Apollonius was compelled to come to a decision. He could not. The yawning discord in his soul became ever greater. If he resolved to renounce happiness, the phantom of guilt disappeared and happiness stretched out alluring arms toward him. She loved him and had always loved him, only him; all the world approved, in fact demanded it of him. He saw her before she had been stolen from him, how she had laid the little blue-bell down for him, all rosy beneath the brown curling locks which struggled to be free; then, pale under the ill-treatment of the brother who had stolen her from him, pale for him; then trembling before his brother's threats, trembling for him; then laughing, weeping, full of anguish and full of happiness in his arms. His brother's fall had made this woman free. He had known that when he let his brother fall. If he should wed his brother's wife, who had become free through the fall, he would make himself guilty of this fall. If he received the reward of the deed, the deed was also his. If he took her, the feeling would never leave him; he would be unhappy and would make her unhappy with him. For her sake and for his he must refrain. When he came to this decision, he realized how unsubstantial his conclusions were, viewed with the clear eye of the spirit; and yet, if he tried to reach out for happiness, the dark feeling of guilt hovered over him like an icy frost about a flower, and his soul could do nothing against its annihilating power. And the bells of St. George's continued to ring their warning. What made Apollonius' agitation even more feverish was the knowledge that the flaw in his work had not been corrected. It rained incessantly, the gap yawned wide, the boarding greedily drank in the water, the wood was bound to rot. If the winter cold increased, the water would freeze in the wood and injure the slate. The town, which trusted to his sense of duty, would suffer harm through him. Each night the stroke of two awakened him from sleep. Shadows mingled with his fever-dreams. The reproaches of his inward and outward yearning for purity blended. The open wound cried aloud for justice, the open grave for him who would close it. And it was he whom the bells called to justice, he who must close the grave before the disaster he had forged should descend upon an innocent head. He must climb to the tower and correct the flaw. But when he got there, it struck two, dizziness seized hold of him and dragged him down after his brother. From day to day, from hour to hour, the beautiful young widow saw him grow paler and became pale with him. Only the old gentleman in his blindness did not see the cloud which was lowering so threateningly. The air was very sultry in the house with the green shutters. No one who looks at the little house now would suspect how sultry it once was there.
It was on the night before the appointed betrothal day. Snow had fallen, and then great cold had suddenly set in. For several nights the so-called St. Elmo's fire had been seen darting tongues of flame from the tops of the towers to the gleaming stars of heaven. In spite of the dry cold, the inhabitants of the district felt a curious heaviness in their limbs. There was no air stirring. The people looked at one another as if each were asking the other if he too felt the same uneasiness. Odd prophecies of war, sickness and famine went from mouth to mouth. The more intelligent smiled, but were themselves unable to refrain from clothing their inward gloom in corresponding pictures of some impending disaster. All day long dark clouds, of different form and color from what the wintry sky is accustomed to display, had been gathering. Their blackness would have been in unbearably glaring contrast to the snow which covered mountains and valley and hung like candied sugar on the leafless boughs, if their dark reflection had not somewhat deadened the dazzling splendor. Here and there the firm outline of the cloud-castles softened and seemed to hang down over earth like drooping breasts. These bore more nearly the aspect of ordinary snow-clouds, and their dull reddish gray served to unite the leaden blackness of the higher plane with earth's drab whiteness and dingy appearance. The whole mass hung motionless over the town. The blackness increased. Two hours after midday it was already night in the streets. Dwellers on the ground floor drew down their blinds; in the windows of the upper stories appeared one light after another. In the public squares of the town, where a greater portion of the sky could be seen, groups of people stood, looking now upward into the heavens, now into the long, doubtful faces around them. They told of the ravens that had come in great flocks into the suburbs, they pointed to the deep, restless, uneven fluttering of the jackdaws around St. George's and St. Nicholas', they spoke of earthquakes, of land-slides and even of the Judgment Day. The more courageous thought it was only a violent thunder-storm. But even that seemed serious enough. The river and the so-called fire-pond, the waters of which could, at a moment's notice, be let into any part of the town by means of subterranean channels, were both frozen. Some hoped the danger would pass by. But each time they looked up at the sky they saw that the dark cloud-mass had not changed its position. Two hours after midday it had stood there; toward midnight it still stood there unmoved. Only it seemed to have become heavier and had sunk lower. How could it move when there was not a breath of air in motion, and to scatter and dispel such a mass as this a hurricane would have been required!
It struck twelve from St. George's tower. The last stroke seemed unable to die away. But the deep trembling murmur that hung on so long was no longer the dying tone of the bell. For now it began to grow; as if on a thousand wings it came rushing and surging and pushed angrily against the houses that would retard it; whistling and shrieking, it drove through every crevice that it met, and blustered about the house until it found another rift to drive out of again; it tore shutters open and slammed them furiously, it squeezed its way groaningly between adjacent walls, whistled madly round street corners, lost itself in a thousand currents, found itself again and rushed headlong into a raging stream, careered up and down with savage joy, jolted everything that stood fast, trilled with wild-playing fingers on the rusty vanes and weather-cocks and laughed shrilly at their groans; it blew the snow from one roof to another, swept it from the street, chased it onto steep walls where it crouched with fear in all the window chinks, and whirled great, dancing fir-trees of snow before it in its mad course.
Seeing that a storm was imminent, no one had taken off his clothes. The town and county storm night-watch, as well as the fire company, had been gathered together for hours. Herr Nettenmair had sent his son to the main guard-room in the town hall to represent him there as the master-slater of the town. The two journeymen sat with the tower watchman, one at St. George's, one at St. Nicholas'. The other municipal workmen entertained one another in the guard-room as well as they could. The building inspector looked anxiously at Apollonius, who, feeling his friend's eye fixed upon him, rose, to conceal from him if possible his brooding state of mind. At this very moment the storm broke forth with renewed violence. From the town-hall tower it struck one. The sound of the bell whimpered in the grip of the storm which dragged it along in its wild chase. Apollonius stepped to the window as if to see what was happening outside. A gigantic, sulphur-blue tongue leaped into the room, sprang twice trembling upon stove, wall and people, and then, leaving no trace, was swallowed up in itself again. The tempest raged on: but, even as the storm had seemed born out of the last sound of St. George's bell, there now arose a something out of the raging which exceeded it in force as far as the raging had exceeded the sound of the bell. An invisible world seemed to tear it to pieces in the air. The storm raged and panted with the fury of the tiger which cannot destroy what it holds in its grasp; the deep, majestic rolling that outsounded it was the roar of the lion which has his foot on the enemy—the triumphant expression of struggle satisfied by action.
"That struck somewhere!" said one. Apollonius thought: "If it should strike St. George's tower, where the gap is, and I should have to climb up, and the clock should strike two, and"—he could think no further. A cry for help, a cry of fire resounded through storm and thunder. "The lightning has struck!" was the cry on the street. "It has struck St. George's tower! Quick to St. George's! Fire! Help! Fire! St. George's! Fire in the tower of St. George's!" Horns blew, drums beat. And always the storm and peal after peal of thunder! Then the cry came: "Where is Nettenmair? If anybody can help it is Nettenmair. Fire! Fire! At St. George's! Nettenmair! Where is Nettenmair? The tower of St. George's is on fire!"
The councilman saw Apollonius turn pale, his form sink more deeply into itself than before. "Where is Nettenmair?" was again the cry from the street. Then came a dark flush over his pale cheeks and his slender figure rose to its full height. He buttoned his coat quickly, and drew the strap of his cap firmly under his chin. "If I stay," he said to the councilman, as he turned to go, "remember my father, my brother's wife and the children." The councilman was taken aback. The young man's "if I stay" sounded like "I shall stay." A presentiment came over the friend that here was something that had to do with the salvation of Apollonius' soul. But the expression on Apollonius' face was no longer one of suffering; nor was it anxious or wild. In spite of apprehension and alarm, the stout-hearted man felt something like joyful hope. It was indeed the old Apollonius again who stood before him, with the same quiet, modest resoluteness that had won his heart at the first sight of the young man. "If he would only remain so!" thought the inspector. He had no time to reply. He pressed his hand. Apollonius felt all that this hand-pressure wanted to say. Compassion crept over him for the good old man, and something like regret for the anxiety he had caused him and would still cause him. He said with his old-time smile: "For such cases I am always prepared. But there is no time to spare. Good-by for a while!" Apollonius, who moved more quickly than the councilman, was soon out of sight. All the way to St. George's, amid the cries, the horns, drums, storm and thunder, the councilman kept repeating to himself: "Either I shall never see the good fellow again, or he will be well when he returns." He did not try to explain to himself how he had come to this conclusion. There was no time. His duty as municipal inspector demanded his entire attention.
The cry "Nettenmair! Where is Nettenmair?" greeted Apollonius on all sides and echoed in the distance. The confidence of his fellow-citizens awakened in him a renewed sense of his own worth. When, upon returning from afar, he had seen his native town stretched out before him, he had dedicated himself to her and her service. The opportunity now presented itself to show whether he had meant this vow in earnest. He reviewed in his mind all the possible forms of danger and how they could best be met. A fire-sprinkler lay ready in the roof-truss, and cloths were at hand to dip into water and protect the places most in danger. The journeyman had been instructed to have hot water ready. The beams were connected everywhere by ladders. For the first time since his return from Brambach he threw his whole soul into his work. Before real necessity and its demands the visions of his brooding fancy receded like dissolving shadows. All his old elasticity and buoyancy were [Illustration: The Prophet Jeremiah] [Blank Page] called into being again, intensified by the feeling of relief which had taken possession of him. Thoughts can be refuted by thoughts, against feelings they are a very weak weapon. In vain had his spirit seen the way of salvation; he had fallen a victim to the general apathy about him. Now a strong, healthful feeling sprang up in opposition to the strong, morbid ones and devoured them in the ardor of its flame. He knew, without any special thought on the subject, that he had found the solution which brings redemption, and that this was the cause of his renewed being. He knew that dizziness would not overcome him, but if he should remain it would be a sacrifice made to duty, not to guilt, and God and the gratitude of the town would assume in his stead the responsibility for his loved ones.
St. George's Square was thronged with people who gazed in troubled fear at the roof of the tower. The ancient building stood like a rock in the fierce battle which the brightness of lightning and the old night waged untiringly about it. A thousand glowing arms embraced the tower with such ardor that it seemed as if it would be consumed in their glow; like a great surging sea the light broke upon its walls, only to fall back again before the power of night which engulfed all in its dark flood. The mass of pale faces, pressed close together at the foot of the tower, flashed into view during momentary gleams of light but were soon lost again in dreary blackness. The storm tore at their hats and coats, blew hair into their faces, struck them with flapping garments and pelted them with glistening drops of snow, as if it wanted to make them atone for the wounds it received when it beat as rain on the rocky ribs of the tower. And as the people now appeared, now disappeared in alternating light and darkness, so also their confused attempts at conversation were drowned at every turn by storm and thunder.
Somebody called out in self-consolation: "It was a harmless flash; though it struck, nothing caught fire." Somebody else thought that the flame might still break out. A third became angry; he took this suggestion as a wish that the flame might break out. He had been comforted by the first thought; he had to avenge himself for the uneasiness which the suggestion created in his mind. Trembling with cold and anxiety, many stared up stupidly with blinded eyes into space and knew not even why. A hundred voices explained what misfortune would befall the town, must befall it, if the lightning had really struck and the tower had caught fire. Some told of the nature of slate, how it melts in fire and is carried as slack through the air, often setting fire to a whole city at the same time. Others lamented that the storm would further a possible fire, and that there would be no water with which to extinguish it. Still others said that if there were any water it would freeze in the engines and be of no avail. Most of them depicted with fearful eloquence the course that the fire would take. If the burning truss should fall the storm would blow it right where there was a thick cluster of houses, quite near the tower. This was the most dangerous place in the whole town in case of fire, for there were numberless frame verandas in narrow courts, boarded gable roofs and shingle-covered sheds, all crowded so closely together that it would be impossible for a fire-engine to be squeezed in among them or for the firemen to get at their work. If the burning truss should fall on this side, as it most certainly would, the entire portion of the town that lay before the wind would be irretrievably lost. These reflections reduced the timid to such a state of mind that every new flash seemed to them the inevitable fire. That nobody could see more than one side of the tower at a time tended to increase the misapprehension. It was curious, but from all sides the cry was heard: "Where? Where?" Storm and thunder prevented mutual understanding. Everybody wanted to see for himself. Wild excitement prevailed.
"Where did it strike?" asked Apollonius, who had just arrived. "On the side toward Brambach," answered many voices. Apollonius pushed his way through the crowd. With long strides he hastened toward the tower steps. He had come considerably in advance of his more deliberate associates. In the tower his questions were to no purpose. The people in the tower thought that though the lightning had struck it had not set fire to anything; still they were on the point of gathering together their best things to flee from the danger. Only the journeyman, whom he found occupied at the stove, remained self-possessed. Apollonius hastened with lanterns to the truss, to hang them there. The ladder steps did not tremble beneath his feet; he was in too great haste to notice it. There seemed to be no trace of incipient fire in the truss. Neither the odor of sulphur, which denotes fire by lightning, nor ordinary smoke was perceptible. Apollonius heard his associates on the steps. He called to them that he was there. Just at that moment a blue light flashed through all the tower-windows followed immediately by a tremendous crash of thunder. Apollonius stood for an instant, stunned. If he had not unconsciously caught hold of a beam, he would have fallen to the ground from the shock. A thick fume of sulphur took his breath away. He sprang to the nearest window to obtain fresh air. The workmen farther from where it had struck had not been stunned, but stood motionless with fright on the topmost flight of steps. "Come!" cried Apollonius. "Quick! the water! The sprinkler! It must have struck on this side—that's where the pressure and the smell of sulphur came from. Quick, water and the sprinkler at the door!" The master-carpenter, standing on the ladder steps, called, coughing, "But the smoke!" "Quick!" replied Apollonius, "the door will give more air than we want." The mason and the chimney-sweep followed the carpenter, who carried the hose with the sprinkler, as quickly as he could, up the ladder steps. The others brought buckets of cold water, the journeyman a pail of hot water to pour over the cold to prevent its freezing.