Book: Stories by Foreign Authors: German

V >> Various >> Stories by Foreign Authors: German



Nicole Apostola, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.



STORIES BY FOREIGN AUTHORS

GERMAN




THE FURY ...... BY PAUL HEYSE

THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM ...... BY RUDOLPH LINDAU

THE BOOKBINDER OF HORT........BY LEOPOLD VON SACHER-MASOCH

THE EGYPTIAN FIRE-EATER........BY RUDOLPH BAUMBACH

THE CREMONA VIOLIN ........BY E.T. . HOFFMANN

ADVENTURES Of A NEW-YEAR'S EVE...... BY HEINRICH ZSCHOKKE




THE FURY

BY

PAUL HEYSE


From "Tales from the German of Paul Heyse"




THE FURY

(L'ARRABIATA)

The day had scarcely dawned. Over Vesuvius hung one broad gray
stripe of mist, stretching across as far as Naples, and darkening
all the small towns along the coast. The sea lay calm. Along the
shore of the narrow creek that lies beneath the Sorrento cliffs,
fishermen and their wives were at work already, some with giant
cables drawing their boats to land, with the nets that had been cast
the night before, while others were rigging their craft, trimming
the sails, or fetching out oars and masts from the great grated
vaults that have been built deep into the rocks for shelter to the
tackle overnight. Nowhere an idle hand; even the very aged, who had
long given up going to sea, fell into the long chain of those who
were hauling in the nets. Here and there, on some flat housetop, an
old woman stood and spun, or busied herself about her grandchildren,
whom their mother had left to help her husband.

"Do you see, Rachela? yonder is our padre curato," said one to a
little thing of ten, who brandished a small spindle by her side;
"Antonio is to row him over to Capri. Madre Santissima! but the
reverend signore's eyes are dull with sleep!" and she waved her hand
to a benevolent-looking little priest, who was settling himself in
the boat, and spreading out upon the bench his carefully tucked-up
skirts.

The men upon the quay had dropped their work to see their pastor
off, who bowed and nodded kindly, right and left.

"What for must he go to Capri, granny?" asked the child. "Have the
people there no priest of their own, that they must borrow ours?"

"Silly thing!" returned the granny. "Priests they have in plenty--
and the most beautiful of churches, and a hermit too, which is more
than we have. But there lives a great signora, who once lived here;
she was so very ill! Many's the time our padre had to go and take
the Most Holy to her, when they thought she could not live the
night. But with the Blessed Virgin's help she got strong and well,
and was able to bathe every day in the sea. When she went away, she
left a fine heap of ducats behind her for our church, and for the
poor; and she would not go, they say, until our padre promised to go
and see her over there, that she might confess to him as before. It
is quite wonderful, the store she lays by him! Indeed, and we have
cause to bless ourselves for having a curato who has gifts enough
for an archbishop, and is in such request with all the great folks.
The Madonna be with him!" she cried, and waved her hand again, as
the boat was about to put from shore.

"Are we to have fair weather, my son?" inquired the little priest,
with an anxious look toward Naples.

"The sun is not yet up," the young man answered; "when he comes, he
will easily do for that small trifle of mist."

"Off with you, then! that we may arrive before the heat."

Antonio was just reaching for his long oar to shove away the boat,
when suddenly he paused, and fixed his eyes upon the summit of the
steep path that leads down from Sorrento to the water. A tall and
slender girlish figure had become visible upon the heights, and was
now hastily stepping down the stones, waving her handkerchief She
had a small bundle under her arm, and her dress was mean and poor.
Yet she had a distinguished if somewhat savage way of throwing back
her head, and the dark tress wreathed around it was like a diadem.

"What have we to wait for?" inquired the curato.

"There is some one coming who wants to go to Capri--with your
permission, padre. We shall not go a whit the slower. It is a slight
young thing, but just eighteen."

At that moment the young girl appeared from behind the wall that
bounds the winding path.

"Laurella!" cried the priest; "and what has she to do in Capri?"

Antonio shrugged his shoulders. She came up with hasty steps, her
eyes fixed straight before her.

"Ha! l'Arrabiata! good-morning!" shouted one or two of the young
boatmen. But for the curato's presence, they might have added more;
the look of mute defiance with which the young girl received their
welcome appeared to tempt the more mischievous among them.

"Good-day, Laurella!" now said the priest; "how are you? Are you
coming with us to Capri?"

"If I may, padre."

"Ask Antonio there; the boat is his. Every man is master of his own,
I say, as God is master of us all."

"There is half a carlino, if I may go for that?" said Laurella,
without looking at the young boatman.

"You need it more than I," he muttered, and pushed aside some
orange-baskets to make room: he was to sell the oranges in Capri,
which little isle of rocks has never been able to grow enough for
all its visitors.

"I do not choose to go for nothing," said the girl, with a slight
frown of her dark eyebrows.

"Come, child," said the priest; "he is a good lad, and had rather
not enrich himself with that little morsel of your poverty. Come
now, and step in," and he stretched out his hand to help her, "and
sit you down by me. See, now, he has spread his jacket for you, that
you may sit the softer. Young folks are all alike; for one little
maiden of eighteen they will do more than for ten of us reverend
fathers. Nay, no excuse, Tonino. It is the Lord's own doing, that
like and like should hold together."

Meantime Laurella had stepped in, and seated herself beside the
padre, first putting away Antonio's jacket without a word. The young
fellow let it lie, and, muttering between his teeth, he gave one
vigorous push against the pier, and the little boat flew out into
the open bay.

"What are you carrying there in that little bundle?" inquired the
padre, as they were floating on over a calm sea, now just beginning
to be lighted up with the earliest rays of the rising sun. "Silk,
thread, and a loaf, padre. The silk is to be sold at Anacapri, to a
woman who makes ribbons, and the thread to another."

"Spun by yourself?"

"Yes, sir."

"You once learned to weave ribbons yourself, if I remember right?"

"I did, sir; but mother has been much worse, and I cannot stay so
long from home; and a loom to ourselves we are not rich enough to
buy."

"Worse, is she? Ah! dear, dear! when I was with you last, at Easter,
she was up."

"The spring is always her worst time. Ever since those last great
storms, and the earthquakes she has been forced to keep her bed from
pain."

"Pray, my child. Never slacken your prayers and petitions that the
Blessed Virgin may intercede for you; and be industrious and good,
that your prayers may find a hearing."

After a pause: "When you were coming toward the shore, I heard them
calling after you. 'Good-morning, l'Arrabiata!' they said. What made
them call you so? It is not a nice name for a young Christian
maiden, who should be meek and mild."

The young girl's brown face glowed all over, while her eyes flashed
fire.

"They always mock me so, because I do not dance and sing, and stand
about to chatter, as other girls do. I might be left in peace, I
think; I do THEM no harm."

"Nay, but you might be civil. Let others dance and sing, on whom
this life sits lighter; but a kind word now and then is seemly even
from the most afflicted."

Her dark eyes fell, and she drew her eyebrows closer over them, as
if she would have hidden them.

They went on a while in silence. The sun now stood resplendent above
the mountain chain; only the tip of Mount Vesuvius towered beyond
the group of clouds that had gathered about its base; and on the
Sorrento plains the houses were gleaming white from the dark green
of their orange-gardens.

"Have you heard no more of that painter, Laurella?" asked the
curato--"that Neapolitan, who wished so much to marry you?" She
shook her head." He came to make a picture of you. Why would you not
let him?"

"What did he want it for? There are handsomer girls than I. Who
knows what he would have done with it? He might have bewitched me
with it, or hurt my soul, or even killed me, mother says."

"Never believe such sinful things!" said the little curato very
earnestly. "Are not you ever in God's keeping, without whose will
not one hair of your head can fall? and is one poor mortal with an
image in his hand to prevail against the Lord? Besides, you might
have seen that he was fond of you; else why should he want to marry
you?"

She said nothing.

"And wherefore did you refuse him? He was an honest man, they say,
and comely; and he would have kept you and your mother far better
than you ever can yourself, for all your spinning and silk-winding."

"We are so poor!" she said passionately; "and mother has been ill so
long, we should have become a burden to him. And then I never should
have done for a signora. When his friends came to see him, he would
only have been ashamed of me."

"How can you say so? I tell you the man was good and kind; he would
even have been willing to settle in Sorrento. It will not be so easy
to find another, sent straight from heaven to be the saving of you,
as this man, indeed, appeared to be."

"I want no husband--I never shall," she said, very stubbornly, half
to herself.

"Is this a vow? or do you mean to be a nun?"

She shook her head.

"The people are not so wrong who call you wilful, although the name
they give you is not kind. Have you ever considered that you stand
alone in the world, and that your perverseness must make your sick
mother's illness worse to bear, her life more bitter? And what sound
reason can you have to give for rejecting an honest hand, stretched
out to help you and your mother? Answer me, Laurella."

"I have a reason," she said reluctantly, and speaking low; "but it
is one I cannot give."

"Not give! not give to me? not to your confessor, whom you surely
know to be your friend--or is he not?"

Laurella nodded.

"Then, child, unburden your heart. If your reason be a good one, I
shall be the very first to uphold you in it. Only you are young, and
know so little of the world. A time may come when you will find
cause to regret a chance of happiness thrown away for some foolish
fancy now."

Shyly she threw a furtive glance over to the other end of the boat,
where the young boatman sat, rowing fast. His woollen cap was pulled
deep down over his eyes; he was gazing far across the water, with
averted head, sunk, as it appeared, in his own meditations.

The priest observed her look, and bent his ear down closer.

"You did not know my father?" she whispered, while a dark look
gathered in her eyes.

"Your father, child! Why, your father died when you were ten years
old. What can your father (Heaven rest his soul in paradise!) have
to do with this present perversity of yours?"

"You did not know him, padre; you did not know that mother's illness
was caused by him alone."

"And how?"

"By his ill-treatment of her; he beat her and trampled upon her. I
well remember the nights when he came home in his fits of frenzy.
She never said a word, and did everything he bade her. Yet he would
beat her so, my heart felt ready to break. I used to cover up my
head and pretend to be asleep, but I cried all night. And then, when
he saw her lying on the floor, quite suddenly he would change, and
lift her up and kiss her, till she screamed and said he smothered
her. Mother forbade me ever to say a word of this; but it wore her
out. And in all these long years since father died, she has never
been able to get well again. And if she should soon die--which God
forbid!--I know who it was that killed her."

The little curato's head wagged slowly to and fro; he seemed
uncertain how far to acquiesce in the young girl's reasons. At
length he said: "Forgive him, as your mother has forgiven! And turn
your thoughts from such distressing pictures, Laurella; there may be
better days in store for you, which will make you forget the past."

"Never shall I forget that!" she said, and shuddered. "And you must
know, padre, it is the reason why I have resolved to remain
unmarried. I never will be subject to a man, who may beat and then
caress me. Were a man now to want to beat or kiss me, I could defend
myself; but mother could not--neither from his blows nor kisses--
because she loved him. Now, I will never so love a man as to be made
ill and wretched by him."

"You are but a child, and you talk like one who knows nothing at all
of life. Are all men like that poor father of yours? Do all ill-
treat their wives, and give vent to every whim and gust of passion?
Have you never seen a good man yet? or known good wives, who live in
peace and harmony with their husbands?"

"But nobody ever knew how father was to mother; she would have died
sooner than complain or tell of him, and all because she loved him.
If this be love--if love can close our lips when they should cry out
for help--if it is to make us suffer without resistance, worse than
even our worst enemy could make us suffer--then, I say, I never will
be fond of mortal man."

"I tell you you are childish; you know not what you are saying. When
your time comes, you are not likely to be consulted whether you
choose to fall in love or not." After a pause, he added, "And that
painter: did you think he could have been cruel?"

"He made those eyes I have seen my father make, when he begged my
mother's pardon and took her in his arms to make it up. I know those
eyes. A man may make such eyes, and yet find it in his heart to beat
a wife who never did a thing to vex him! It made my flesh creep to
see those eyes again."

After this she would not say another word. The curato also remained
silent. He bethought himself of more than one wise saying, wherewith
the maiden might have been admonished; but he refrained, in
consideration of the young boatman, who had been growing rather
restless toward the close of this confession.

When, after two hours' rowing, they reached the little bay of Capri,
Antonio took the padre in his arms, and carried him through the last
few ripples of shallow water, to set him reverently down upon his
legs on dry land. But Laurella did not wait for him to wade back and
fetch her. Gathering up her little petticoat, holding in one hand
her wooden shoes and in the other her little bundle, with one
splashing step or two she had reached the shore. "I have some time
to stay at Capri," said the priest. "You need not wait--I may not
perhaps return before to-morrow. When you get home, Laurella,
remember me to your mother; I will come and see her within the week.
You mean to go back before it gets dark?"

"If I find an opportunity," answered the girl, turning all her
attention to her skirts.

"I must return, you know," said Antonio, in a tone which he believed
to be one of great indifference. "I shall wait here till the Ave
Maria. If you should not come, it is the same to me."

"You must come," interposed the little priest; "you never can leave
your mother all alone at night. Is it far you have to go?"

"To a vineyard by Anacapri."

"And I to Capri. So now God bless you, child--and you, my son."

Laurella kissed his hand, and let one farewell drop, for the padre
and Antonio to divide between them. Antonio, however, appropriated
no part of it to himself; he pulled off his cap exclusively to the
padre, without even looking at Laurella. But after they had turned
their backs, he let his eyes travel but a short way with the padre,
as he went toiling over the deep bed of small, loose stones; he soon
sent them after the maiden, who, turning to the right, had begun to
climb the heights, holding one hand above her eyes to protect them
from the scorching sun. Just before the path disappeared behind high
walls, she stopped, as if to gather breath, and looked behind her.
At her feet lay the marina; the rugged rocks rose high around her;
the sea was shining in the rarest of its deep-blue splendor. The
scene was surely worth a moment's pause. But, as chance would have
it, her eyes, in glancing past Antonio's boat, met Antonio's own,
which had been following her as she climbed.

Each made a slight movement, as persons do who would excuse
themselves for some mistake; and then, with her darkest look, the
maiden went her way.

Hardly one hour had passed since noon, and yet for the last two
Antonio had been sitting waiting on the bench before the fishers'
tavern. He must have been very much preoccupied with something, for
he jumped up every moment to step out into the sunshine, and look
carefully up and down the roads, which, parting right and left, lead
to the only two little towns upon the island. He did not altogether
trust the weather, he then said to the hostess of the osteria; to be
sure, it was clear enough, but he did not quite like that tint of
sea and sky. Just so it had looked, he said, before the last awful
storm, when the English family had been so nearly lost; surely she
must remember it?

No, indeed, she said, she didn't.

Well, if the weather should happen to change before night, she was
to think of him, he said.

"Have you many fine folk over there?" she asked him, after a while.

"They are only just beginning; as yet, the season has been bad
enough; those who came to bathe, came late."

"The spring came late. Have you not been earning more than we at
Capri?"

"Not enough to give me macaroni twice a week, if I had had nothing
but the boat--only a letter now and then to take to Naples, or a
gentleman to row out into the open sea, that he might fish. But you
know I have an uncle who is rich; he owns more than one fine orange-
garden; and, 'Tonino,' says he to me, 'while I live you shall not
suffer want; and when I am gone you will find that I have taken care
of you.' And so, with God's help, I got through the winter."

"Has he children, this uncle who is rich?"

"No, he never married; he was long in foreign parts, and many a good
piastre he has laid together. He is going to set up a great fishing
business, and set me over it, to see the rights of it."

"Why, then you are a made man, Tonino!"

The young boatman shrugged his shoulders.

"Every man has his own burden," said he, starting up again to have
another look at the weather, turning his eyes right and left,
although he must have known that there can be no weather side but
one.

"Let me fetch you another bottle," said the hostess; "your uncle can
well afford to pay for it."

"Not more than one glass; it is a fiery wine you have in Capri, and
my head is hot already."

"It does not heat the blood; you may drink as much of it as you
like. And here is my husband coming; so you must sit a while, and
talk to him."

And in fact, with his nets over his shoulder, and his red cap upon
his curly head, down came the comely padrone of the osteria. He had
been taking a dish of fish to that great lady, to set before the
little curato. As soon as he caught sight of the young boatman, he
began waving him a most cordial welcome; and he came to sit beside
him on the bench, chattering and asking questions. Just as his wife
was bringing her second bottle of pure unadulterated Capri, they
heard the crisp sand crunch, and Laurella was seen approaching from
the left-hand road to Anacapri. She nodded slightly in salutation;
then stopped, and hesitated.

Antonio sprang from his seat. "I must go," he said. "It is a young
Sorrento girl, who came over with the signor curato in the morning.
She has to get back to her sick mother before night."

"Well, well, time enough yet before night," observed the fisherman;
"time enough to take a glass of wine. Wife, I say, another glass!"

"I thank you; I had rather not;" and Laurella kept her distance.

"Fill the glasses, wife; fill them both, I say; she only wants a
little pressing."

"Don't," interposed the lad. "It is a wilful head of her own she
has; a saint could not persuade her to do what she does not choose."
And, taking a hasty leave, he ran down to the boat, loosened the
rope, and stood waiting for Laurella. Again she bent her head to the
hostess, and slowly approached the water, with lingering steps. She
looked around on every side, as if in hopes of seeing some other
passenger. But the marina was deserted. The fishermen were asleep,
or rowing about the coast with rods or nets; a few women and
children sat before their doors, spinning or sleeping: such
strangers as had come over in the morning were waiting for the cool
of the evening to return. She had not time to look about her long;
before she could prevent him, Antonio had seized her in his arms and
carried her to the boat, as if she had been an infant. He leaped in
after her, and with a stroke or two of his oar they were in deep
water.

She had seated herself at the end of the boat, half turning her back
to him, so that he could only see her profile. She wore a sterner
look than ever; the low, straight brow was shaded by her hair; the
rounded lips were firmly closed; only the delicate nostril
occasionally gave a wilful quiver. After they had gone on a while in
silence, she began to feel the scorching of the sun; and,
unloosening her bundle, she threw the handkerchief over her head,
and began to make her dinner of the bread; for in Capri she had
eaten nothing.

Antonio did not stand this long; he fetched out a couple of the
oranges with which the baskets had been filled in the morning. "Here
is something to eat to your bread, Laurella," he said. "Don't think
I kept them for you; they had rolled out of the basket, and I only
found them when I brought the baskets back to the boat."

"Eat them yourself; bread is enough for me."

"They are refreshing in this heat, and you have had to walk so far."

"They gave me a drink of water, and that refreshed me."

"As you please," he said, and let them drop into the basket.

Silence again. The sea was smooth as glass. Not a ripple was heard
against the prow. Even the white sea-birds that roost among the
caves of Capri pursued their prey with soundless flight.

"You might take the oranges to your mother," again commenced Tonino.

"We have oranges at home; and when they are gone, I can go and buy
some more."

"Nay, take these to her, and give them to her with my compliments."

"She does not know you."

"You could tell her who I am."

"I do not know you either."

It was not the first time that she had denied him thus. One Sunday
of last year, when that painter had first come to Sorrento, Antonio
had chanced to be playing boccia with some other young fellows in
the little piazza by the chief street.

There, for the first time, had the painter caught sight of Laurella,
who, with her pitcher on her head, had passed by without taking any
notice of him. The Neapolitan, struck by her appearance, stood still
and gazed after her, not heeding that he was standing in the very
midst of the game, which, with two steps, he might have cleared. A
very ungentle ball came knocking against his shins, as a reminder
that this was not the spot to choose for meditation. He looked
round, as if in expectation of some excuse. But the young boatman
who had thrown the ball stood silent among his friends, in such an
attitude of defiance that the stranger had found it more advisable
to go his ways and avoid discussion. Still, this little encounter
had been spoken of, particularly at the time when the painter had
been pressing his suit to Laurella. "I do not even know him," she
said indignantly, when the painter asked her whether it was for the
sake of that uncourteous lad she now refused him. But she had heard
that piece of gossip, and known Antonio well enough when she had met
him since.

And now they sat together in this boat, like two most deadly
enemies, while their hearts were beating fit to kill them. Antonio's
usually so good-humored face was heated to scarlet; he struck the
oars so sharply that the foam flew over to where Laurella sat, while
his lips moved as if muttering angry words. She pretended not to
notice, wearing her most unconscious look, bending over the edge of
the boat, and letting the cool water pass between her fingers. Then
she threw off her handkerchief again, and began to smooth her hair,
as though she had been alone. Only her eyebrows twitched, and she
held up her wet hands in vain attempts to cool her burning cheeks.

Now they were well out in the open sea. The island was far behind,
and the coast before them lay yet distant in the hot haze. Not a
sail was within sight, far or near--not even a passing gull to break
the stillness. Antonio looked all round, evidently ripening some
hasty resolution. The color faded suddenly from his cheek, and he
dropped his oars. Laurella looked round involuntarily--fearless, yet
attentive.

"I must make an end of this," the young fellow burst forth. "It has
lasted too long already! I only wonder that it has not killed me!
You say you do not know me? And all this time you must have seen me
pass you like a madman, my whole heart full of what I had to tell
you; and then you only made your crossest mouth, and turned your
back upon me."

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