Tales and Sketches.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 50, 6 January 1872, Page 16

Tales and Sketches.

BLIND ROSA. A ELEMISH TALE. By Hendrik Conscience. On a beautiful day in 1846, the diligence rolled as usual over the highway between. Antwerp and Turnhout. The tramp of horses, the rattle of wheels, the creaking of the frame, and the loud voice of the driver, accompanied its onward progress. The dogs bark in the distance as it passed, the birds rose startled from the fields, and the shadow of the old coach danced grotesquely among the trees and hedges. ' Suddenly the coachman pulled up not far from a lonely tavern. Springing from his seat, he opened the door of his vehicle, and, without saying a word, proffered his hand to a traveller, who immediately jumped out upon the highway, carrying a leather travelling bag under his arm. With equal silence the coaehman put up the steps, shut the door, and ascending tlie box, drew the whip gently across the horses’ backs, as a sign to proceed ; and flie clumsy machine rumbled on its own spiritless and monotonous way. Meanwhile the traveller had entered the tavern, and calling for a glass of beer, sat down at a table. He was a man of very high stature, and appeared to be about 50 years of age. One might have even supposed him to be 60, had not his vigorous bearing, his lively eye, and the youthful smile upon his lips, shown that his heart and soul were much younger than his face would have indicated. His hair, indeed, was grey, bis brow and cheeks furrowed, and bis whole countenance expressed that waste of power

which care and toil stamp on the face as th sign of permature old age. And jet one coal see that his chest rose and fell with fulnes and life, that his head sat erect and high and his sparkling eves expressed the energ; of manhood. From his dress one would hav inferred that he was a wealthy citizen, althongl it perhaps would not have attracted attenlioi at all had not the coat been buttoned uptoth chin—a peculiarity which, when taken in con nection with his great meerschaum, made oni suspect that he was a soldier or a German The people of the house, after serving the tra veller, resumed their work without paying anj further attention to him. He saw the twc daughters going and comirg, the landlord fetel wood and peat for the fire, the mother fill the kitchen p it; but no one said a word to him although Ins eyes followed everyone as if lx desired to enter into conversation, and his sac and gentle smile seemed to say, ‘Ah! do yor not know me then !’ Suddenly a clock struck. This sound seemed to pain him, for an expression of melancholy surprise passed over his face, and chased the smile from his lips. He stood up, ai d with a disturbed look, gazed at the clock till nine strokes, one after the other, had died away in the room. The housemother had observed the emotion of the stranger, and advancing to him, she also looked up at the clock with a wondering look, as if she expected to see somethirg unusual about it which she hud never observed before. ‘ Yes, sir, it sounds prettily, doesn’t it ?’ she said. ‘lt has gone for twenty years so, and a watchmaker has never laid a finger on it.’ ‘ Twenty years,’ sighed the traveller ; ‘ and where, then, is the clock which used to hang here before ? And where is the pretty imago of the Virgin which

stood there on the chimneypiece ? Gone, distroyed, forgotten ?’ The woman looked at the stranger with surprise, and answered, ‘Our Zanna was playing with the image one day when a child, and broke it. It was so very badly made, at any rate, that the pastor himself had told us to buy a new one ; and there it stands now. Is it not much prettier !’ The traveller shook his head. * And the old clock you will hear immediately,’ sho continued. ‘lt is only a piece of lumber, and is always behind ; it has hung for an age in our cellar. Listen, it is striking now !’ A peculiar noise might be heard proceeding from another part of the house. It was the voice of a bird, which cried, ‘ Cuckoo, cuckoo,’ for nine times in succession. A. cheerful smile at once lighted up the stranger’s Bee; and hastening, accompanied by the hostess, to a little cellar, he gazed with inexpressible joy at the old clock, as the cuckoo concluded its nine times repeated song. Meanwhile, both the daughters of the family approached the traveller, full of curiosity, and_ looked at him with wonder, turning their great blue, questioning eyes alternately on him and on their motlur. The looks of the two girls recalled the stranger to himself; and. apparently satisfied, he returned to the adjoining apartment, still followed by the mother and her daughters, all wondering at this mysterious conduct. His heart was evidently gladened by what he had seen ; his countenance was lighted up with a sweet expression of love and genial feeling ; and his eyes, moist with emotion, sparkled so joyously, that both the girls simul taneously approached him with visible interest. He took each by the hand, andsaid, ‘ What I do seems siugular, children, does it not! You cannot understand, I daresay, why the voice of the old enckoo moves me so deeply ? Ah ! I, too, was once a child ; and in those days my father used to come every Sunday after church to drink his pint of beer in this very room. When I was good I was allowed to come with him. And then I used to stand from hour to hour, waiting till the dear cuckoo should open its little door; I danced and skipt at its call, and in my childish soul I admired the poor little bird as an incomprehensible masterpiece of art. And the image of the Virgin, too, which one of you broke, I used to love, because it wore such a beautiful blue mantle, and because the little Jesus in her arms held out his little hands and smiled to me. The child of those days is now a man of threescore years; his hair is grey, and his face full of wrinkles. Four-and-thirty years have

I lived in the wilds of Eastern Russia; and yet I still remember the image and the cuckoo, as if only a single day had fled since my father last brought me here.’ ‘Are you, then, from our village?’ asked Zanna. ‘ Yes, yes,’ replied the traveller, with joy. But the effect of his words was not what he expected. A smile played for a moment on the girl’s features, but that was all; they seemed neither astonished nor overjoyed at his declaration. * But where is the old landlord, Joostens ?’ he at last inquired of the mother. * John the landlord, do you mean ? He has been dead for more than five-and-twenty years.* ‘ And his wife—the good, stout Peeternelie ?’ * Dead, too,’ was the reply. ‘ And the young shepherd, Andries, who could make such beautiful baskets ?’ ‘ Dead, too,’ replied the hoste33. The traveller hung his head, and gave himself up for a time to melancholy reflections. Meanwhile, the woman betook herself to the barn to tell her husband what had happened with this unknown visitor. The farmer now entered the room heavily, and with the noise of his wooden shoes roused the traveller out of his painful reverie. The latter rose, and hastened to him with outstretched arras and cheerful face, as if he would fain greet him as an old friend ; but the farmer took his hand coldly, and looked at hyn with indifference. ‘ And you, too, Peer Joostens,’ he exclaimed sadiy, ‘and you, too, do not recognise me?’ ‘ No ; I do not think I have ever seen you, sir,’ he replied. ‘ Then you do not know him who, at the risk of his life, dived under the ice at Torfmoor to rescue you from certain death.’ The farmer shrugged bis shoulders. The traveller seemed deeply pained, and said almost imploringly, * Have you, then, forgotten the young man who used to take your part among your companions, and bring you so many bird’s eggs to adorn your May-wreath ? —him w’ho taught you to make trumpets and whistles-of the meadow reeds, and took you with him when he drove Pauvel the brickmaker’s son’s fine cart to market ?’ ‘ I have forgotten,’ replied the farmer, doubtingly. But I remember that my father, now in leaven, used to tell me that when I was six rears old I was nearly drowned in the great rorfinoor. But it was Long John who pulled ne out—and who, in the French time under Napoleon, was carried off, with many others, <o be food for powder. Who knows in what inconsecrated ground his corpse is lying now ? Hay God be gracious to his poor soul 1’ ‘Ah ! di 1’ cried the stranger, with exultation, ‘ now 'on know me j I am Long John—or rather, folm Slaets, of High Dries.” As he got no immediate reply, he said with urprise, ‘Do you not remember the riflehooter of the Muschen-guild ?—him who for our leagues round was famed as the best rifle-.

man ? who had no equal in sureness of aim, and was envied by all the other young men because the young lassies looked so'kindly on him ? I am he, John Slaets, of High Dries!’ ‘ It i 3 possible,’ replied the farmer distrustfully j ' but I do not know you, sir, and I hope you will not take it ill. There is no Muschen-guild in all our district; and what was formerly the shooting ground is now the site of a country house, which has been for several yeai’s uninhabited, for Mevrouw is now dead.’ Discouraged by the farmer’s coldness, the traveller made no further attempt to. recall himself to his recollection. ‘ln the village dwell many of my friends, who cannot have forgotten me,’ he said quietly, as he rose and prepared to go. ‘You, Peer Joostens, were very young indeed when all that happened ; but Pauvel will fall on my neck the moment he sees me, I am quite sure of that. Does he still, dwell on the moor ?’ ‘ The brickwork is long since burned down, and the clay pits filled up. The finest hay in the whole parish grows there now; it is the rich Tist’s pasture.’ ‘ And where is Pauvel ?’ ‘The whole family were unfortunate, and left this quarter altogether. What has become of them I cannot tell; dead, without doubt. But I see, sir, you are talking of our grandfathers’ times, and it will be a difficult matter to get an answer to all your questions unless you go to our gravedigger. He can tell over on his fingers everything that has happened these hundred years or more.’ ‘I dare say, farmer. Peer John must now be ninety years old at least. ‘ Peer John? That is not our gravedigger’s name ; he is called Lauw Stevens. A smile of pleasure overspread the traveller’s, countenance. ‘ God be thanked,’ he exclaimed, ‘ that he has spared at least one of my old comrades!’ ‘ YYas Lauw, then, a friend of yours, sir ?’ ‘ My friend,’ said the traveller, shaking his head, ‘ I can scarcely call him, for there was a perpetual rivalry, and sometimes strife,. between us. Love affairs were at the bottom of our differences. On one occasion, I well remember, when he and I were struggling, I threw him from the bridge at Kalvermoor into the stream beneath, and he was nearly drowned ; but that is more than thirty years ago. Lauw will be glad to see me again. Well, Farmer Joostens, give me your hand ; I hope to drink many a can of beer in your house!’ Taking his travelling bag under his arm, he left the tavern, striking into a road behind it which ran through a plantation of young pines. Although the farmer’s reception and information were not very cheering, they had notwithstanding poured Borne consolation and joy into his heart. The sweet odor of earlier years breathed round him j and with the flood of reminiscences which arose in his soul at every step, he felt as if born anew. The young pine wood, it is true, which surrounded him on all sides, was strange to him ; for on this spot a lofty fir wood had stood, whose trees bore innumerable nests, and around whose borders grew the wild strawberry in abundance. The wood had disappeared like the people of the village; the old trees had died, and their children taken their place, to run-their life course in their turn. They were strangers to him, and he viewed them with indifference. Bub the song of the birds which resounded on every side was still the same j the wailing

sough of the wind as it stirred the pine-tops, the chirping of the grasshoppers, and the heath breezs, with its delicious odors—all the eternal workings of nature were the same as in the days of bis childhood and youth. Pleasing* thoughts arose in the traveller’s mind; and although he walked on with serene and happy feelings, lie never raised his musing eyes from the ground till he had left the pine wood behind him. Here fields and meadows were spread out before him, through which flowed a beautiful stream in pleasant windings; behind, at the distance of about a mile, the pointed church steeple rose among the trees, with its gilded cock glittering in the sunshine like a day star. Still farther off -the windmill lazily whirled its heavy red wings. Overcome by the beauty of the scene and thememories it suggested, the traveller paused. His eyes became moist, he let his travelling bag fall on the ground, and spread out his arras, while the expression of a deep and fervent joy beamed upon his countenance. At this moment the prayer bell pealed forth the * Angelus.’ The traveller knelt down, and bending his head upon his breast, remained motionless in this attitude for a time, prolonging his devotion, though visibly agitated and trembling. An earneßt'prayer streamed from his heart and lips, while he raised his eyes and folded hands to heaven, full of passionate gratitude. Then picking up his travelling bag, be hastened impatiently on. G-azing at the church steeple, he said in a low tone, ‘ You at least are not altered, humble little church, where I was baptised—where, at my first communion, everything was so joyful, so wonderous, so beautiful, and holy ! Ah! I shall see it once more, that image of the holy Mary, with its golden robe and its silver crown ; St Anthony, with his pretty little pig, and the black devil with his red tongue, of which I used to dream so often ! And the organ, on which Sus the clerk used to play so beautifully, while we sang with loud and earnest voices— Ave Maria,

Gratia plena!’ The traveller sang these last words with a loud voice. The associations which it suggested must h ave affected him deeply, for a glistened tear rolled down his cheek. Silently he moved on, sunk in self-forgetfulness, till he had reached a little bridge which led across the stream to a marshy meadow. An indescribable smile now lighted up his countenance, as if his whole soul beamed there. ‘Here,’ he said, with emotion, ‘I first took Rosa’s hand in mine. Here our eyes made that mutual confession which reveals heaven to the young and ardent, but yet trembling heart. The yellow waterlilies sparkled in the sunshine then as now; the frogs croaked merrily, and the larks sang overhead.’ Crossing the bridge, he stepped upon the heath. ‘ Ah,’ he said to himself, * even the little frogs jvhieh saw our love are dead—the flowers are dead, the larks are dead ! Their children now greet the grey-haired old man, who returns among them like a spectre from the past. And Rosa, my dear Rssa! does she still live ? Perhaps! Married, it may be, and surrounded by her children. Those who are left behind forget, alas! the unhappy brother who roams far from his home.’

A sereae and cheerful smile played round his lips. ‘Poor pilgrim'.’ he sighed, ‘there boiled up in thy bosom just then a feeling of jealousy, as if it were still spring-time for thy old heart! The season of love is long since past for thee. Well, it matters not, if only she recognises me, and has not quite forgotten our ardent attachment. 0 God! then I shr.ll no longer lament my long journey of eight thousand miles ; and shall go, half-consoled to join my parents and friends in the grave!’ Not far from the village, he entered a little tavern, of the sign of the ‘ Plough,’ and asked the landlady to fetch him a glass of beer. On the earth, by a great pot, sat a very aged man, who stared into the fire like an image of stone. Refore the woman had returned with the beer, the traveller had recognised him, and sitting down beside him, took his hand, ‘ God be praised, that he has granted you so long a life, Rather Joris. You are one who belonged to the good old times ! Do you know me, then ? No ! The wild boy who used to creep through your hedge, and eat your apples before they were ripe ?’ ‘ Six-and-ninety years!’ muttered the old man, without stirring. ‘ So it is,’ sighed the traveller. ‘But tell me, Father Joris, is Rosa, the wheelwright’s daughter, still alive ?’ Six-and-ninety years!’ hummed the •Id man with a hollow voice. The old woman reappeared with the beer. * He is blind and deaf, sir, she Said, ‘ Do not speak to him; he does not understand a word.’ ‘Blind and deaf!’ muttered the stranger despairingly; ‘ what devastation inexorable time spreads in thirty years ! Heavens! I wander here amid the ruins of a whole generation of men!’ ‘ Did you ask after Rosa, the wheelwright’s daughter ?’ resumed the woman. * Our wheelwright had five daughters, but there was no Rosa among them; for the oldest is called Beth, and is married to the postman; the second is Gonde, who is a milliner; the third is Nee; and the girl Ameken ; and as for the little child, it is rather silly, poor thing!’ * Bub I do not refer to these people at all,’ said the traveller with impatience. ‘I speak of Rob Meulinez’s family.’ ‘ Oh! they are dead long ago, sir,’ was the woman’s reply. This was a severe blow to the traveller ; and much agitated, he rose, and left the tavern, with feverish haste. Before the door, he struck his hand upon his brow, and exclaimed despairingly— ‘ O God! she too ! My poor Rosa dead ! Always, always that inexorable word “dead!” “dead!” Nobody on this earth knows me again. No one looks on me with the eye of a friend!’ Tottering like a drunken man, he turned towards a pine copse, and stood there quite unmanned by his grief, leaning his head on a tree. When his agitation was partially allayed, he went slowly towards the village. The path led by a solitary churchyard ; pausing at the foot of tke cross, h« uncovered his

head, and said, in a solemn voice—‘Here I before the image of the Saviour on the cross Rosa plighted her troth to me ; here she promised to remain ever true, and wait till I should return to my native village. Here she received from my hand the little golden cross the love pledge which I have so dearly redeemed. Poor friend ! perhaps I am now standing on thy grave !’ With these melancholy thoughts, he sat down desponding on the kneeling bench, and remained there for a long time, unconscious of everything around him. Slowly, at last, he turned his head, and gazed at the churchyard, where little hillocks indicated the most recent graves. It grieved him to see the many wooden crosses which had fallen through age ; and which no child’s hand had thought of raising up agaiu over a lather or a mother’s resting place. His parents, too, slept here ; but who could help him to find their graves ? S o mused he, long, sadly, and despondingly ; mysterious, impenetrable eternity pressed upon his soul like a laden tombstone, when suddenly a man’s footstep startled him out of his despairing thoughts. Along by the side of the churchyard wall, crept the old gravedigger, spade on shoulder. He bore the unmistakable marks of age and poverty ; his back was bent by perpetual toil; his hair was white, and his face all covered with deep wrinkles ; but strength and energy sull lived in his eye. The traveller recognised his rival, Lauw, at first sight, and was about to hasten forward to greet him. But the bitter disappointments which he had already met with deterred him, and he resolved to say nothing, but wait to see whether Lauw recognised him. The gravedigger paused, a few paces off, and, after he had looked at him with apparent indifference, he began to mark off a long quadrangle, the limits of a new grave. Now and then, however, he cast a side look on the stranger, who sat before him on the bench, and a selfish and invidious kind of satisfaction seemed to sparkle in his eyes; The traveller, deceived by the expression which had suddenly passed over the gravedigger’s countenance, felt bis heart throb with the expectation that Lauw would approach and address him by his name. The gravedigger looked at him again for a moment keenly, then feeling in the pocket of his tattered waistcoat, pulled out an old book bound in dirty parchment, to which a pencil was attached by a leathern thong. Turning round, he seemed to note down something on one of the leaves. This act, taken in connection with the exulting expression of his countenance, surprised the traveller so much that he went up to the gravedigger and said with curiosity—‘What were you writing in the little book just now ?’ ‘ That is my affair,’ replied Lauw Stevens gruffly. ‘ Ydu have stood a terrible long time on my list; I was making across at your name.’ ‘You recognise me, then ?’ exclaimed the stranger joyfully.

. ‘ I recognise!’ said the gravedigger in a bitter and meaning tone ; I don’t know that ; but I remember well, just as if it had happened yesterday, that an envious villain once threw me into the river, and nearly drowned me, because I was loved by Rosa, the wheelwright’s daughter. Since then many an easter candle has been burnt; but’— ‘ You twere loved by Rosa!’ interrupted the stranger. ‘ It is not true, I tell you.’ * Ah, you knew it yvell enough, spiteful fellow that you were! Had she not for a whole year worn the silver consecrated ring which I had brought with me from Scherpenheuvel ? And did you not tear the ring forcibly from her, and throw it into the water ?’ A sad smile passed over the traveller’s countenance. ‘ Lauw ! Lauw!’ he exclaimed, * we do wrong : memory makes us children again. Believe me, Rosa did not love you, as you suppose ; she took your ring only out of friendship, and because it was consecrated. In my youth I was rough aUd rude, I fear, and did not always act nobly to my comrades. ’But shall four-and-thirty years have passed so destructively over men and things, and left nothing but our wretched passions unchanged ? Ah, Lauw, shall the only man who recognises me be my enemy—and will he continue my enemy still ? Come give me your hand; let us be friends. I shall make you happy for the remainder of your life.’ The gravedigger withdrew his hand sharply, and said, in a gloomy and surly tone —‘ Forget! I forget you ? It is too late ! You have poisoned my life. No day passes but I think of you ; and do I think of you to bless your name, do you suppose? You yourself may determine that —you who have been the cause of my misery.’ Folding his trembling hand, the traveller raised his eyes to heaven, and exclaimed in despair —‘ God! God ! hate alone knows me ! hate alone does not forget me !’ * You have done well,’ resumed the gravedigger, laughing, ‘ in coming here to lie beside your blessed parents. I have kept a capital grave for you ; I will lay the proud Long John under the roofledge, where the rainwater may get at him and wash all the malice and villany out of his corpse. A sudden trembling shook the traveller from head to foot, and a lightening flash of indignation and wrath shot from his eyes. ,* This violent excitement, however, quickly gave way to a feeling of dejection and pity. * John,’ said the grave-digger, * forgive what I have done! I have acted cruelly and maliciously. But, John, you do not know how much I have suffered through you.’ ‘Lauw!’ exclaimed the other, grasping his hand with emotion; ‘ those were errors of our youth! And see how little I calculated on your hostility ; your very naming me was itself an inexpressible joy to me. lam still grateful to you for that, though you have torn my heart by your bitter mockery. And now tell me where Rosa lies buried. In heaven she willrejoice to see us reconciled, and standing like brothers beside her resting place.’ ‘Buried !’ exclamed the gravedigger. ‘God grant that she were buried poor thing !’ ‘What ? What do you mean to say?’ cried the traveller, ( Is

Rosa still alive ?’ ‘ Yes she lives, if her heavy lot is worthy the name of life.’ ‘ You make me tremble. For God’s sake speak! misfortune has befallen her?’ ‘She is blind’ ‘ Blind ? Rosa blind ! She has no eyes with which to look on me again ! Alas ! alas !’ Overcome by grief, he tottered back to the bench, and sank down upon it. The gravedigger approached him. ‘ For ten years she has been blind,’ he said, ‘ and begs her daily bread. I give her twopence every week ; and when we bake, there is always a little loaf set apart for her besides.’ The traveller sprang up, and warmly pressing the gravedigger’s hand, exclaimed ‘ Thanks, thanks ! God bless you for your kindness to her ! I will take it on myself to reward you in his holy name. lam rich, very rich. To-day we shall meet again ; but now without loosing a moment, tell me where she lives; every minute is another minute of misery to her.’ With these words he drew the gravedigger by the hand towards the gate of the churchyard. From the wall Lauw pointed with hi? finger to an object in the distance— ‘ Do you see the smoke rising from yonder little chimney behind the copse ? There is the hut of the broom-maker, Nelis Omes, and there Rosa lives.’ (To be continued.)