them, it is likely they would have remarked the change time had wrought in his appearance. If no actual evidence of returning reason had evinced itself in his bearing or conduct, his features displayed at times varieties of expression and meaning very different from their former monotony. The cheek, whose languid pallor never altered, would now occasionally flush, and become suddenly scarlet; the eyes, dull and meaningless, would sparkle and light up; the lips, too, would part, as if about to give utterance to words. All these signs, however, would be only momentary, and a degree of depression, even to prostration, would invariably follow. Unlike his former apathy, too, he started at sudden noises in the street, felt more interest in the changes that went on in the shop, and seemed to miss certain birds as they happened to be sold or exchanged. The most remarkable of all the alterations in his manner was, that, now, he would often walk down to the river-side, and pa.s.s hours there gazing on the current. Who can say what efforts at restored reason were then taking place within him--what mighty influences were at work to bring back sense and intellect--what struggles, and what combats? It would seem as if the brain could exist in all its integrity--sound, and intact, and living--and yet some essential impulse be wanting which should impart the power of thought.
Momentary flashes of intelligence, perhaps, did cross him; but such can no more suffice for guidance, than does the forked lightning supply the luminary that gives us day. The landscape preternaturally lit up for a second, becomes darker than midnight the moment after.
Bright and beautiful as that river is, with its thousand eddies whirling along,--now, reflecting the tall spires and battlemented towers of the town--now, some bold,'projecting cliff of those giant mountains beside it--how does its rapid stream proclaim its mountain source, as in large sheets of foam it whirls round the rocky angles of the bank, and dashes along free as the spirit of its native home! Fritz, came here, however, less to gaze on this lovely picture than on a scene which each morning presented to his eyes, close by. This was a garden, where a little girl of some seven or eight years old used to play, all alone and by herself, while the old nurse that accompanied her sat knitting in a little arbour near.
The joyous river--the fresh and balmy air--the flowers flinging delicious odours around, and gorgeous in their brilliant tints, only needed this little infant figure to impart a soul to the scene, and make it one of ravis.h.i.+ng enchantment. Her tiny footsteps on the ground--her little song, breathing of innocence and happiness--the garlands which she wove, now, to place upon her own fair brow, now, in childish sport to throw into the clear current--all imparted to the poor idiot's heart sensations of intense delight. Who can say if that infant voice did not wake to feeling the heart that all the wisdom of the learned could not arouse from its sleep?
Not only was Fritz happy while he sat and watched this little child, but, for the entire day after, he would appear calm and tranquil, and his face would display the placid expression of a spirit sunk in a pleasing trance.
It was not unusual with him, while he was thus gazing, for sleep to come over him--a calm, delicious slumber--from which he awoke far more refreshed and rested than from his night's repose. Perhaps she was present in his dreams, and all her playful gestures and her merry tones were with him while he slept. Perhaps--it is not impossible--that his mind, soothed by the calming influence of, such slumber, recovered in part its lost power, and not being called on for the exercise of volition, could employ some of its perceptive faculties.
Be this as it may, this sleep was deep, and calm, and tranquillising.
One day, when he had watched longer than usual, and when her childish sport had more than ever delighted him, he dropped oft* almost suddenly into slumber. Motionless as death itself he lay upon the bank,--a faint smile upon his parted lips, his chest scarcely seeming to heave, so soft and quiet was his slumber. The river rippled pleasantly beside him, the air was balmy as in the early spring, and fanned his hot temples with a delicious breath, the child's song floated merrily out--the innocent accents of infant glee--and Fritz seemed to drink these pleasures in as he slept.
What visions of heavenly shape--what sounds of angelic sweetness--may have flitted before that poor distracted brain, as with clasped hands and muttering lips he seemed to pray a prayer of thankfulness,--the outpouring grat.i.tude of a pent-up nature finding vent at last! Suddenly he awoke with a start--terror in every feature--his eyes starting from their sockets: he reeled as he sprang to his feet, and almost fell. The river seemed a cataract--the mountains leaned over as though they were about to fall and crush him--the ground beneath his feet trembled and shook with an earthquake movement--a terrible cry rang through his ears.
What could it mean? There!--there again he heard it! Oh, what a pang of heart-rending anguish was that! ”Hulf! hulf! hulf!” were the words. The infant was struggling in the current--her little hand grasped the weeds, while at every instant they gave way--the water foamed and eddied round her--deeper and deeper she sank: her hair now floated in the stream, and her hands, uplifted, besought, for the last time, aid. ”Hulf uns! Maria!
hulf uns!” She sank. With a cry of wildest accent, Fritz sprang into the stream, and seized the yellow hair as it was disappearing beneath the flood: the struggle was severe, for the strong stream inclined towards the middle of the river, and Fritz could not swim. Twice had the waves closed over him, and twice he emerged with his little burden pressed to his heart; were it not for aid, however, his efforts would have been vain. The cry for help had brought many to the spot, and he was rescued--saved from death: saved from that worse than death--the terrible union of life and death.
He lay upon the bank, wearied and exhausted--but oh, how happy! How doubly bright the sky!--how inexpressibly soft and soothing the air upon his brow!--how sweet the human voice, that not only sounded to the ear but echoed in the heart!
In all his bright dreams of life he had fancied nothing like the bliss of that moment. Friends were on every side of him--kind friends, who never in a life-long could tell all their grat.i.tude; and now, with words of affection, and looks of mildest, fondest meaning, they bent over that poor boy, and called him their own preserver.
Amid all these sights and sounds of gladness--so full of hope and joy--there came one shrill cry, which, piercing the air, seemed to penetrate to the very inmost chamber of Fritz's heart, telling at once the whole history of his life, and revealing the secret of his suffering and his victory. It was Star himself; who, in a cage beneath the spreading branches of a chestnut-tree, was glad to mingle his wild notes with the concourse of voices about him, and still continued at intervals to scream out, ”Maria, hulf! hulf uns, Maria!”
”Yes, child,” said a venerable old man, as he kissed Fritz's forehead, ”you see the fruits of your obedience and your trust. I am glad you have not forgotten my teaching,--'A good word brings luck.'”
Every story-teller should respect those who like to hear a tale to its very end. The only way he can evince his grat.i.tude for their patience is by gratifying all their curiosity. It remains for me, then, to say, that Fritz returned to the little village where he had lived with Star for his companion; not poor and friendless as before, but rich in wealth, and richer in what is far better--the grateful love and affection of kind friends. His life henceforth was one of calm and tranquil happiness. By his aid the old Bauer was enabled to purchase his little farm rent-free, and buy besides several cows and some sheep. And then, when he grew up to be a man, Fritz married Grett'la, and they became very well off, and lived in mutual love and contentment all their lives.
Fritz's house was not only the handsomest in the Dorf, but it was ornamented with a little picture of the Virgin, with Star sitting upon her wrist, and the words of the golden letters were inscribed beneath,--
”Maria, Mutter Gottes, hulf uns!”
Within, nothing could be more comfortable than to see Fritz and Grett'la at one side of the fire, and the old Bauer reading aloud, and the ”Frau”
listening, and Star, who lived to a great age, walking proudly about, as if he was conscious that he had some share in producing the family prosperity; and close to the stove, on a little low seat made on purpose, sat a little old man, with a long pigtail and very shrunken legs: this was old Cristoph the postilion--and who had a better right?
Fritz was so much loved and respected by the villagers, that they elected him Vorsteher, or rector of the Dorf; and when he died--very old at last--they all, several hundreds, followed him respectfully to the grave, and, in memory of his story, called the village Maria Hulf, which is its name to this day.
CHAPTER III.
_Varenna, Lake of Como_.
Italy at last! I have crossed the Alps and reached my goal, and now I turn and look at that winding road which, for above two thousand feet, traverses the steep mountain-side, and involuntarily a sadness steals over me--that I am never to re-cross it! These same ”last-times”
are very sorrowful things, all emblems as they are of that one great ”last-time” when the curtain falls for ever! Nor am I sorry when this feeling impresses me deeply; nay, I am pleased that indifference--apathy--have no more hold upon me. I am more afraid of that careless, pa.s.sionless temperament, than of aught else, and the more as hour by hour it steals over me. Yesterday a letter, which once would have interested me deeply, lay half read till evening; to-day, a very old friend of my guardian's, Sir Gordon Howard, has left his card: he is ill the inn, perhaps in the next room, and I have not energy to return his visit and chat with him over friends I am never to see again. And yet he is a gallant old officer,--one of that n.o.ble cla.s.s of Englishmen whose loyalty made the boldest feats of daring, the longest years of servitude, seem only as a duty they owed their sovereign. The race is dying out fast.