PROF. KELLERMANN’S FUNERAL.
It had snowed persistently all day, and now, at night, the wind had risen and blew in furious gusts against the windows, a bleak December gale.
The Professor tramped steadily up and down his floor, up and down his floor, from wall to wall and back again. It was not a cheerful room; with but one strip of carpet, a chair or two, a table and bedstead, and one dim tallow candle, flickering in a vain struggle to give any thing better than a sickly light, which was afflicted, at uncertain intervals, with violent convulsions. No, it was not a pleasant place, for the Professor was poor, and lived a lonely, hermit-like life in the heart of the great German city.
He had no relations—no friends. He was not a popular man, though he had once been well known, and the public had all applauded his great scholarship. His books, one after another, as they came out, if they brought him no money, had brought him some fame then; but the last one had appeared years ago, and been commented upon, and conscientiously put aside, and the public, never very much interested in the author personally, had about forgotten him.
During these long years he had been living secluded, waging a perpetual war with himself. Entangled in the meshes of the subtile German infidelity, which was at variance with his earlier training, he found himself encompassed about by unbelief—unbelief in the orthodox theology of his youth, unbelief, also, in the philosophy of this metaphysical land. A man of vast learning, and a close student, he discovered his knowledge to be always conflicting; and thus the long debate within him was no nearer a termination than at the moment when the first doubt had asserted itself.
Preyed upon by this harassing mental anxiety, and by encroaching poverty, he was seized by a nervous fever, which had gradually undermined his health, and almost disordered his mind.
And now, this night, in a condition of exhaustion, weary of life and its ceaseless struggle—without friends, without money, without hope—his black despair, like the evil tempter, rose before him and suggested a thought from which he had at first drawn back appalled. But it was only for a moment. Why not put an end forever to all these troubles? Had he not worked for years, and had he ever done the world any good, or had the world ever done him any good? No! The world was retrograding daily. The selfishness of humanity, instead of lessening, was constantly growing worse. How had they repaid him for his long studies? He had shut himself up and labored over heavy questions in metaphysics—sifting, searching, reading, thinking—only for a few thankless ones, who had glanced at his works, smiled a faint smile of praise, and straightway left them and him to be lost again in obscurity!
The future was dark, the present a labyrinth of care and suffering, from which there was but the one escape. Then why not accept it? So he had been arguing with himself all the evening, and, in his growing excitement, pacing the floor of his garret to and fro with a quick, nervous tread. But there had another cause risen in his mind which he, at first, would hardly acknowledge to himself.
A faint, undefined shadow, as it were, of his early faith stirred within him, and before him the “oblivion” of death was peopled with a thousand appalling fancies, illumined by the red flame of an eternal torment. In vain he strove to dispel it by remembering the more rational doctrine of reason, that death is but a dreamless sleep, lasting forever.
Suddenly, feeling conscious of the heinousness of the crime he was meditating, and knowing that he was in an unnatural feverish condition, he paused abruptly in his hurried tramp, stood a few moments utterly motionless, then, dropping on his knees, he made a vow that he would take twenty-four hours to consider the deed, and, if it were done, it should not be done rashly. “Hear me, O Heaven!” Springing up, he cried; “Heaven! Heaven!—There is no Heaven! Vow!—to whom did I vow? There is no God!” Muttering a faint laugh, he said, after a moment: “I vowed to myself; and the vow shall be kept. Not all the theories and philosophies of Germany shall cheat me out of it.”
It seemed like the last struggle of his soul to assert itself. Almost staggering with exhaustion, he fell upon the bed and slept.
A gentle breeze from the far past blew around him in his native land. He saw the white cliff at whose base the sea-foam threw up its glittering spray with a ceaseless strain of music. He saw the green meadows, where the quiet, meek-eyed cattle found a pasture, stretching away to the green hills, where flocks of sheep browsed in the pleasant shade beneath the tall oak trees. He saw, far off on the highest summit of the wavy ridge, the turrets of the great castle rear themselves above the foliage like a crown—the royal diadem upon all these sun-bathed hills and valleys. He stood within the cottage, the happy cottage under the sheltering sycamores; and, brighter, clearer, more beautiful than all these, he saw a face look down upon him with a calm and earnest smile. It was the home of his childhood, it was the face of his mother, all raised in the mirage of sleep—a radiant vision lifted from the heavy gloom of forty years, years upon which Immanuel Kant, years upon which the Transcendental school had crept with their baleful influence, poisonous as the deadly nightshade.
He struggled to speak, and wakened. A dream, yes, all a dream! He pressed his hands against his brow—A dream? Yes, childhood had been but a dream. Life itself is but an unhappy dream!
The wild December wind still blew with a rattling noise against the windows, and sometimes swept round the corner with a dreary, half-smothered cry. The candle had burned down almost to the socket, and was seized more frequently than before with its painful spasms, making each gaunt shadow of the few pieces of furniture writhe in a weird, silent dance on the wall. As the Professor sat on the bed, they appeared to him like voiceless demons, performing some diabolical ceremony, luring his soul to destruction. Then they seemed moving in fantastic measure to a soundless dirge, which he strained his ears to hear, when the candle burned steadily, and they paused in their dumb incantation.
A loud knock, which shook the door, made the Professor start up amazed, and the shadows re-begin their uncanny pantomime. For a moment he stood stupefied with surprise. It was far in the small hours of the night, and visitors at any time were unknown. He had lived there for months an utter stranger, and no footsteps but his own had ever crossed the floor. An uncontrollable fit of trembling came upon him, and he lay down once more, thinking it all the creation of his overwrought fancy. But the knock was repeated louder than before, and the gaunt shadows again made violent signals to each other in their speechless dialect, as though their grim desires were just then upon the eve of accomplishment.
With an effort the Professor got up and said “Come!” but the word died away in his throat, a faint whisper. He tried it a second time; then, partially overruling the weakness that had seized upon him, crossed the room and opened the door.
“Good gracious! What’s the matter with you?” said a voice from out of the dark on the landing.
It was the son of the undertaker, who lived down stairs. They were not acquainted, and had never spoken, but they had often passed each other in the street—though, until that moment, the Professor was not aware that he had ever even noticed him; but now he recognized him and drew back. The young man, however, entered uninvited.
“I say, what the deuce is the matter with you?”
“Nothing! What do you want, sir?”
“Want? Why your face is as white as a sheet, and your eyes, your eyes are—confound me if I want any thing!” he said, backing to the door in alarm.
Indeed, the expression which rested on the features of the Professor was hardly pleasant to look at alone, and in the night. But, having followed his instinct, so far as to his bodily preservation, and having backed into the hall so that the Professor could hardly distinguish the outline of his figure, the young man’s courage got the better of his fright. He came to a standstill, passed his hand nervously round his neck, cleared his throat several times, and then, in a husky voice—caused, evidently, by his recent alarm, and not by the message, singular as it was, that he came to deliver—said,—
“We want you. It is Christmas—we want you for a corpse.”
It may have been a very ordinary thing to them, considering their profession, to want people for corpses, either at Christmas or any other time; but it was hardly an ordinary thing to the Professor to be wanted for one; and the announcement was certainly somewhat startling, made in a sepulchral tone from out the gloom. It was still stranger that the young man himself appeared rather faint-hearted for one who entertained so malevolent a desire, and had the boldness to make the assertion outright. The Professor for a moment fairly thought him in league with the shadows, for they were at work once more, beckoning and pointing fiercely, as the wind swept up the staircase, to the indistinct figure out in the dusk, that was the son of the undertaker, and who said again,—
“We want you, sir, for a corpse—”
Here he paused abruptly, to clear his throat anew, as though he found himself disagreeably embarrassed by the unfriendly appearance of his host, whose face, if it had been pale at first, was of a gray, ashen color now. He evidently could not see why his request should have been taken in such ill part, and he stammered and stuttered, and was about ready to begin again, when the Professor said,—
“You will likely get me.”
The peculiar expression that rested upon the Professor’s mouth as he uttered these words, was hardly encouraging; but the young man—as though every body would recognize that it was absolutely essential to them, in order that they might celebrate the great gala-day with their family, to have a corpse, just as other people have a tree—immediately brightened up, and, advancing a step or two, said gratefully,—
“I am very glad, sir; I am very glad. It is Christmas, you know, and I told them as how I thought you’d do, for you are spare, sir, and—”
Here he found another blockade in his throat, which, after a slight struggle, he swallowed, and went on,—
“I told them as how I thought you’d do, sir, for you see we want somebody that is small and thin, and will be light to carry after he is all fixed up. Hans Blauroch did for us last time; but this year, instead of parading Santa Claus up and down the street, we’ve concluded to bury him. It will be something new this Christmas; and Hans is too heavy to carry; and when I thought of you, sir, I just took the liberty of coming right up; because it’s near daylight, and there ain’t no great while left to get the funeral ready.”
So the blockhead had finally jerked out what he came for, which was not so malevolent after all as he had at first made it appear. He deserved, rather, to be praised for his persistency than censured for his awkwardness, considering the difficulties under which he had labored.
The Professor did not show whether he felt relieved by this denouement. He had listened without moving; and when the young man finished speaking he hesitated a moment, then, with the same peculiar expression visible about his mouth, said he would be glad to place himself at their service; he would be with them directly; that he had not been feeling well; indeed, he only an hour ago almost fainted, and had not yet recovered when he heard the knock upon his door; but he was feeling better, and would come down immediately.
The young man laughed good-naturedly as he replied,—
“I am obliged to say I did not like the looks of you at first. You must have been out of your head.”
The Professor waited until the last echo of the retreating footsteps died away down at the bottom of the stairs, then shut his door.
“A strange thing,” he muttered; “what have I to do with Christmas? I, who have studied, studied! I had forgotten there was any time called Christmas. What is it to a scholar? Philosophy says nothing about it; and reason would teach that—ah, yes, it too is a dream, a dream within the dream called life. Then what have I to do with it? Why did I promise? I will not go. Yet my vow—twenty-four hours. I dare not trust myself alone. A funeral, did he say? I will see how it feels; yes, for I will probably need one in another day. They wanted me ‘for a corpse,’ and I said they would likely get me, and I would be glad to ‘place myself at their service.’ Ha, ha! They can bury me twice. But my vow, my vow! I will not trust myself alone. It is nothing to me; I will go.”
He had been tramping again rapidly up and down the room, when he suddenly turned, took up his hat, looked around for a moment at the shadows that were still making unintelligible signs to each other, then extinguished them in darkness and slowly went down stairs.
The lodgings were directly over the undertaker’s establishment. Living so secluded, speaking to none, it had never occurred to the Professor before what a grim place he had chosen for his home. But now the silver-barred coffins in the show-case were ghastly as he passed.
Night had not yet yielded up her supremacy. A heavy covering of snow, that clung to every roof, tower, and spire, made the place look unreal through the gloom, like some colorless apparition of a great specter city. Close-blinded, silent and cold, without one glimmer of life, the houses faced each other down the long street. Far off, the ghostly dome and pinnacles of the cathedral reached into the sky—the empty, soundless sky—for the wind had fallen away, leaving a gray expanse that seemed to stretch through infinitude. But, though the Professor did not notice, there was a rift that divided the dreary cloud down near the horizon, and disclosed, brighter than the pale light of the coming day, a star shining in the East.
And it was Christmas morning.
The Professor walked block after block, feeling unconsciously refreshed by the crisp air upon his heated brow. Then he turned back, and when he had reached the building went down an alley-way and entered by a door in the rear.
A great confusion and general dimness, not lessened any by two or three candles that were burning, pervaded the room, which was long and ran almost across the house. Half a dozen men were standing or moving about, and some were sitting or leaning upon coffins and biers, that covered all the floor, except where they occasionally left narrow passages between, like irregular aisles.
At the Professor’s entrance, the young man who had paid him so friendly a visit came up instantly, took hold of him by the arm, and turned him round, with the exclamation,—
“Here he is father! He is thin enough to be easily carried.”
The man denominated “father” by the young off-shoot of the establishment surveyed the Professor with a critical eye from head to foot, and, as there could be no better sample of physical spareness than he presented, said, laconically,—
“He’ll do.”
Then there was new confusion and bustling about, and two or three persons immediately seized the Professor, one by his hair, one by his feet, one by his arms. With a grim smile, he submitted, in perfect silence, to the operations of this dressing committee.
He saw himself—him, Gustav Kellermann, the philosopher!—blossom into brilliant colors, scarlet and blue and orange. He saw them clasp a girdle round his waist, to which they hung gilded toys and bells in all directions, until he was fairly covered over with trinkets of every device. He felt them encase his head—his learned, metaphysical head—in a cap that was adorned at the point and round the sides with innumerable swinging-dolls.
It had been daylight three or four hours when all the mysterious preparations, which had been done almost without speaking a single word, were finally completed, and every thing waited in readiness.
There, strangely conspicuous in that dismal room, with its dismal paraphernalia of death, was a brilliant, half-human, half-monkey-like creature, standing up on its hind legs, and flaming all over in gaudy colors. To this grotesque figure, the important actor, evidently the chief agent in the contract, a man of brief speech, came up and said, brusquely,—
“Now, you are dead, you know, and have nothing to do but be dead. You are not to be fidgeting, or stirring round, or peeping. When you are dead, you are dead, you know, and that is all.”
O, Immanuel Kant! O, transcendental school! Good reasoning! When you are dead, you are dead.
Then they picked up this half-human, half-monkey-like object, which had uttered not one word, placed it in a coffin, and put upon it a mask-face. Carrying it out by the rear door, they raised it and set it down on a catafalque, draped in a black velvet pall, and ornamented with tall black funeral plumes.
O vain pomp and grandeur of death! When you are dead, you are dead.
A confused hurry and tramp of many feet was succeeded by a pause, and some one said,—“Ready.”
The procession reached the open avenue and moved slowly down the street to the sound of a funeral march. Solemnly, with measured tread, they advanced, and the people flocked to the doors on every side. There was a cry of surprise and alarm. “What is it?” “Who is it?” ran from lip to lip. The crowd gathered. The procession, with its sable plumes and ribbons of crepe, still continued on its way. There was the sound of lamentation, and at every moment the throng and confusion increased, the multitude thickened, and men, women and children were held off by the guard. Do they go to the great cemetery? No, they turned eastward, and at the Rosenthal halted. There the wondering spectators saw, in its center, a pure white tomb. Before it the catafalque was brought to a stand, and the coffin solemnly lowered.
Immediately a broken shout ran through the crowd, that was taken up and repeated until it grew into a laugh, and men and women, catching up the children, cried,—
“It is Kriss Kringle! Ha! ha! See, child, it is Kriss Kringle! He is dead. Kriss Kringle is dead!”
It was a great relief to the people, so suddenly alarmed, and they good humoredly held up the little ones, saying,—
“See! Kriss Kringle is dead. He will never come any more. He is dead!”
There was a silence; and many little faces, awe-stricken, looked sorrowfully down, and many little arms were stretched out, and many little voices, quivering, sobbed,—
“No, no, no! He will come back. He brought us pretty things. He will come back to us.”
O, Immanuel Kant! O, transcendental school! Is your strength still greater than this?
There was a stir under the heavy pall, and a voice—hark! a voice!—
“Yes, children, I will come back to you. I have come back to you!” And from beneath the sable funeral drapery, Kriss Kringle sprang, all jingling with silver bells, and flashing with a thousand toys.
Then again there was great confusion, but this time no sound of lamentation; and the solemn funeral march swept into a strain of joyful music. And the children! Oh, the children, in wild delight, played in circles about the queer, grotesque being, who set to work destroying the snow-tomb. He threw it at them in small crystal showers that called up, each time as they fell, a burst of gleeful laughter. He detached the bright toys from his girdle, from his cap, from his elbows, from his knees, and rained them down upon the little ones who raced round him in their mad frolic. Then he took off the false face and threw it far away, and the people, in surprise, cried, “It is the Professor!” and drew back awe-struck, to think they had taken such liberties with so renowned a scholar. But the children never paused in their romp; and he said, while they scrambled about him in merry laughter,—
“I have come back to you, children. I have come back to you!”
And in his heart he cried, “I knew not what life was; then how should I know of death?” O, Immanuel Kant! O, transcendental school! Here are those who teach a philosophy of which you know nothing—a philosophy higher than the critics; a philosophy of life; a philosophy of love; a philosophy of death that is no sleep!
The sun came out and spread a jeweled splendor on the snow, over which, hand-in-hand, the happy children danced.
The Professor is an old man now, and the fame of his learning has become great in the land. And all the people tell about his funeral; and how, every Christmas since, in his scarlet clothes and furs, laden with “pretty things,” he leads the children in their play, and scatters on them a thousand toys, while they, in gleeful groups, join their hands and dance.
