28
Winter in that little hidden-away corner of the world, snow without beginning, without end, scarcity of food, dread of the avalanche. The peasant is a fatalist, accepting the inevitable with silence, with awe. “God is good; He sends summer as a rich reward.”
The pastor shared the hard lot of his parish. The Devil was always there in the shape of “schnaaps,” driving the simple souls to madness, making cretins of their children. The pastor fought the “Evil One” with holy ire like his great ancestor Martin Luther. Every night he would take his lantern and tramp over to the Inn, sit with “his children,” drink with them moderately, see the liquor locked up, put the key in his pocket, and go his way. Many a morning he found the cupboard tampered with, pretending not to see the lock had been repaired. Now Martin went with him, sitting silent, answering laconically.
The pastor gave him much physical labor—washed out roads to remake, wood to cut and draw. There was a landslide; a part of the village was under snow. Martin worked with pick and shovel to dig out the people, carrying the women and children in his arms, his strength growing as the hardiest collapsed. When it was too cold for the old man, Martin went alone to the Inn to lock up.
One night, walking home, the sky like velvet studded with clustered diamonds, the mysterious blue light on the snow, the silence, the penetrating beauty, threw a spell over him. He wandered till the unseen sun shot up faint rays, turning the white world into faded rose; then memory stirred in him. Angela saw him tracing with a piece of charcoal on a board. She put slips of paper and pencil in his way; he scribbled on them, threw them down, forgot them. They were confused lines crossing, recrossing, impressionist shapes of mountains, and always the faint outlines of a woman’s head. She put them carefully in a box he would remember some day. She saw quick flashes in his eyes, sparks blazing up, dying out.
He sat outside the châlet, hammering nails into the soles of the mountain boots he had made for himself. The Staehlis had always learnt a trade—they were shoemakers, tanners, blacksmiths, herders, sons of toil and of the soil. The pastor stood watching him.
“The snow has melted in the valley, the sky is clear. We will wander forth—to the south first, and back on foot when the trees blossom.”
They started off in the early morning. An old peasant, leaning somewhat heavily on his solid staff of hickory wood, a young peasant, silent, unsmiling. Angela put paper and crayon in his knapsack.
“Bring me pictures; they tell more than words.”
They tramped through valleys, over hills, jumping on hay-wagons, climbing into stage-coaches, riding the sure-footed mountain pony. The pastor watched Martin. There were blood streaks in his eyes; his face was like a wax mask.
They came to lovely Lugano, the Fatima in Switzerland’s harem of beauties, warm, passionate—the soft Italian patois, Italian air, Italian skies.
“Over there across the lake is Milan, Rome, the Raphael frescoes.”
Martin’s eyes gleamed; then he shook his head. The pastor sighed—would he ever wake up?
Geneva—intellectual, proud of its men of genius. They walked through Rousseau’s Island of Exile.
“He was greatly gifted,” said the pastor, “but the victim of his own sensuality.”
“We are all that,” said Martin. Then the veil of melancholy dropped again.
“When we are conscious of it, the cure is there. Rousseau was the mind of his generation; he might have been its soul, but he never found himself.”
Einsiedeln—with its monasteries a thousand years old, its few sad Benedictine hermits poring over their ancient manuscripts, restoring the eaten-away remnants, kept with pious reverence hidden in old chests. Einsiedeln—its pilgrims, its Life Eternal, hypnotized, under the spell of religion.
Arosa—the bleak mountains, the hopeless sick wrapped in blankets on open balconies. Martin shivered.
“Let us go.”
Zurich again, with its historical surroundings. The pastor told the story of Charlemagne who, finding a toad sitting in the nest of a beautiful serpent, drove it out and killed it with one blow of his heavy stick. “There was a banquet at the Palace that night; the guards were terrified at the sight of a white spotted snake who crawled into the hall, wound herself up on the legs of a chair, and dropped a priceless jewel into the goblet of wine which the monarch held to his lips, giving him the magic gift of compelling the love of all who set eyes on him.”
“A toad in her nest,” repeated Martin....
Two months in the cities, then the country beautiful—the trees heavy with white blossoms, bearing embryonic fruit. Toward evening the air grew heavy with the day’s perfume; the night was warm in the valley. Martin moved about restlessly.
“I cannot sleep; let us go into the woods.”
They walked through dark trails, lit faintly by stars shining through the trees; then he broke a long silence, speaking of himself for the first time, slowly, timidly.
“The air goes through me; it is sweeping away that terrible fear. If I could be free of the horror that tears at me, the horror of—madness.”
The pastor spoke eagerly.
“Fight it, Martin, drive it out. It is an illusion, an evil thought that does not exist. Martin, your soul is in prison, beating its wings against the bars of your own obstinacy; let it soar.”
“I cannot. I am choked with wild impulses, driving me to distraction. I am mad! I tell you, mad!”
“Martin! there is a madness which destroys, and a madness that reveals; such madness has been the salvation of the world. Come, sit down with me, here in this forest, where once lived and suffered our great ancestor, our patron Saint, Mad Martin.”
“Mad Martin?”
Then he told in picturesque English, lapsing unconsciously into his own musical Romansch, the legend of Mad Martin.
“He was one of a lawless band, the youngest bandit of them all—a beautiful youth with the grace of a wild stag, without fear or sense of right, prowling about with his carbine, robbing, killing, consorting with lewd women. One night, a night like this in the woods where holiness dwelt, something stirred within him—a voice clear, beautiful, said wonderful things which gave his soul wings.”
“Yes! that happens sometimes, a voice from within,” said Martin.
“He left the band, made his way to the church and begged to be taken in. He was rarely gifted; the monks saw in him the white fervor of the saint. The Lord had changed the murderous rage of the robber into the divine madness of the fanatic. He went to Einsiedeln and there, it was said, heard the voice of God, who commanded him to become a monk. As the story goes, the Lord, to try his piety, put in his way a last temptation. He was walking in the woods, reading his prayers, when he suddenly came upon a beautiful vicious thing who had loved him in his bandit days; she put her arms around him, her mouth to his. He forgot Heaven. He tried to tear himself away. Her kisses held him. She lured him to her cabin and in the intoxication of passion, he took no count of time.”
“Her kisses held him,” repeated Martin.
“She made a plan that would bind him to her forever; she plied him with wine until his senses fled, stripped him naked, crowned him with a wreath of red poppies, left him dancing and singing ribald songs, a young Bacchus in the woods; then she called the priests to witness his degradation. They believed her not; the young Divine was deep in the under cells, fasting, praying, purifying his body, preparing for his ordination. She mocked at them.
“‘Fools! He is no priest, he is Mad Martin. He cannot change; his blood still riots in him, calling for wine, for women. If I lie, burn me at the stake!’
“Mad Martin in the woods heard the angry voices of the people, the mocking gibes of the woman, and realized his degradation. He fled to the cabin, locked himself in, fell on his knees, and prayed for help. The chanting of priests, the cries of the people grew louder—their axes were breaking down the door. The poor sinner raised his arms to Heaven, with a cry, in which his battered, stricken soul took joyful flight. When the enraged people burst into the cabin, they found it empty. They searched the cells of the monastery; there was no trace of him. The Father Superior, a holy man of years, was calm.
“‘Wait, he will not fail us.’
“The day of consecration came; among the young priests stood a tall figure in white, ready to take his vows. He was pale and faint from fasting, but his voice was like a bell sounding from the distance. As he left the altar there was a bright light on his face. The people followed him on their knees. He put out his hands, blessed them, and the cripples threw away their crutches and the sick were well. Then he blessed Einsiedeln and made it a holy place for pilgrims in the ages to come. He blessed the village under the mountain, where he was born, sinned, and atoned, and prophesied its future peace, prosperity. Then he disappeared before their eyes, but he has been kept alive in our hearts and memory. Every three years, the people of our village give in the little chapel ‘The Miracle of Saint Martin.’”
There was a long silence. Martin sat, his face buried in his hands. The pastor spoke again.
“Martin! Free yourself of this horror; let Hope in. Life is knocking at your door with gifts of fulfillment!”
Martin struggled with the torrent of feeling rushing through him; then the dry eyes grew moist, the tears came. The fever of hate, the passion of Love, the terrible impulse of self destruction, a devil tempting in the night, the thought of life with reason gone—all the dangers of an overwrought mind were washed away in those tears. He dropped down, broken, helpless, on the new sweet hay in a little hut near by; the cool air swept over him. A bird’s plaintive call startled the silence—an unforgettable night of spiritual revelation, Peace....
It was dawn when he awoke. He looked about for the Pastor, found him lying in a corner, his mantle wrapped about him. Martin looked long at the noble snow-crowned head, then stole softly out, came upon a clear pool hidden in the trees—we meet them unexpectedly in Switzerland, startling us with their limpid loveliness.
There was a flash of Glory!—the Sun! He felt a sense of elation, of new birth. The sky turned purple, pink, gold; the color ecstasy crept into his blood. Color! the life of the world! Color clamored in his brain for expression, for air; he was obsessed with the madness that reveals, the divine madness of the artist.
The pastor stood beside him. The sun was climbing. Martin pointed to a ball of fire down deep in the lake.
“I’m going to bring it up,” he said. He slipped off his clothes and dived in, floating, twisting himself like a dolphin, spouting water in the air; then he ran along the green borders, his body gleaming in the sun. The pastor thought of the legend of the Water Gods.
They went slowly on foot toward home, stopping at the little Dorfs, where the peasants greeted them with acclamations. “A fine lad! a Staehli, every inch of him.” Martin returned their gripping handshakes, tossed down their schnaaps, gave them points on the disinfection of barns and the care of cows, danced with the maids on the green, kissed them; they pelted him with flowers.
At the door of the châlet, Angela stood waiting. He put a portfolio in her hands, bits of color he had caught on the way. Her eyes were fixed on his face. This was not the Martin she had known: it was like the same face reflected in clear water, etherealized by the refraction of light. She heard him in the fields, his strong voice filling the distance with melody. She looked up at the great mountain. An unfortunate man called Martin Steele lay there, dead.