One evening a black bier was seen before the house with the green shutters. At a distance stood groups of women and children, now whispering softly to one another, now peering eagerly in one direction with a curiosity that at times became impatient. Here and there a long black coat and a three-cornered hat came down the street in solemn gloom and vanished behind the bier into the house. At last the door opened. The coffin stood on the bier, the pall covered both; gently, in rhythmical motion, there appeared a black moving mass; now they were in their places; the pall-bearers adjusted their hats. The procession moved, rippling, wavering. On top gleamed bright the hammer which Valentine had polished, and told that what they were now surrendering to earth had worked honestly between heaven and earth. The sweet tears of the old women washed away whatever stains clung to his memory. Inwardly they made a vow that none who belonged to them should ever become a slater. The slater's calling is a dangerous one, between heaven and earth; the man who lay beneath the black pall, between the boards, silent as he was, preached that with poignant eloquence. They turned their eyes toward the old gentleman who was led by two mourners. He seemed to embody the very spirit of honest burial. But when their gaze fell upon Apollonius they forgot the mildness with which they had just judged; they unburied the dead man from the cool funeral flowers that covered his human nakedness. The hammer lying above him would have been covered with the dark rust of shame had it not been for Apollonius. Then they looked at the young wife, and, according to the way of their sex, the mourners became match-makers. And indeed they had right on their side; a bonnier couple or one better suited could scarce have been found in the whole town. The procession passed by the Red Eagle, where a ball was in progress at which Fritz Nettenmair was missing—surely a dull affair! The procession went the same way that Fritz Nettenmair had gone after he had talked with the workman. He had then seen in spirit his brother lying beneath the black fluttering pall and himself following as a mourner. The procession went on, still keeping to the streets that Fritz Nettenmair had trodden on that occasion. Outside the town-gate the willows melted again into mist or the mist into willows. Here and there mist-men carried mist-coffins near the real one. At the cross-ways, where Fritz Nettenmair had seen the journeyman disappear in the mist, he himself disappeared. In Tambach they were bearing the journeyman to burial. The two must have had much to say to each other. Fritz Nettenmair could have told the workman how carefully he had carried out the thought sown by him, even to the cutting of the rope; and the workman could have told his former master how he became a victim to the cuts thus made. The pastor who preached the sermon over Fritz Nettenmair's grave, who was buried with all the honors due to his standing or to be bought with money, did not know what an awe-inspiring theme had eluded him.
The last word of the funeral sermon had died away, the last spadeful of earth had fallen on the coffin, the mourners had gone home; it became night, and again day, and again night, and again and again day and night; other things drove Fritz Nettenmair's unfortunate death from the minds of the townsmen—and still other things these things. A stone was erected over his grave, and his honest death was vouched for by a sculptor and impressed with chisel-strokes upon forgetful posterity. One might think that the dark cloud that had hovered over the house with the green shutters would have burst in the storm that dashed the older son from the tower-roof of St. George's to the pavement below, and that life would now be bright there, as its outer aspect promised. One might indeed think so if one saw only the young widow and her children. The three strong young beings raised their drooping heads as soon as the burden which had oppressed them was lifted. The young widow did not look as if she had been a wife, still less an unhappy wife; from day to day she seemed more like a bridal maiden or a maidenly bride. And why should she not? Did she not know that he loved her? Did she not love him? Did not the teasing words of others, even if she did not think of it herself, remind her that her love was no longer a forbidden one? The marriage was so natural, so necessary according to traditional ideas that those who were too old or too dignified to jest took it as a matter of course without mentioning it, and did not mention it merely because they took it as a matter of course.
In his diplomatic fashion the old gentleman made various intimations that if he had remained at the head of things all would have happened differently. What Apollonius had spoiled, he would now carry out to the best possible end. Necessity had placed him at the helm again, and he would remain there. He forgot that he had twice been forced to the acknowledgment that when one becomes old, control in the business is only possible when one need not see through strange eyes. He was to experience this now for a third time. Since the night before his older son met a violent death, Herr Nettenmair had resumed his position as manager of the business. Apollonius reported to him daily concerning the progress of current work and received orders. When a piece of work has once been fairly started it can go on by itself and requires from the superintendent nothing but inspection and an occasional stimulus. If, however, something new is to be undertaken, a groove must be sought in which it can run, and the groove must be the shortest, surest, and most profitable. Clear-seeing eyes are needed, with a quick power to grasp. That Apollonius possessed these the old gentleman perceived on the first occasion. It pertained to a particularly difficult piece of work. Apollonius put it before him with such clearness that the old gentleman believed he saw it with his bodily eyes. It was a case, however, in which his experience failed him. To Apollonius it presented no difficulties. He pointed out three or four different ways in which it could be done and reduced the old gentleman to such a state of confusion that he could scarcely conceal it. A curious, wild train of contradictory sensations rushed through his brain—joy and pride in his son, then pain that he was nothing and never could be any more, then shame and wrath that his son knew this and triumphed over him; the desire to curb him and show him that he still was lord and master. But even if he wanted to carry his point, would his son obey? There was no way to preserve even the appearance of leadership save through his diplomatic art. In a grim voice he gave commands which were utterly unnecessary, because they pertained to things which would have been done as a matter of course without command. In new matters he angrily disapproved of all suggestions made by Apollonius; but the commands which he finally gave were always in general accordance with that which Apollonius had suggested as most expedient. Afterward he made excuses to himself and found something that would have been much better than Apollonius' suggestion. He was convinced that if he only had his eyesight everything would be different. Sometimes he gave himself up unreservedly to his joy and pride in his son's efficiency; but this feeling was soon replaced by the wrathful necessity to exert his diplomatic art. Apollonius realized the restraint that he was imposing upon his father quite as little as he did his father's pride in him. He was glad that he had nothing more to conceal from the old gentleman concerning the business, and that obedience to him did not interfere with the fulfilment of his vow. The sky above the house with the green shutters took on a brighter, bluer hue. But the spirit of the house still wandered about wringing its hands. When the clock struck two in the morning it stood in the arbor before the door to Apollonius' room and raised its pallid arms pleadingly toward heaven.
The business increased under Apollonius' diligent hand; the orders were twice as many as they had formerly been. The postman brought great piles of letters into the house. Apollonius accepted an advantageous offer made by the owner and leased the slate quarry. He understood the management of the works from his stay in Cologne, and he employed a former acquaintance from that city whom he knew to be an expert in the business and reliable in his dealings. His choice was a good one; the man was energetic, but in spite of this fact much additional work fell on Apollonius. The councilman shook his head sometimes doubtfully, fearing that Apollonius had over-estimated his strength. It did not strike the young widow how seldom Apollonius came into the living-room. The children, whom he often called to him to perform little services whereby they might learn, kept up the intercourse. They could testify that Apollonius had very little time. She went to his room frequently, but always when he was not at home. She adorned the doors and walls with everything she had which she knew he loved, and she spent many hours there at work. She noticed the pallor of his face, which seemed to become greater each time she saw him. As she was but a mirror of his feelings, his pallor reflected itself in her. She would have liked to cheer him up, but she did not seek to be near him; her presence seemed to have the opposite effect upon him from what she desired. He was always friendly and full of chivalrous respect toward her. This at least comforted her to a certain extent. She had endowed him with all the virtues that she knew; among these she had not forgotten truthfulness, the first of them all to her. Therefore she knew that he would not compel himself to show respect to her if he did not feel it. He made merry sometimes, especially when he saw her eyes fixed anxiously upon his pale face, but she noticed that her society did not make him healthier or more cheerful. She would have liked to ask him what was the matter. When he stood before her she did not dare. When she was alone she asked him. Many nights through she thought of ways to entice the confession from him and talked with him. Surely if he had heard her weep, had heard how sweetly and tenderly she cajoled and pleaded, had heard the dear names she gave him, he would have told her what ailed him. Her whole life was between heart and mouth; and when her heart whispered in her ear what she had said, she flushed rosily and hid her blushes deep beneath the covers from herself and the listening night.
She confided her fears to the old inspector. "Is it a wonder?" he asked, "when a person sits all day long for a year and a half over his business and all night long over books and letters? And then all the anxiety he had about his—God forgive him, he is dead and one should not speak ill of the dead—about his brother; and then the fright, which made me ill for three days, over—and when his widow is there too—I never did like him much, least of all toward the end. But youth is so! I warned him a hundred times, the brave fellow! And now the confounded quarry! Such conscientiousness! He is one who would never consider his own health." The councilman gave the young widow a long lecture which was not in the least meant for her. Then they agreed that Apollonius ought to have a doctor whether he wanted him or not; and the councilman immediately went to the best physician in town. The physician promised to do all that was possible. He called on Apollonius, who put up with him because those whom he loved desired it. The doctor felt his pulse, came again and again, prescribed and re-prescribed; Apollonius became ever paler and gloomier. At last the good man declared that here was a malady against which all art was useless. So deep-seated was the trouble that no remedy of his could reach it.
Apollonius knew that no physician could cure his illness. The councilman had only partly divined the cause. Overwork had merely watered the soil for the parasite growth which was gnawing at Apollonius' inmost being. The first symptoms seemed of a physical nature. As his brother had plunged to death before him, the clock below had struck the hour of two. Since then every sound of a bell frightened him. What aroused more serious apprehension was an attack of dizziness. All the horrors of that day did not obliterate the feeling of uneasiness which had taken possession of him when he discovered the inexactitude in his work. Every time a bell sounded it seemed to him a warning. Early the next morning he went to the roof-door with his ladder in his hand. He had already noticed how insecure his step was as he climbed the tower stairs; now, when through the open door the distant mountains began to nod so curiously to him and the firm tower to rock beneath him, he became frightened. That was dizziness, the slater's worst, most malicious enemy when it takes sudden hold of him on a swaying ladder between heaven and earth. In vain Apollonius strove to overcome it; he had to give up his purpose for the day. No way had ever been so hard for Apollonius as the tower stairs down from St. George's. What would happen? How could he fulfil his vow if this dizziness did not leave him? On the same day he had some work to do on the tower of St. Nicholas. There he had to venture into more dangerous places than at St. George's; the bells rang at the most critical instant; he felt no trace of dizziness. Joyfully he hastened back to St. George's, but again the ladder trembled under his feet, the mountains nodded, the tower rocked. He was on the lowest rung of the ladder when the clock began to strike the hour. The sound penetrated every nerve of his body; he had to hold fast to the railing until the last echo had died away. He made attempt after attempt, and climbed all ladders and towers with his old sureness of foot; only at St. George's did dizziness return. There he had hammered his sinful thoughts into his work; he had felt at the time that he was forging an evil charm, a coming disaster. Day and night the picture followed him of the place where he had forgotten to insert the sheet of lead and to rivet the decoration. The flaw was like an evil spot, a spot where a crime had been begun or completed and where no grass grows, no shadow falls; like an open wound which does not heal until it has been avenged, like an empty grave which does not close until it has received its denizen. If only the gap were closed the charm would lose its potency. He might authorize a workman to do the job, but the thought of leaving his neglected work to another brought a flush of shame to his pale cheeks. The sheet of lead nailed by another would be certain to fall; the gap cried out for him, and he alone could close it. Or the destruction which he had forged there would seize hold of the workman, dizziness would overtake him and he would plunge into the depths.
Since his brother's wife had lain in his arms he had lived a double life. During the day he worked outside and at night he sat in his room among his books, all that went on mechanically; in spite of his efforts his heart was only half in his work; the other half lived its own life, hovering with the jackdaws about the flaw in the tower-roof and brooding over the coming disaster which he had forged that morning. His soul fought ever anew the battle with his brother. Was it his brother's fall that he had forged? Perhaps it would have been possible to save the madman. Anxiously he sought for possibilities, and shrank with horror from the thought that he might find one. All his good qualities became overwrought—his loyalty, his conscientiousness, his scrupulousness. He did not try to put his shortcomings upon his brother; with loving hand he took his brother's guilt and placed it on his own shoulders. It became ever clearer in his mind that he might have saved his brother. He could have found some way if his heart and head had not been full of wild, forbidden desires, if he had not been full of wrath against the madman instead of feeling pity for him. With his evil thoughts he had forged disaster for his brother. Without those thoughts his work would have been finished and his brother would not have found him in the tower, would have come too late and would have repented of his resolve. Or, if he had still been there, he was the stronger, cooler headed, and he should have found a way to prevent the calamity.
It was natural that people should chaff him about the marriage that seemed a necessity to them. He had to confess to himself that they were right and that his desires were no longer forbidden ones. But the fact that they had once been so cast its shadow over the blameless present. His love seemed sullied to him. Reason and love might say what they would, he felt that there would be guilt in the marriage. And so it came that Christiane's presence brought him no cheer. There were moments when his gloom struck him as a sort of illness and he hoped that it would pass over. But even then he drew no nearer to Christiane, much as his heart yearned for her. He continued the same as on that day when he placed the child between him and her. She remained pure and holy to him.
To the old gentleman with his external sense of honor, a life like Apollonius' and Christiane's, without the consecration of the church, was a grave offense. Only under the name of her husband could Apollonius, without disgrace, be the protector and supporter of the beautiful young widow and her children. According to his way he pronounced the ultimatum. He fixed the time for the wedding. The indispensable half-year of mourning was over; in a week the betrothal should be announced, three weeks later the marriage should take place.
Life in the house with the green shutters grew more and more sultry. The new clouds which had gathered invisibly about it threatened a storm severer than that in which the old ones had been dispelled. The young widow had no choice but to play the part of the affianced; she was rallied about her wedding garment, and, adjusting herself to the situation, she began preparations. Tears fell upon her work, and joy had an ever smaller and smaller part in it. She saw the condition of the man she loved become hourly worse; and she could not fail to know that the approaching marriage was to blame. The paler and more fragile he became, the gentler and more full of respect was his conduct toward her. There was something in it that seemed like pitying pain and an unexpressed prayer for forgiveness of a wrong, an insult of which he felt himself guilty toward her.