CHAPTER XXXVI.
VOICES FROM THE DEAD.
As Annele fell, she upset the lamp on the table, which came down with a crash, and was extinguished, leaving them in entire darkness. Lenz rubbed Annele's temples with the brandy that he luckily got hold of; she breathed at last, and grasped his hand. He carried her into the next room, and after laying her down on the bed, he hurried back to get a fresh light.
Lenz fortunately had an ample store of purified turpentine oil in the house, by which he usually worked at night. The raven, in the kitchen, had broken the large can, and an insupportable smell of rosin penetrated into the room, when the door was opened. Lenz lighted the lamp with the brandy, and the three miserable prisoners looked still more deplorable, by the blue flickering light.
Petrowitsch laid the child on the bed; her feet were as cold as ice. He ordered Büble to lie down on the child's feet, which Büble instantly did. Then Petrowitsch took Lenz by the arm, and led him back into the sitting room, the door of the adjacent room remaining open.
The raven and the cat were again at war in the kitchen, but they let them fight it out, till they were quiet of their own accord.
"Have you anything fit to eat?" asked Petrowitsch; "it is past five o'clock, and I am wofully hungry."
There was enough to eat, as a ham had fallen from the loft down the chimney; there was also bread, and a large sack of dried fruit.
Petrowitsch ate with a good appetite, and pressed Lenz to eat also, but he could not bring himself to swallow a morsel. He was anxiously listening to every sound in Annele's room. The child was talking in its sleep; a kind of confused muttering, as if from another world, and it was startling to hear it laugh—still sound asleep. Annele lay quiet, breathing softly. Lenz went in to take up the child, and called out in terror, for he had seized Büble by mistake, who bit at him fiercely. Annele was roused by the cry, and calling Lenz and Petrowitsch to come to her, she said:—
"I thank God that I still live, if only for one hour longer. I ask forgiveness from all, but more especially from you, my Lenz."
"Don't try to speak much at present," interrupted he. "Will you not be persuaded to take something? I have found some coffee, but not the coffee mill. I will bruise it if the child is awake. There is some good ham here besides."
"I cannot eat. Let me speak. What has happened? Why did you give such a cry, Lenz?"
"It was nothing. I wished to take the child, and Büble snapped viciously at me, and in the terror of the moment, and the anguish of our position, I felt as if some monster, I knew not what, was about to devour us all."
"Alas!" said Annele, "your distraction of mind, your nervous state, has all been caused by me. Oh! Lenz, what I dreamt has come to pass. Last night I thought I stood beside an open grave, and looked in, deep, deep, and dark; little heaps of earth rolled down and down; I tried to save myself, but could not; I stumbled, and was precipitated to the bottom. Hold me fast! Now it is past—lay your hand on my face—merciful powers! to think that you must die with me, that all this misery has fallen on us, in order to bring me to repentance! I deserve it, but you and this child." ... Tears prevented her saying more; she seized Lenz's hand and placed it to her lips, then she exclaimed:—
"An hour ago, I would gladly have died, but now I should be so glad to live! I should like yet to show the world what I can do! I see now what I have been. Henceforth I will thankfully implore a kind look or word. Merciful Father! succour us, and save us from this dreadful death, if only for a day, for an hour! I then would send for Franzl; Lenz, my first shortcomings began with her."
"Now I do verily believe that the evil one is fairly driven out," said the uncle: "a striking proof of it is your thinking of Franzl, and wishing to benefit her, whose life you embittered by turning her away. Here you have my hand in token of friendship; now all will be well."
Lenz could not speak; he hurried into the next room, and bringing some of the spirit, he placed it to Annele's lips, saying:—"Drink, Annele, and for every drop you drink, I would fain give you as many grateful and loving words." Annele shook her head, and he went on:—"Only drink it, to give you fresh strength. Now try to rest, and don't speak another word."
Annele said she could not rest, though she would have been glad to do so, as it was his wish; she lamented bitterly, that, in all probability they must all soon die; but Lenz tried to soothe her by saying, that they had still food enough to last for several days, and that they ought to thank God for his great mercy in this; and before what they had in the house was consumed, no doubt help would arrive. Annele then began afresh to deplore the great sin she now felt she had committed, in having received so unthankfully the blessings that had been granted to her, always living in peace and plenty, and yet these mercies she had utterly disregarded; and she perpetually bewailed and lamented, saying—"I feel as if snakes were winding round my head. See if every hair is not a snake—and only yesterday I was so proud, plaiting my hair."
With feverish, trembling fingers she took down her hair, and let it float over her shoulders, making her look still more wild and wretched.
Lenz and Petrowitsch had considerable difficulty in pacifying her; the uncle at last insisted on Lenz leaving Annele alone, and going with him to the next room, when Petrowitsch said to him:—"Pray endeavour to be composed, for Annele's sake, or she will die before any help can reach us. I never beheld such a revulsion in any human being, I could scarcely have believed it. Such a shock to the whole system must be very trying. Now tell me what letter was it that I found in your child's frock, when I placed Büble on her feet?"
Lenz related the desperate determination he had come to, and said it was his farewell to Annele and to life, and begged his uncle to give it back to him; but his uncle held it fast, and read it out in a low voice.
Lenz shuddered at hearing the words repeated, that he had intended being spoken after his death. He watched the expression of his uncle's face, so far as it was visible in the blue light, to see what he thought of it; Petrowitsch however, did not once look up, and read on to the end, when he gave one quick sharp glance at Lenz. He then put the letter in his pocket.
"Give me the letter, and I will burn it," said Lenz, in a whisper.
In the same suppressed tone, Petrowitsch answered:—"No, I mean to keep it, I have only half known you till now."
He was uncertain whether Petrowitsch meant this for good or evil, but the old man stood up, and took down his brother's file from the wall, holding it in his hand, which pressed on the well worn hollow, produced in long years of work, by his dead brother's fingers.
Perhaps at that moment he made an inward vow, that if they were rescued, he would supply the place of a father to Lenz, but he only said: "Come here, I want to whisper something to you. The basest action a man can commit is suicide; I knew the son of such a man, who said to me—'My father made his fate light, but ours hard!' and that son——" here Petrowitsch suddenly paused, and then said, close to his ear—"cursed his father's memory!"
Lenz started back in horror, and almost sunk to the ground on hearing these words, but Annele at this moment called to him:—"Lenz, for God's sake come here!" They hurried to her, and she said, still in a most excited state, "Oh! my dear Lenz, to think that you really wished to make away with yourself! Surely you could not have done so when it came to the last, for the children's sake; but I am the guilty cause of your ever dreaming of so fearful a sin. Oh! how your heart must have bled! I don't know what is the worst thing I have done, to implore your forgiveness for."
"It is all over now," said Petrowitsch, soothingly. It was singular that the same ideas should be working in Annele's brain, in her room, where she could not possibly hear a word of what the two men were saying in cautious whispers. Both tried to pacify her.
Several clocks now struck three.
"Is that noon or night?" asked Annele.
"It must be night."
They recapitulated all that had occurred since the snow had been precipitated on the house; and they agreed it must be long past midnight.
"Oh! daylight! if I could only once more, only just once more, see the blessed sun! Oh! rise in the sky and succour us! Oh! that it were light!" cried Annele, incessantly. They could not quiet her nervous excitement, till at last she dropped asleep from sheer exhaustion.
Petrowitsch also fell into a doze, and Lenz alone remained awake. He dared not sleep; it was indispensable that he should steadily face their deadly peril, and ward it off, so far as human means could avail. He extinguished the light. The store of spirits for the lamp must not be wasted—who knows how long it may still be required! And soon, as Lenz sat thus in silence and darkness, it seemed first noon, and then night; at one moment he wished it were day, at the next he hoped it was night. If it were day, help would be nearer; if night, those outside would have been working on longer, shovelling away the snow, and rolling away the heavy trunks of trees. Often he thought that he heard sounds outside, but it was all a delusion—it was the raven croaking in his sleep.