"He's an odd stick," said Simmen. "But he can work!"

Hallheimer grew so eager that his little eyes flashed. "There is something hidden in the fellow," said he. "For all that he is so crabbed and crusty outside, like an everlasting workday, another man is hidden in him, as fine as Sunday, whether you believe me or not. He appreciates everything beautiful. Mean he may be, and thorny and quarrelsome and quick with his fists. For instance, the token that he marked the boy with for life!"

"How's that?" asked Simmen innocently. "His boy, Franz?"

The trader pricked up his ears. "Franz?—Does he call him Franz now—the boy?" asked he.

The host begged him to tell what it all meant.

So then Hallheimer told Cain's story, all about his life and about his name.

"So—so," said Simmen. "Base born is he then, the boy?" and the matter seemed to make him thoughtful.

Hallheimer spent the night at the tavern, and seemed to be possessed to talk about the smith. He listened to what one and another in the house had to say about Stephen Fausch, and told the landlord's wife and the maid, who brought him his supper, and the working men, with whom he presently sat in the lower room, the story of Cain's name, and why such a name was given him. He meant no harm by this, for every one knew all about it where he came from. He simply kept telling it over again in the excitement of the conversation, meaning to explain to his listeners what a remarkable fellow the smith was, in spite of his uncouthness.

It happened by chance, that neither Cain nor Fausch came over to the tavern that evening; but Vincenza heard the tale and afterward sat in the corner of the room lost in thought with dreamy eyes and burning cheeks.

The next morning Hallheimer had already started southward, when Cain came out of the milk house and fell into the hands of three workingmen belonging to the hospice, who were busy at the house. It came over him that they all stared at him, and passed some word back and forth among them and then laughed, as if they were laughing at him. He greeted them, paused and said: "Already busy, so early?"

They looked stupidly at one another. But one, an impudent fellow, who had a brandy flask behind him on the ground, even at this early hour, said: "That's a fine name you have!"

Then they laughed again still louder.

"My name?—" stammered Cain. For a moment he did not know what they meant; but suddenly the blood rushed to his face. The story of his shame had made the long journey from Waltheim here! He could not say another word, nor even look at the three men. With drooping head, he slipped away.

Soon afterward he was standing in the workshop, where Fausch was busy making a supply of horse shoes ready for the summer. The smith had not heard him come in, but, turning around by chance, discovered him, standing in a corner, with his arms hanging limply and his head on his breast. "What is the matter then?" he asked.

Then Cain looked up. His features twitched convulsively. "They know it here now—they know it all," said he slowly.

Fausch dropped his hammer. "What do they know?" he asked.

"About—my name."

A flash of anger rushed over the smith. "I would like to see who dares to call you anything but Franz here!"

"I want to go away, Father," said Cain, "out into the world—down to Italy, or somewhere—I want to go away."

"Nonsense!" Fausch burst out. "Get to work! Blow the bellows for me!"

The boy obeyed without remonstrance. "This evening we can talk about it," was all he said. Then he did as his father had told him. He still held to his decision to go away. But it seemed very hard to him. He stifled a rising sob. The smith worked as if a hundred horses were waiting at the door for the shoe he was making. Suddenly he straightened up, laid down his tools and pointed out some more work for Cain to do. He himself went out without saying where he was going. Once outside, he went to the tavern, and drank a glass in the servants' room, as he now and then did. As he sat there, he noticed exactly what he had expected: every one looked at him differently since yesterday. Simmen, whom he ran across, asked why the boy did not come over. Then he added with a half sarcastic, half angry look: "I have found out all about you and—and Franz. You weren't exactly gentle with him in those days."

Fausch was going to ask who told him about it, but Hallheimer immediately came into his head, and he began to wonder that the story of Cain and his name had not found its way to the mountain long ago. He did not answer the landlord, but gazed steadily into his glass, emptied it at one draught, muttered something which Simmen did not understand, and took himself off. A while afterward he went back to the shop, where Cain was still at work. He said nothing, but wandered aimlessly back and forth a moment, looking fixedly at his workbench, as if he were searching for something. Then he said impatiently to Cain, as if he had already sent him out: "Go along, then!"

"Where to?"

"Can't you pile the wood that was unloaded yesterday?" he growled. Cain immediately turned and went out.

Stephen Fausch stood for a moment looking toward the back door, by which the boy had gone out; then he sat down on his anvil, with his elbows on his knees, and stared at the ground, with bowed head. A band of light that came through the great doorway fell upon him and threw the man and the anvil into striking relief against the surrounding darkness. He sat there so motionless and was so dark a shape, from his clumsy shoes to his black, woolly head, that it was not easy to distinguish where the iron of the anvil ended and the living man began, or whether the whole was not an iron statue. Moreover, no one could have seen that within him all was turmoil and struggle and strife.

But Stephen Fausch was thinking. All the way over the long road from Waltheim the slander had followed them, which they had come so far to avoid. And this gossip and scandal could follow Cain through the whole world just as easily as it had come here. There was no avoiding it! And it is your fault, Stephen Fausch, that the boy must be pursued by scandal his whole life long. But ha ha, it is fair, perfectly fair! No one asked you how you liked it, when Maria was—ha ha! So he must bear it too, the child of sin, the sinner's name! He must bear it!

It was the old struggle between defiance and obstinacy, and that other feeling of pity for the boy, that arose once more in Fausch. Only the battle had never been so fierce before. The two forces wrestled together and shook the powerful man back and forth like a reed, even although outwardly he sat so still. Then too, other thoughts came to him. He wanted to go away, the boy! All alone! They must part! Yes, yes, of course, if he were alone, the boy might more easily pass unnoticed through the world. Yes, of course! But to part!

Fausch shuddered. No longer to have the boy with him, no longer to see him—in whom—Maria still seemed to live!—He could not sit still any longer. He got up and walked back and forth. To give him up—the boy!—The thought awoke once more his strange hunger for Cain. It drove him to the door, to see him.

Over by the stable door the boy was piling up heavy logs of wood, which lay in a confused heap on the ground. He was working diligently and without looking about him.

Just then Vincenza came across the open space from the tavern. The smith involuntarily stepped behind the wall by the door, so that she would not see him. From there he continued to watch Cain.

Vincenza timidly came near, looked about to see if anyone was by, then, before he was aware of her approach, she stepped up behind the boy, who was so absorbed in his work.

"You never came near me all the morning," said Vincenza to Cain. She had quite forgotten to bid him good morning. She was not usually a very thoughtful girl, or apt to hang her head. But now she looked quiet and serious.

"You?" said Cain, turning toward her. Then he didn't know what more to say, and went on piling up the wood.

"I know why, already," said Vincenza. Leaning against the woodpile, she looked at Cain. After a short pause she continued. "They have told us what a strange name you have. So—that is why you don't come over any more, isn't it?"

"I am going away—I am going very far away now," said Cain, but even as he spoke the words, it seemed wholly impossible to him, that they could be true.

Vincenza thought a moment. Then she came closer to him. "If you go, I shall go too," said she.

He could not laugh at what she said, for all that it seemed so incredible. Since he could not find a word to say, he stroked her hand, which was resting on the woodpile.

Just then Simmen came out of the tavern door, with his face flushed, and called out angrily to Vincenza: "Are you there again with the smith's boy, you?" It was the first time that he had had anything to say against the friendship of the two.

The girl turned around. Her little brown face wore an angry expression. "I shall tell my father," said she to Cain as she went away. The boy scarcely knew what she meant. But she walked slowly up to Simmen.

"Franz wants to go away," said she when she was close to him.

"So he ought," answered the host, crossly.

"Then I shall go with him," said Vincenza.

At that, the blood rushed once more to Simmen's face. Cain heard him railing loudly at Vincenza, as he walked into the house behind her. His angry voice could be heard across the yard for some time. Cain stood and listened, with a log of wood in his hand. Over at the workshop, Fausch left the doorway where he had been watching and went out of the back door. He had no peace of mind left for his work.

Chapter IX

Simmen, the landlord, sent for Fausch to come to his little office, which was near one of the guest rooms. It was a small room, containing a table strewn with papers, and a chair in front of it; at this table Simmen used to make out the bills for his guests. A little oil lamp that hung from the ceiling was burning, and threw a fairly good light upon the two men, and around the room.

It was the evening of the day when the landlord had scolded his daughter on Cain's account.

Simmen looked very much displeased.

Fausch had come just as he was, dirty, and leaning a little forward, as if he had to thrust his great head through a wall. Something seemed to be seething in his mind, and it often seemed as if he was so busy with his own thoughts, that he could scarcely take heed of what the landlord wanted him for.

"You've got to send that boy away," began Simmen in an excited tone. "My—my daughter has seen too much of him, as young as she is, the child! She is locked in, upstairs now, until she grows tamer—but—you must send the boy away, and soon too."

Simmen's anger was evident in his hasty, broken speech. He and Vincenza must have had a stormy time together.

Fausch looked down and made no answer. His thoughts held full sway over him.

Simmen thought that he was considering what had just been said to him. "Anyway, it will be good for him, to go out into the world, your boy," he went on, trying to persuade Fausch. "It is always useful for young people."

"True," muttered the smith; he seemed to be waking up. "I will see," he added, and as Simmen began to advise him as to where he might send his boy, and offered to do something for him, he said "Yes, yes," in answer. The host might take it for assent if he chose. When he had forced out these few words in answer to Simmen, Fausch shifted from one foot to the other a few times, as if the ground were hot beneath his feet, then suddenly he walked out exactly as he had come in, with clumsy, almost groping steps, as if he were blindly following his own thoughts.

At supper, he sat with Cain and Katharine, more silent than ever. Only when the boy began to talk very earnestly once more about going away, he spoke harshly to him: "Can't you keep still till you're spoken to?"

Cain was not afraid of him. He fixed his clear eyes on his father's face. "I will depend upon myself as much as I can," he went on, speaking of his plans.

Fausch did not answer him again.

"Then—I must go, without your consent," Cain concluded, firmly. "Tomorrow morning early—I shall—"

Katharine, who scarcely knew what had happened, came around the table and took hold of the boy's sleeve with trembling fingers: "My boy—my boy!" she said in a warning tone.

But Fausch was a strange picture, as he sat there. His powerful form was trembling, as if with rage: "Can't you wait?" He forced the words out between his teeth. "Can't you wait till we have time to think of something for you?"

Cain was startled at his father's appearance and agreed. "When will you let me go then?" he asked.

"You shall soon see," said Fausch in the same troubled tone.

Cain and Katharine looked at each other involuntarily; they had never seen him like that before. He sat bowed over on the table; from time to time his dark and horny hands opened and shut convulsively, as if he were squeezing something in his hand.

"Are you ill?" stammered Cain. Then the smith pulled himself together. "Nonsense!" he growled, and then: "You shall not go, until I have thought things over for you."

There was something in these words that did not permit Cain to oppose him. "Then I will wait," said he. In the passageway he turned to Katharine, who stepped out of the room with him. "What is it, what is the matter with my father?" he asked.

Poor old Katharine was silent and thoughtful. "He is not easy to make out, the master," said she.

But after this conversation, Stephen Fausch passed a long, anxious, sleepless night. His bedroom was above the blacksmith shop, and was as bare as all the old monastery had been; a hard bed, a chair and a table were the only furniture. Fausch sat on the bed, near the open window, from which he could see the lakes and the whole Alpine valley.

At the supper table, an idea had come to Fausch, when Cain had spoken again of going away. "If the boy wants to go out of your life, Stephen Fausch, cannot you just as well pass out of his?"

He realized that it was the story of himself and the boy together that gave the material for all the scandal. And he knew perfectly well that it was he, Stephen, whose appearance and manner were so conspicuous, and who had played the principal part during the course of the events, who chiefly reminded people of the story. Cain was young and fresh and very much like other people. He lived in the present time, and suited the present time, so that the world could take pleasure in him just as he was, and therefore might not ask very much about his past, if there was nobody there, who was associated with the past and so was more bound up with it than Cain himself. He, Stephen, was the chief obstacle that prevented Cain's story from sinking into oblivion. If he parted from the boy, people would judge him for what he was, instead of for what he had been!

Fausch had carried these thoughts upstairs with him, and they would not let go their hold on him. As he sat on his bed, he was struggling with these ideas.

Until now, Fausch had gone his own way without troubling himself about anyone. And if a wall stood in his way, he had pushed through it with his obstinate head, and if anything else was in his way, he had kicked it aside with his heavy boots. Now for once he must yield, he must admit that—that in his self-will he had been unjust. If for the boy's good he should go away, it would be like begging Cain's pardon for what he had done to him, he, Stephen Fausch, who had no need to ask anyone's pardon!

This idea was so distasteful to him, that he laughed aloud and was too angry to sit still. He snatched up the chair by its back and put it over by the window, and sat down there and gazed out into the night.

The night was very still and clear. There were not many stars in the sky, but it was mysteriously bright as if from some inner light, and the few stars in sight were large and still, especially one, which was just above a dark mountain and had a smaller companion directly above it. The star gave a bluish light, like moonlight, that shone downwards from far over the mountain. The great, solemn, silent wall of mountains, that stood round about the pass, were so clear-cut at the sky line, that one could count every summit; in the pass itself there was still a soft light, so that a part of the road was visible in the midst of the darkness, and the surface of one of the lakes lay glistening through the night.

At first Fausch did not see this nocturnal landscape, for his anger seemed, as it were, to lay a hand over his eyes. But gradually the brilliancy of the two stars, the larger and the smaller, caught his attention, then the dark distinctness of the mountains, and then the gray shimmering road and the strange light on the lake. But the more the great silent picture of the night gained power over his soul, the more did it appease his anger, until there grew in the mind of this strange man a stillness and clearness like that which lay over the landscape. At the same time something recalled to his memory how the boy Cain and Vincenza had lately wandered about together so often in this same landscape. The picture of the two handsome young people had fitted admirably into the frame of this beautiful country. He could still see them, as plainly as if they were actually before him, hand in hand, now over by the lake, and again on that distant hill slope. Perhaps it was because of his remembrance of the evening when he had gone to look for them, and had found them at the Schwarzsee, that their image grew upon him, so sharp and distinct, as they had walked close together, young and slender, and each with a different sort of beauty. He seemed to see them, and rejoiced in them as he did in the beauty of the night, and—

Gradually the reason why he was still awake came back to him: Cain wanted to go away! He had been happy and contented up there, and now he must go!

Fausch stretched himself. "He shall not go, the boy, I say so!" When this idea came into his head, he almost spoke the words aloud.

And now another thought forced itself upon him: "If he is to stay here, you will have to sing small, Stephen Fausch, you will have to take back half your life and say, I am sorry that it was all wrong!" He breathed heavily, as if he were lifting an enormous weight that was almost too much for human strength. Then he seemed once more to see Cain and Vincenza walking side by side.

"And—and—you must leave the boy," the thought came over him again. "And—you needn't deny it—you miss him whenever he is away from you. Since—since Maria gave you up for the other—you have had no other joy in your life like him—it isn't so easy to leave him for—always, you needn't pretend, Stephen Fausch!"

The smith rose and laid his hands on the window-sill. He leaned far out of the window for a long time. The cold night wind blew over his face. But it seemed as if as he rose he had made his last great effort. He passed his shapeless hand over his forehead and hair, rubbed his eye with one finger, as if he had just waked up and now he was fully in control of himself. By means of his strange, holiday joy in the two young people, whom he saw wandering through the loveliness of the night, the same strange inner joy that he felt in all beauty, he overcame the other tyrannical force which was the foundation of his character. It had taken a long time, years indeed, and it had been a life and death struggle, but yet Stephen Fausch had—perhaps only for a few days, or even a few hours, yet he had conquered his own obstinacy.

What Fausch thought of and reasoned out during the rest of the night, as he walked up and down the room, Simeon, the landlord learned on the following morning, and the others might guess it later if they chose.

In the morning, not very early, for haste was not according to Fausch's habits, he went to see the landlord. "May I have another word with you?" he asked.

The very fact that the taciturn fellow came of his own accord astonished Simmen. He willingly opened the door of his little office for him, sat down once more at his table, and Fausch stood on the very same spot as on the previous evening. Everything in the little room was just the same, except that the lamp was not burning. A gray light reflected from a bare rocky slope, filled the room.

"Have you anything against the boy himself, just as he really is," began Fausch without any preamble.

Now Simmen had slept the whole long night since yesterday's fit of anger, and in the morning his wife, who was quieter than he, and rather peaceable for all that she was so resolute, had interposed between him and the stubborn Vincenza to such good purpose that his anger had passed away. He listened to Fausch's question quietly, settled himself comfortably in his chair, and answered: "What should I have against him? On the contrary, he is handy, very useful and a confoundedly handsome fellow, only you must send him away, Fausch—it wouldn't suit me at all, what was beginning between my daughter and him, that—"

He said all this quietly, sometimes making a gesture to explain his words better. When he paused, Fausch began to speak. Simmen could not understand the first word that he spoke, he brought it out with so much difficulty, and only gradually did his speech become clearer and more connected.

"I—I—want to ask you," he began—"keep him here, my boy. I marked him with that name—so that everybody points at him. I—did him an injustice! Don't send him away for that. I—"

Fausch had to pause a moment. The sweat stood on his dark forehead. He passed his hand helplessly across it.

"Yes, yes," said Simmen meanwhile, "What you say is all very true, but—still he can't stay here, where he will see Vincenza every day—"

Fausch came nearer and interrupted the landlord. Still in the same broken and difficult way he went on: "You said yourself that the boy is all right. He ought to come into notice—I think."

At that Simmen laughed: "Only not for my girl—not for Vincenza! She can take her choice by and by—Smith—I tell you, down in Italy as well as on our side." His laugh turned into a smile. It had done him good to boast of his own property, while speaking of his daughter's prospects.

The smith looked about him almost timidly. It was strange to see such a self-willed man stand there helpless and confused. He laid one hand on the landlord's arm, and his hand was trembling. "I will give the boy up to you," said he. "If I go away from him altogether, it will soon be forgotten, what he was, and how it was when we were together. Believe me, Simmen. And then when I am gone you could lead him just as you want to. And by and by no one would ask any more what his name was, or where he came from—and if he does not turn out as you expect—you could send him away any time—you could—"

He stopped suddenly. Then he reached out his hand, because he could not find the right words, and his face blazed scarlet. It came over him that he was like a beggar. Simmen looked silently at the floor. He was a reasonable man, and he saw what his words cost the smith, indeed he hardly recognized him. And the boy was a good boy, one in whom you could take some pleasure—and—Simmen could not help it, that Vincenza's face seemed to come before his eyes. The girl's behavior did not seem as if the smith's boy meant merely a passing fancy to her.

"You'll never repent it," Fausch forced the words out.

Thereupon the landlord replied thoughtfully: "So let it be then. I will give him employment, Franz, and—he will stay here alone, as I said! Time will show what comes of it—not that he is to think—that he is going to get the girl—But he will do well enough for me so far!"

The last few words Simmen said for his own satisfaction, meaning to cloak his own yielding disposition.

"Good!" said Fausch, and no more, not one unnecessary word. The way in which he now spared his words, showed how hard it must have been to bring them out before. His awkwardness slowly changed back again into moroseness. Once, when he was already on the threshold, it seemed as if something more had occurred to him. He half turned back toward Simmen, but changed his mind. With his brow thrust forward, he tramped heavily out of the house. "Good-by!" he said.

Simmen looked for some time at the door through which the smith had passed. Only now did he become fully aware, how bitter the hour must have been for the smith. He could still see him standing there, dragging out one sentence after another, as if he were doing some fearfully heavy piece of work, then stopping again and feeling, as it were, for the words which he could not find. At last he wrenched his thoughts away from the image of Fausch and began to consider the circumstances that had brought him here. He was not at all pleased to have Fausch leave the smithy again, for he had had no other such worker there, but yet he agreed with him as long as he and the boy were together, their common story would never be buried in oblivion. So the smith must go, certainly he must go. If the boy—if Franz alone was there—Simmen brought his fist down on the table half angrily, half laughing to himself—it wasn't really so wholly impossible, that they should make a match of it, the boy and Vincenza! The host thought how nicely Franz had served in the guests' room, and what a favorite he had been with the travelers, and he, Simmen, was not a narrow minded man: A serious and hardworking man stood higher in his esteem than a rich or well born man of whose character one could not feel so sure. So it did not seem so impossible to him, about Vincenza and the boy. But—Simmen hit the table another blow as if he were impatient—all the same the affair was not quite to his taste.

Chapter X

When Hallheimer, the trader, came back from Italy, he heard something on the mountain which astonished him; he was not to sell the smithy at Waltheim, for Stephen Fausch was going back to his old place within a short time.

The trader asked what had happened.

He got no answer. The smith only said, rudely: "It's none of your business what I do." So Fausch gave the trader a new nut to crack, though he had long puzzled over the smith's behavior and character. But Simmen, the landlord, of whom he also asked the cause of Fausch's departure, was equally evasive.

Meanwhile Stephen Fausch passed the days exactly as he had always done; now and then he nailed up a box of his possessions and gradually got his goods once more ready for moving. Cain and Katharine tiptoed around him with a sort of timidity. There was something about Fausch that they did not rightly understand, and that made them both involuntarily feel small and humble. Yet his manner had not altered in any way; he was sparing of his words as always, and the little that he said had a surly sound. He was just the same on the morning when he called Cain into the workshop, and told him that he, himself, was going back to Waltheim. Cain had listened eagerly, had then remonstrated, and when his father gave him a harsh answer, he had at last kept silence, to think things over. And now, days afterward, he was still thinking about it all. First he would feel joyful, and then doubtful. That he, Cain, was to stay at the hospice made him joyful, and yet he felt doubtful, because he could not understand his father's sudden decision to leave the place. But one thing was clear to him: If he were freed from his father's presence, the talk about the disgraceful name his father had given him would sooner die out, even if only gradually. He, Cain, if he were alone, would have the courage to stay there, and bear it, if a couple of servants, men or maids, should ridicule him for a time, until—they got tired of it. But his father? What was coming over the strange man? Was it not almost certain that he was making a sacrifice for him, for Cain, by going away? Did he repent of the injury he had formerly clone him? And was he—it often seemed so in little things—was his father somewhat fond of him, of Cain?

Oskar Frenzel

The young man was able to think all this over quietly. Thus far, he had felt neither love nor dislike for Fausch. In all his life, his father had done too little for him to awaken the boy's love, and yet too much to permit of his hatred. But the more he now thought and speculated about Fausch, the clearer it became to him, that in the smith's deeper self, there was something which, until now, he had neither known nor understood, something which gave the boy food for thought, and made him feel a sort of awe, as if Stephen were suddenly very far above him.

Meanwhile the time passed by. The day came when Fausch's goods and chattels were all packed. The same wagon stood again before the door that had brought the goods up to the smithy months before. It was now loaded, and Katharine, a feeble old woman, took her place on a chest as before. But today she could not keep her eyes dry, for Cain was staying behind, her boy on whom she had leaned for many years with a feeling of comfort.

Cain had already been living at the tavern for some days, and was sharing a room with a young working man, and had nothing in the world to complain of. The number of guests had increased again, there was plenty of work, and Cain and Vincenza hurried about as of old in the room where the higher class of guests were entertained. Both did their work even more quickly and easily than before, for an inner joy shone in their faces and made their fingers fly. The guests watched them with pleasure. If the landlord's wife looked in, her expression was serious and austere as always, but she saw nothing in Cain to find fault with, and if Simmen himself looked into the room on the right, he would nod to himself and then go out again: the smith's boy was not so bad to have about, he was a real help in the house!—

Stephen Fausch's horses and wagon started, and the teamsters ran alongside. Then Cain came out of the tavern with his father, who had been to say good-by. Simmen and a few others came out, to see them off.

"I will go with you as far as the path to the Schwarzsee," said Cain to Fausch, then hurried after the wagon, swung himself up and sat down by Katharine. No pair could be more unlike: he was like a slim, flexible young tree, she like an old, old crumbling branch. Stephen Fausch noticed nobody. In his dark, heavy clothes, with his blacksmith's cap on his head, he walked behind the wagon with lowered head, and fell into a long, regular step, that suited the rhythm of the rumbling wheels. He scarcely seemed to concern himself even about Cain.

The weather was about to change. The clouds were chasing each other across the heavens and slowly weaving themselves into a silver gray shroud. But the sun behind them was still so strong, that a dazzling light fell upon the landscape. The gray road lay clearly defined with the lakes on both sides and the dark rocky peaks on the north, among which it vanished. Along the pale colored road, in the dazzling light went the heavy wagon, the smith marching stolidly behind it.

He now fell back a few steps.

As he did so Katharine laid her trembling hand on Cain's. "I must tell you," she began mysteriously, and looking back at Fausch, as if he might hear her.

"Yes?" asked Cain.

"You may believe me, that it is half killing him," said she, motioning toward Fausch, "that he cannot have you with him any more."

"Yes—I—" said Cain, and could say no more. He looked back at his father: the feeling grew upon him, that the smith was doing a great thing for him.

"You may believe me," whispered Katharine. Then they both kept silence, and involuntarily looked uneasily at the smith who was tramping along behind them.

The lakes were now left behind, and the rocks were nearer. Far behind from the hospice some one came running swiftly. It seemed to Cain that he recognized Vincenza; but she turned off from the road into some hilly meadow land and disappeared. So he was not sure whether he had seen correctly. He and Katharine now began to talk of things that had to do with their approaching separation. The old woman was overcome by grief, and her tears flowed freely down the furrows on her wrinkled cheeks. Cain tried his best to comfort her, and his sympathy and affection moved him so, that he did not notice when they passed the Schwarzsee and the road began to wind down toward the valley. When he again took note of his surroundings, they had gone quite a distance downward, and he called out quickly to the teamsters to stop and let him get off. At the same time he looked about for Fausch, who was nowhere to be seen.

"My father has not come with us," said he to Katharine. "You might wait for him here," he added, and then said: "I must go now. I shall meet my father on the road." Then he shook hands with the old woman.

"We shall never see each other any more," she lamented.

"Take care of yourself," said he. "You will be glad to be back in the old place again down below!"

Then he jumped down. He hurried on up the hill and did not look back again at the wagon, which stood in the road. A restlessness drove him involuntarily onward. It seemed strange that his father did not come.

As he approached the entrance to the pass, he saw the smith standing by the roadside. He was leaning against a rock, from which there was a wide view over the high plateau. The glaring light, that the white sky cast over the earth, had grown yet more dazzling. The whole valley floor seemed to be brought quite close to the eyes. The dark lakes glistened; the road lay between them, a blinding stripe of white. The mountains stood like a dark wall beneath the glistening sky, showing every gap and fissure in the rocks, which were like scars on their weatherbeaten forms.

As Cain came forward, Fausch turned toward him. "Are they waiting down there?" he asked.

Just then some one came out from between the rocks, by which he had been standing. It was Vincenza. She behaved as if her coming was perfectly natural, but her face was flushed. "I didn't have a chance to bid you good-by, Smith," said she.

He took her hand in his, and as Cain came forward just then, he took the boy's right hand too, and laid it beside Vincenza's. The two hands had plenty of room in one of his. The smith laughed to see them there. But it was such a strange, uncanny laugh, that it entirely changed the expression of his face. It was neither merry nor scornful. Perhaps all the kindliness that Stephen Fausch had to give lay in that one laugh. His solitary eye looked larger and more quiet than usual. And as his gaze rested thus on them both at once, they felt as if he were trying to say: "So—you—you belong together, you two!" And then, with his free hand he stroked their two hands a moment, and that was perhaps, together with the laugh, the first outward sign of love that Stephen Fausch had shown to anybody, since Maria's death. It was a poor, thirsty, dried-up love, and far from tender; but as his hand touched Cain's, something happened that no one saw; the smith's thick lips trembled for a brief moment, in the midst of his black, woolly beard. It seemed improbable and yet—perhaps Fausch had stifled a sigh. Then he looked away from the two young people, and as he turned about, his eye wandered once more slowly, and as if reluctant to lose the sight, over the Alpine meadows, to the hospice, and over the dark and rugged mountains and over the dazzling heavens above.

"Well, good-by!" said Fausch to Cain and the girl, letting their hands go. And he walked heavily away, with head bowed down, showing in his bearing the old churlishness. He did not look back again.

Cain and Vincenza looked after him for a long time. They could see him plainly. If he sometimes disappeared around a bend of the road, he would reappear far below, and they would soon see him again, walking behind the wagon, dark and heavy and big.

Cain was very still. He had taken off his hat and held it in both hands. He did not really know why he did so. He looked after his father in amazement, and it was on his account that he had involuntarily taken off his hat.

Vincenza now turned to him. She was breathing fast, as if she were only now beginning to recover from her quick run. "Do you know why I ran after you, Franz?" she asked. Her eyes were shining.

Cain shook his head.

"It came over me suddenly that your father might take you with him."

The fear that had driven her to follow him, still showed in her words and in her eyes. Cain laid his hand thankfully on hers; they were still watching the little group that was moving downward to the valley.

"He is a strange man, your—the smith," whispered Vincenza at last. "I was always half afraid of him."

Cain suddenly seemed to awaken from deep thought. He turned, took the girl's hand, and started to walk back toward the hospice with her. As they walked, he gazed into the distance with wide open eyes. He was still carrying his hat in his hand. Suddenly he stood still. "It seems to me," said he, with a dreamy look, "that we have all misunderstood him—my father."

Vincenza dared not reply, his manner was so unusual. He walked silently along beside her, and that evening, and many times afterward, his thoughts were more with Stephen, who was gone and never came back, than with Vincenza, on whom his heart was set, and from whom he soon learned that Simmen would not refuse her to him.



JAKOB SCHAFFNER

* * * * * *

THE IRON IDOL

TRANSLATED BY AMELIA VON ENDE

In one of our great industrial centres lived a childless couple, a workingman and his wife, by the name of Hoeflinger. They had been married ten years and had become resigned and accustomed to their solitude. The husband turned the sentiment, which no offspring of his could claim, toward the hopes and the aims of his class. He was known as a well-read, serious and reliable man, whose political activity was founded upon practical reality rather than theory and who was hostile to the exploitation of principles popular with the ordinary run of Socialist party leaders, but not always truly beneficial to the proletariat. Hence he was held in higher esteem by the trades union than by the party. He usually had a young man in his home who not only enjoyed room and board at moderate price, but, if he had a good head, was trained by Hoeflinger in class-consciousness and a practical knowledge of the tactics of life. Thus Hoeflinger had no difficulty in filling the vacancy whenever his boarder drifted away.

As he showed a fatherly solicitude toward these youths, so his wife spent upon them her unused motherly gift and feeling. She had never buried any of the ardent desires of her womanhood; she had never known sickness. In spite of the shadow of her childlessness she went on living her full, significant woman's life, and constantly defied the gnawing thoughts of what might have been by a cheerful acceptance of what life offered her. She was the daughter of a tailor, a dark blond of trustworthy aspect, quietly inclined toward play and fancy, but contented to express it before the men of her household only as a half humorous, half melancholy mood. Her father had called her Marie, but one of his customers, a lieutenant-general, had named her Spiele. She on her part called her husband, whose real name was Ferdinand, "the long one," not so much for his bodily length, as for the extent of his activities, calculations, schemes and unionist controversies, which sometimes made her lose her breath and her judgment.

At this time Hoeflinger was occupied with the organization of a laborers' consumers' league. This work frequently called him away and kept them apart, and though he always returned to her, still she resented his having been separated from her for a time. In the factory, too, Hoeflinger occupied a special and independent position: he served the iron saw, a giant of double a man's height. This had impaired his hearing; figuratively speaking, you had to use Gothic type in order to make him understand. On the other hand, this deficiency favored his tendency to accept the phenomena of life summarily and to survey things from the organizer's standpoint.

To this couple came a young laborer, Victor Pratteler, who had but recently stepped out of the narrow, securely guarded realm of hand labor into the open and surging world of the iron proletariat. He completely lacked that personal imagination and that subjective instinct toward his material which make the very soul of the locksmith and the blacksmith, so that their grasp becomes the servant of a sixth sense, the sense of form. Pratteler's hand had not groped its way toward this higher sense, so he employed it where the course of work goes on abstractly without a will of its own and a predestined process is watched by a soulless eye and served by a passionless grip. On the other hand, there survived in Pratteler something of the whimsical mood of that vanishing social type, the journeyman. He had highfaluting ideas and pompous movements, and his speech was bloated with superfluous pathos and personal conceit. His relation to life was a many-linked chain of demands. Neighbors, both men and women, he looked upon from the viewpoint of a young steer; the former were either obstacles or they were bridges and steps leading to the pretty girls, women and other treasures that he would have liked to own all for himself. Thus by a single formula he interpreted the whole world. His manner was violent, combative and absolutely inconsiderate without an inkling of deeper relations. He was a native of Switzerland.

Like a motley calf driven by a storm he stumbled one evening into the garden of the Hoeflingers. He arrived at the fence on a Wanderer wheel, rather new in its coat of white paint, sharply applied the brake, jumped down before it had worked, threw the wheel with a careless movement against the paling and approached before Spiele's wondering eyes with big important stride. It was a week-day, but he wore his good blue suit. Rakishly perched on his black hair was a sporting-cap with green and brown pattern. Under his Adam's apple, like a burning heart that had been pushed up, was a blood-red necktie, the ends of which flared out from under his turned-back white collar. He had strapped his trousers, so they bulged outward, but Spiele immediately noticed that he had crooked legs and wore tan sandals over gray hose. Out of the collar rose a neck, long, thin and bare as a vulture's, and crowned by a round black wrangler's head of medium size.

In an offhand manner and with slight embarrassment he touched his cap and said that he was Victor Pratteler. When Spiele did not immediately reply, he asked with some discomfort, whether he was at the Hoeflingers', and frowned. With laughing eyes Spiele answered that he was right and told him to sit down on the garden bench and wait until Hoeflinger came home. Then she continued to sprinkle the young lettuce plants which she was growing in narrow beds; when she had finished them, she turned her attention to the peas. She did not look at the young workingman again; she had already a colored photograph of him in her head which she could bring to life whenever she wished. When she turned the corner of the cottage with her sprinkler, she began to hum. The gay lad gave her cause for amusement and put her in a merry mood. She read in his frown that attitude of unreasoning resignation without which a waiting heart cannot maintain its elasticity for any length of time.

When the day's work was over, Hoeflinger arrived on his wheel and took charge of the new guest. He showed him the shed which already housed Spiele's bicycle and which by a clever manipulation would hold all three. At supper it appeared that Pratteler, who was to begin work in the factory the next morning, did not expect his trunk until tomorrow or the day after. So Spiele had to fetch a pair of old trousers and a coat and working-shirt of "the long one," which she did with ever-laughing eyes. In order to avoid all misunderstandings, Pratteler at once declared that he hated all emperors and kings, because they were parasites who sucked dry the German people and were responsible for its poverty and stupidity. They should be smoked out in order to make way for the state of the future, which would establish conditions more worthy of human society. If things had gone right, those conditions might already exist, for after all labor is in the majority; but the leaders and representatives put the workingmen's money into their pockets and cared not for the shrunken stomachs when they were sitting among the fat ones. Reichstag was nothing but a club of heavy-weights. All were eager to have the ministers tickle them under the arms; that meant some service to be rendered, and this again brought marks of honor and perhaps a decoration. Everything was humbug. Workingmen should help themselves and throw out all that reactionary mob, army, clergy and aristocracy; otherwise there could be no change for the better.

Spiele looked frequently at the long one to watch his expression while the savage Swiss was emptying before him his social carry-all. Hoeflinger said so little that the young man suspected him of being at heart a bourgeois, of having fallen away from the labor cause after he had earned his house and garden. Hoeflinger noticed that his wife was secretly laughing, and, as he knew that she was sometimes opposed to his well-planned tactics, he let her enjoy the diversion. The more firmly a man is standing on his feet, the more indifferently will he look at the antics of others. Besides, he knew exactly who had furnished her the premises upon which she was now basing her amused opposition to him.

Early in the morning the two workingmen rode together to the iron-works spreading out at the opening of a ravine about an hour from Hoeflinger's house. Pratteler wore "the long one's" trousers and coat. He had to turn back the sleeves in order to use his hands and the trouser-legs rested in many folds upon his open sandals. Under the blue shirt collar he had again his red tie, so people might see at once what he stood for. He pedaled with full force and frequently had to slacken his speed in order to have Hoeflinger, who did not seem to be in a hurry, catch up with him. Whenever he saw people on the road he tooted violently, while Hoeflinger tinkled his little bell. When workingmen greeted Hoeflinger, Pratteler responded with sombre mien, as if he were going to a battle. When they made a joke, his brow contracted in a frown. What was there to jest and laugh at, where they should rise in revolt against reaction? Everywhere he saw too much peaceful comfort. He was determined to infuse a new spirit into the life in this valley. After the last turn in the road the factory buildings came in sight. Pratteler saw a whole crowd of flues and chimneys in full activity. Behind the iron-works were the woods, almost entirely firs, with only a few beeches between. The water power of the brook which came tumbling out of the forest was used partly for the lighting plant, partly for the works themselves. When Hoeflinger and his new boarder and fellow-workman rode into the factory courts, they joined a host of other cyclists, and Pratteler's red necktie stood out significantly. Somebody asked Hoeflinger whether he had caught Garibaldi, and all who heard the remark began to laugh, while Pratteler frowned in silence.

When the siren gave the signal to begin work, Hoeflinger saw that the newcomer made a good start; and the experience he had had with zealous beginners gave him reason to anticipate that the Swiss youth would become a good workman. So his relation to Pratteler assumed a pleasant form. Like a priest Hoeflinger served the wheezing and squealing idol which daily swung its high flaming face about itself. Pratteler only picked its teeth and wiped its mouth. His task was not without danger; of three machinists that did the work, one was sure sometime to be carried from his place with maimed limbs or dead. The idol had neither brain nor eyes, and he who served it had to be doubly on his guard. Loaded carts came rolling along tracks and stopped automatically. Pratteler manipulated the crane which seized the iron bars and laid them at the feet of the idol. Then a claw would project itself and draw the bar toward the revolving teeth. The bar cried out like a beast. Behind the disk a whirlpool of fire was set free. The idol screamed and screeched. At the end it whistled, and when it was done, it rang a bell. Then the fragments that had dropped behind were automatically removed and the claw reached out for its next work. Around the idol iron stairs led up and ended in a circular gallery.

When Pratteler stepped up to the monster he scanned it with a quick and hostile glance. For a moment he stopped short and felt disinclined to grapple with it. Then he approached with determination, gritting his teeth as if it were an enemy. After an hour he was familiar with all its secrets. He learned that it was a rather simple idol. Yet its gigantic proportions again and again impressed him, and he could not understand how Hoeflinger treated it so familiarly and had never mentioned it to him the day before. Nor had he said anything about the masses of workingmen who were here working for the profit of others and among belt-gearings and cables and rows of steel beasts of all sizes and forms were day and night risking their lives. Those workingmen, too, moved about in a self-contained and indifferent manner. They crouched silently behind their machines, carried burdens, spat at intervals, and did not seem to mind that the foremen watched them and the engineers ordered them about. Pratteler hated all foremen, feared the machines with a dangerous destructive fear, and thought the engineers tyrants like Gessler, every man of them deserving to be the aim of a new Tell. They played at being masters, scorned the proletariat, and worked for the profit of the capitalists who paid them.

At noon other masses appeared in the factory courts: the wives and children of the laborers brought the lunch. They waited at the places assigned them until the siren blew. Then the workingmen rapidly left the shops and crowded toward their kin, unless they had brought their food in the well-known blue dinner-pails that were waiting for them on the stoves in the heating-rooms. Such herd-like movements annoyed Pratteler's individual and democratic sense and offended his good old journeyman traditions. Unwillingly he followed Hoeflinger into the third factory court where Spiele stood beside her wheel. Hoeflinger had invented a special arrangement for fastening the lunch-basket to the wheel. Thus he could enjoy a freshly cooked meal while the others had to be satisfied with the taste of warmed-up food, and he also had the satisfaction of spending a minimum of time and strength upon what was a necessity. Only in bad weather did the two ride home; but that made the long one lose his noon-hour nap which he never failed to take after lunch in one of the factory sheds.

Pratteler remained in the court, which he surveyed discontentedly, as the women and children slowly retired. Spiele, the tailor's daughter, suspected with her sensitive instinct that he was eager to express some opinion; so she busied herself with her wheel. When she thought it took him too long to say something, she turned around to bid him good-by. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said he would not stay on this job. He had expected to find zealous proletaires who hated capital and fought for freedom, and he had found that everything was very well arranged and trained to carry out the designs of capital. Everything was after all a humbug. Whenever he was dissatisfied, he made a wry mouth, which amused Spiele. But she consoled him. What he had seen that morning was only work-hours on a week-day. After all one had to live, and a small tree was better than none at all for purposes of shade. He should inform himself about the organization; workingmen were wont to awake at nights like bats. As far as she knew, plenty of mosquitoes were swarming about at times. Then she nodded pleasantly, mounted her wheel and rode off.

Victor looked after her in surprise. He noticed her low black shoe and the slender instep showing from beneath the skirt as she worked the pedal. She wore thin black stockings, which in some way suddenly impressed the Swiss youth. Her bare blond head shone brightly as it disappeared through the gate into the outer court. He remembered that she had no children; that, too, struck him and made him think. Why had she no children? So that was humbug, too, like everything else. All life was humbug. The long one was also a humbug. He owed his wife children, and he only nursed himself; even now he was lying asleep in the shed. Victor despised him; he did not deserve such a woman; she was far too good for this wretched toil. That she should come every day on her wheel to bring the lunch and stand at the door in the crowd was unendurable to him. Good heavens! There was nothing for it but to kill all that were responsible for this state of things, beginning from above with the thrones and the gilded armchairs, until the people should come into their own. But the wife of Hoeflinger had impressed him today. She seemed to make fun of this life; that made him think. He concluded that this childless wife deserved more intimate study. Everything else could go to hell. When the siren called him back to the idol, he held his head more haughtily than ever before.

One day he remembered Spiele's hint to inquire about the organization. Hoeflinger, who had considered it premature to speak of it or take him there, glanced at him in surprise and silently turned back to the idol. But in the next working pause he told Pratteler that he could go with him to a meeting that night, if he cared. Victor went along. They entered a large hall, the walls of which were hung with all sorts of pictures, trophies and wreaths. It was the home of two singing societies, a brass band and a dramatic club, each having reserved one wall for its photographs and testimonials. Now workingmen were sitting around the same tables. Under the shining loving cups, wreaths, bows and flags their colorless gray or brown clothes reflected the want and stress of their existence like a spiritless sea. Victor's eye took in at once the contrast between the childish trash of the privileged class that covered the walls and the seriously contained, yet deeply gnawing consciousness of belonging to the disowned that slumbered in the men who now sat in the bourgeois atmosphere of the hall.

Hoeflinger took his place at the table of the executive committee. Pratteler was surprised to learn that the spirit of revolt had been haunting the iron-works for some months past. A big strike was being planned in order to rebel against decades of oppression and prepare the foundations for a better future. Pratteler was confused. He could not understand why he had not met this spirit in any of his noon hour ramblings. He could not conceive that everybody should then take a nap, return to his machine when the siren blew, draw himself in when the idol wheezed or one of its servants passed. An elderly workingman got up on a chair and reported how far preparations had gone and how large the strike fund had grown; he also mentioned what organizations had declared their solidarity and their readiness to give aid.

Victor was interested in everything that referred to the strike, but could not approve the circuitous preparations and all the secret machinations with which the attack upon the monster was planned, instead of seizing it simply by the horns, as he thought they had the power to do. When the old man stepped down and some others had spoken, he could hardly restrain himself. He felt too closely hedged in in this gingerly movement of the mass. He swallowed nervously and clutched and tugged at his collar; he gulped down one glass of beer after another to quiet himself. In his mind he saw a vision of violent revolt, the masses furiously attacking the idol with axes and clubs, and hacking it to pieces. The bourgeois state was just such an idol. Hoeflinger got up on a chair and asked all those who had not yet joined the organization, to sign their names. He reminded them of the powers that work up singly from the depths and are back of every uprising of mankind: discipline, devotion and perseverance. He informed the meeting that a food-centre had been established at which a striker's wife could for a minimum price get her supply of coal, bread and potatoes; out of this centre was to grow the workingmen's consumers' league. Finally he warned the men earnestly against damage to the company's property, smashing of windows and breaking of machines. Help should come in a positive and constructive manner, and the destructive tactics of passive resistance and of sabotage should be discarded as being unworthy of a German workingman. One should not forget that besides a strong body one had to transmit to one's children class honor and trade character.

These words from the lips of the childless man stung Victor into opposition. He gasped for air and struck the table with his fist. Then he hissed like a rocket; he, too, could talk as well as the long one. Before anybody had noticed him, he was standing on his chair, challenging attention by an imperious movement of his fist, and swallowed once more. "Attention, Garibaldi wants to speak!" called a workingman that knew him. All looked astonished at the stranger. Many laughed at his agitation. His necktie glowed lurid like a midsummer eve bonfire against the pictures and trophies on the walls.

"Workingmen, proletaires!" he began. "I am of another opinion. Why? Because capitalists are vampires and scoundrels. Why should so many precautions be taken? Up and on, as the old Swiss used to do—that is what I say. If our fathers in Switzerland had waited until a consumers' league had been established and the men of Zurich or Basel sent money, all the cats would still be sitting on their tails and we should be paying our debts with Austrian coin. By God! They rose with clubs and ploughshares, and when the others sent a new army, they attacked it again and again, until there was none left. We must smash all the iron and other idols and serve their servant with the arrows of Tell. And when new ones are erected, we must hack those too to bits. The whole harvest must be ours. We don't want to spill our blood for the wives and the children of others. We must plague capitalism until it gets tired and surrenders. That is the meaning and purpose of capitalism: to capitulate. Everything else is good for people who have no children and no future to think of. They imagine one sort of class honor and another sort of trade character, which at the end amounts to as little as one had before. Class rule and trade fortune must come first; then character will follow. When Switzerland got to that point, Swiss character developed. But one must have courage, by Jove! Well, I have had my say!"

He nodded at the assembly with an important and excited air, hesitated a moment, and then got down from his chair. When he was no longer in sight, there was a moment of silence. Then a murmur of amusement and surprise arose and ended in good-natured laughter. But that, too, did not last long. The old workingman who had opened the meeting got up once more and all heads turned to him. So they passed over the rugged cliffs of Victor's address to the order of the day and listened to the final words of the old leader.

Yet they had taken the measure of the long-necked Swiss fighter just as Spiele had done. By this debut he became a well-known figure and his publicity began, without affecting or modifying his personality. The surname Garibaldi was soon generally accepted, but with its irony mingled something like an affectionate respect and beyond that something of that motherly expectation which is not spoken of: he was considered the promising child of the family. Victor on his part felt uneasy at this kindly and somewhat sarcastic indulgence which the submissive mass showed him from that day on. The laughter had struck him like a thunderbolt. Yet he felt vaguely that by participating in the movement he had linked his fate and established his kinship with that mass. Instead of celebrating the occasion by a feast, it began without further ceremony to correct and to train him, and this feature of their mutual relation was one he disliked. It should have been reversed: the mass should have been corrected and trained. It had no backbone and no faith in its own fist. It wanted to do everything by organization and pleading for help from Tom, Dick and Harry. It had no real men at the head. The committee was a calculating and deliberating bunch of old maids, and the organization was a girls' school led by their apron strings. He thought with indignation of those conditions, worked himself into a rage when he remembered that those immature fellows had laughed at him, and turned his attention to the tailor's daughter.

Hoeflinger did not allude with a single word to Victor's maiden speech. He did not even seem to have felt the pointed hint about childless people, or he bore him no grudge. That made Pratteler more angry with him. That long fellow had no temperament; that is why the couple had no children. Victor sulkily took up Spiele's sprinkler and deluged her lettuce plants until they were almost drowned. He scratched the weeds from the paths, raked them up and grumpily fed them to the rabbit. He thought by himself that Hoeflinger could well afford to talk: he would not be thrown out of his home when he went on strike, because he was a house-owner. Then he spat furiously. After all the long one had worked hard and saved in order to get where he was. And if he had drawn his purse-strings tight, when the organization was in need, he would not have been held in such esteem. So much he had to admit: that Hoeflinger was devoted to the cause. But he had a good job; so what credit was there in it?

Victor cleaned Spiele's wheel. He took it apart, washed everything in kerosene, oiled all the parts and set it up again. There was a human being for whom it was worth while to do something. He proposed that she should have the handle-bar lowered; he himself almost touched the road with his nose when he was on his wheel, and brushed the branches with his back: that he considered the sporting way to ride. When she refused and laughed, he laughed with her, and their merriment and friendliness was doubled. But she ought to have an auto-horn, he said; that would make the children heed her more than the thin little bell. When she refused that, too, he suggested that she should discard the mud-brake to make the wheel run more lightly. He had removed his; and when he returned in rainy weather he bore on his back an armor of dirt thrown up by the machine. When all the spinach was eaten, he dug over the bed and wanted to help Spiele plant cabbage. But when he came home that evening, she had done it herself. He sulked, she laughed, and finally he joined in her laugh.

Spiele visibly brightened. She grew more lively and talkative. It struck him, how often and how heartily she laughed of late. Hoeflinger, too, noticed it and liked to hear it, without relaxing his stiff back and sharing in the merriment. His head was full of a hundred schemes and a thousand cares concerning the strike and the future of other people's children; in that unequal triangle he was the remotest angle. At least so it seemed in day-time and while Victor was present. Pratteler would have liked to know how the couple looked at each other and what they talked about when they were alone; he could not imagine it. But he never noticed any disagreement or coolness. Spiele teased her husband with all sorts of pointed allusions, as behooved a tailor's daughter, to his difficult social responsibilities; but he never took it ill. Even when she trespassed beyond the permissible, he preserved his equanimity and only allowed an ironical smile to play about his lips. Then she would grow angry, call him wooden, and ask Victor to play cards with her. But the long diplomat held his own so cleverly that she could not keep away from him for any length of time. At the second or third game she would laugh, or in dealing throw eight cards at him, and he would placidly take them up, even if he had been reading a book. Victor never knew the moods of the pretty woman to produce even a shadow of annoyance or to spoil an evening.

On fine Sundays they went out on their wheels into the country. The two men had Spiele between them. In dodging Hoeflinger rode ahead and Pratteler remained behind. Sometimes they had to keep long in that order, because there were many pedestrians on the road. Then Hoeflinger's old and well-worn machine, which did not run freely, clattered ahead, and the little round bell strapped to the middle bar tinkled incessantly. On account of his long legs Hoeflinger sat rather high; it was quite a distance from his saddle to the button on his cap. Spiele sat two heads lower. Her legs were not long; she reached up only to her husband's shoulders. Victor was the last, bent double over his wheel as though he had cramps. From the front bar extended two bent cowhorns which he held at their very ends, so that he seemed to fly across the road with arms outstretched. But now and then his animated glance would take in Spiele's trim figure and sometimes he remained behind in order to take a good start and to rush on like an express train. He especially admired Spiele's small feet which so strongly and cleverly worked the pedals and showed a commendable perseverance when it was needed. Otherwise she preferred a leisurely comfort in her movements. But when she rode along the street behind her long husband and before her gay little admirer, her head was humming with all sorts of notions and she made up her mind to torment Hoeflinger a bit in order to get him closer to her.

She began by suggesting that he should add a horn to his wheel, since the little cat-bell was insufficient for the road. She referred to Victor, commending the loud blast which made all children run to safety. She also called his attention to the safety of those behind him and showed her concern about her own; so he gave in and bought a little horn. Then she complained that his back shut out the view from her because he was perched so high and advised him to lower his handle-bar. He suggested riding behind, but that she would not permit: Victor would speed too much and with him she rode more safely. So Hoeflinger agreed to lower his handle-bar. But now she complained that she could not bear to see his bent back and peevishly asked him to raise it again. With such a longlegs one could do nothing; if he had a well-proportioned figure like Victor, it would be easier to get along with him. Pratteler had substituted sole-leather for the worn-out rubber on Hoeflinger's pedals, because it would last longer. Now it happened that he slipped on the hard and smooth surface. Then Spiele asked him to wear soft sandals like Victor, but he preferred his stiff boots. However, he procured hooks which kept the foot in place and allowed him to enjoy the advantage of the leather surface. Now she was worried lest the hooks should prove a dangerous obstacle in jumping off the wheel. She consulted Victor; but he only said, it depended.

One Sunday, however, on their way home, they met a drunken farm-hand, also on a wheel. Hoeflinger saw from a distance that the man took up the whole width of the road and could not control his machine. He gave a warning blast of his horn. Spiele tinkled merrily. Victor also tooted a warning. All three kept to the right. For a moment it seemed as if an accident could be avoided. But suddenly, as though he had been struck a blow from the back, the brute swerved to the other side of the road. He could not help himself and had to ride straight into Hoeflinger's wheel: it was his fate. Hoeflinger wanted to jump quickly, but could not get out of the hooks as rapidly as he would, and lost control of his wheel before the other reached him. Spiele was frightened and rode between him and the rustic; her heart urged her to get near her husband. It was the worst move she could make; she prevented him from dodging in time. The impact was terrible. With bent head and shoulders drawn in, the farm-hand had shot at Hoeflinger's wheel as if lost in deep thought. The collision threw him over his own bar and the fore-wheel of Hoeflinger against the curb, where he lay like a sack. Hoeflinger bent aside toward Spiele's wheel. The woman, the man, their wheels and that of the farm-hand, the bar of which had caught in Hoeflinger's spokes, tumbled clattering and crashing into the ditch. Hoeflinger had stretched out his hand and balanced himself, breaking the force of the impact. Spiele was buried under her wheel, but her husband's weight did not fall on her.

There was a moment of suspense, until Pratteler appeared to render assistance. With chalky pallor he bent over the victims of the mishap and began to work like a fireman. First he grabbed the machine of the farm-hand, disentangled it and flung it furiously out upon the road with a clatter which its owner fortunately did not hear. Then he freed Hoeflinger from his own wheel, which was still between his knees, and helped him to his feet. Finally he reached Spiele; she was a bit pale, but unhurt. When he saw her on her feet once more, he began to upbraid Hoeflinger. He seemed beside himself and positively dangerous. He showed his teeth, looked Hoeflinger up and down and rattled away about crazy hooks, danger to life, and stupidity. Hoeflinger looked at him in amazement and was getting ready to keep him at arm's length. Victor had been so much praised by the tailor's daughter that his conceit had grown; he was firmly convinced that he was the latest guest, not only in her house, but also in her heart. Undisciplined as his mentality was, he forgot all standards and limitations of the world and wanted only to blame Hoeflinger for the great fright they had experienced. At heart this beastliness was only a means of relaxing the surplus tension of his nature; but it showed nevertheless what savage beasts were haunting the queer faithful soul of the Swiss. At last a stray glance of his eyes caught the strange expression which Spiele's face had assumed at his attack, and he suddenly lapsed into silence, as if he had been hit on the mouth.

Spiele asked Hoeflinger with subdued voice whether he had been hurt and inquired about the wheels, and he bent over them. Spiele's wheel was undamaged. His own well-worn machine had more than stood the test; he had only to adjust the bar and they could go on; the bump which the frame had received was only a new mark of honor. Spiele thanked Victor for his assistance. Now she appeared again in such a halo of prudence and womanly kindness, that he would have liked to tear his heart in two and place one-half in her hands and throw the other at Hoeflinger's feet. At the sympathetic glance of her brown eyes tears came into his own. He turned about sharply and saw the farm-hand struggle up crab-fashion from the grass. He gave the wheel another kick and got on his Wanderer. The couple also mounted their wheels. For a time they rode straggling across the whole width of the road facing the setting sun. Then village strollers came with the evening coolness, and they resumed their customary order.

The incident did not act on Pratteler's passion either as brake or as sedative. In his queer head it tended to justify his claims and hopes and to give him the right to support them. Something had appeared which had to be recognized and to run its course. Victor expected Hoeflinger to take cognizance of it; when nothing of the kind was forthcoming, he picked up that half of his heart which he had thrown at Hoeflinger's feet and with the other half placed it in the hands of Spiele. Now she owned his whole heart and openly too—by Jove! The long one knew it, and she knew it, and both knew that he knew it. That was a delightful chain of ready facts; and he saw the pretty tailor's daughter dreamily laughing and expectantly groping toward them with the free hand which did not bear his heart. One day she was bound to reach him; no power could help her. Then it would be for Hoeflinger to see how he would resign himself to his loss.

From that day Victor no longer restrained himself. Spiele, too, it seemed to him, was going more and more out of herself in her husband's presence. She seemed to enjoy their leavetaking. She began to sing all sorts of taunting little tunes that she remembered from her girlhood, innocent jolly songs with which the daughters of the middle class while away their time and keep awake their minds in their long wait for a husband. Sometimes she was simply ravishing. Once she danced before the men. They had read in the papers about Salome. She sat still a while and smiled, and Victor knew that she was scheming something. Finally she said: "We can dance too," and rose from her seat. She picked up her skirt with two fingers of each hand and began to take some steps. She swayed right and left. She bent back and forth. She laughed with her fresh lips. When she slightly contracted her lids and sent her glance like a song along the walls which seemed transformed, or when she fixed her gaze upon the light of the hanging lamp which made her eyes open like yellow daisies in a star-like halo, Victor said to himself that no man could tell whither she was looking. But he was sure that all this was done for him and in the name of the silent love they bore each other. Nor did it strike him as strange that she never left her corner seat on those evenings when her husband attended the frequent meetings of the committee and left her alone with Victor. She then quietly busied herself with her sewing or mended stockings and seemed absorbed and absent-minded. Victor felt depressed and suspected that his presence disturbed and perhaps irritated her, but they would have to get used to it. When he could stand the strain no longer, he would drag forth his wheel, light the big lantern and ride out into the night. But his imagination would conjure up before his inner vision a glowing picture of what she was doing and how she spent the evening until night came. Sometimes he experienced a disappointment; for when he returned she was sitting at the table with Hoeflinger, perhaps laughing. That left a sting in his heart and would not let him sleep.

Of the strike he learned nothing more. He presumed that the big scheme was running its course, and his sharpened eye noticed in the noon hour the spirit that walked about among the steel monsters. But though he had joined the organization and had made the personal acquaintance of some unionists and social democrats the secret was so well kept by the executive committee that no knowledge which was not voluntarily communicated, reached the main body. Least known to him was the day and hour of the strike. The longer ignorance lasted, the higher rose expectation and the larger proportions did the act of deliverance assume which was dawning on the horizon of the near future. On the other hand, this uncertainty of the inevitable contributed toward increasing and deepening the feeling of solidarity. The herd strengthened the individual's heartbeat, and the individual unconsciously sought the pulse of the mass in order to raise its own rhythm. Even the most rebellious spirits suddenly experienced the change from individual to joint experience, and into the intercourse of the several members entered a note of respect and sympathy in face of the common foe and the common risk. To those spirits belonged Pratteler. He still obstinately distrusted the leaders, and in his heart did not discard the motto: Everything is humbug. They made themselves so big with their "if" and "but," and they made you wait for them in order to appear necessary and powerful. But the individual man interested Victor keenly. Those days did far more toward developing his social soul than he himself suspected. His nose accustomed itself to the smell of the herd; to use a hunter's term, he had almost acquired the scent. He followed, though perhaps unwillingly, the physical atmosphere of this general body, in which he recognized his new master and lord. As its latest member he was still more by instinct than by reason plunged in primitive ideas of the possibilities of personal action and freedom of decision. His highly-colored speech had drawn a small crowd of super-revolutionists about him, childish, genuine groundlings, who wanted to be keener than the blade of which they were only the handle. Some ignorant old fellows also belonged to the clique and contributed no little to raise Victor's self-esteem. Once in a while the more experienced soldiers in the army indulgently looked over their shoulders, and Victor heard perhaps a kindly laugh; but that did not disturb him. The leaders had no time to bother about the tail; after all it is there only for the purpose of wagging.

In those days Spiele was again fighting her husband. She complained that he was not proposing to give her a discount at the future consumers' store and asked Victor whether he, too, would let her come off so badly in the big scheme. Then there was some talk about their leaving the cottage with the garden and moving into the workingmen's colony. He was ignorant of any reasons for the plan, but agreed with Spiele that their home was far more attractive and that anybody should be glad not to have to live in the colony. The matter was very simple. Being manager of the food centre, Hoeflinger wanted to live in the same building in which it was to be opened. Since he had no family to look out for, he at least wished to devote himself thoroughly to the cause. But Spiele had not yet abandoned hope of that family, nor could Hoeflinger persuade her to his viewpoint. So the question was for a long time undecided, while the relation of the couple assumed a critical intensity, which they both felt as a sort of sweet bitterness, with the sweet or the bitter element alternately prevailing. Sometimes Spiele wept; then again she indulged in all sorts of tricks that she had learned from her father and his apprentices. She lost money and found it in Victor's pocket, which gave her an opportunity to appeal to his conscience. She could read fortunes in the cards and make spirits rap at her table. She promised Victor a good wife, and added cheerily: "One like me." She also promised him four healthy and handsome children, and at the prophesy lapsed at once into a melancholy mood.

Victor would have liked, with his glowing gaze, to hide her in a burning bush, so that nobody else could approach her. One evening he forgot himself in Hoeflinger's presence. Spiele had teased him about his red necktie, which began to look black with wear; she asked whether he would always stay a Garibaldi and offered to sew a new one for him, if he would let her remove the old. He agreed; nobody noticed the glow and the tension in his eyes. When she had unfastened the little red rag and was running away with it laughing, he quickly grabbed her hand and caught it between his crooked horse-teeth. Spiele cried out and tore herself away. Victor laughed with embarrassment and excitement. Hoeflinger looked up startled. The tailor's daughter seemed angry and scolded Victor; but her scolding was music to his ears. When he finally noticed the husband's cold and disapproving glare, he showed his teeth again and remarked aggressively: "People ought to be able to take a joke!" Then he struck the table with his fist and went out quickly.

After that incident Hoeflinger walked up and down in silence and listened to Spiele, who set about removing a double veil from his eyes. She told him what a distant and strange husband he was, his head filled with the business of other people and his heart never heeding the need and the loneliness of his wife. Absorbed by other interests, he seemed to leave it to her whether she should continue to hope for the fulfillment of her longing, or like him, however young in years, passively give up all hope. She told him what wrong he was directly committing against himself and her, by renouncing what after all, as he well knew, the law of nature would not force her to forego for a long time to come. She left him no room for doubt, that she was going by all means within her power to avoid being cheated out of happiness by his attitude. A large, extensive organization was no compensation for the absence of a single innocent little being, which was perhaps denied them on account of his interest in the other. Not to lose a single trump, she pointed to the fiery young boarder as an example of a real lover. She took Hoeflinger by the nose and made him follow all the successive steps in the development of her heart's cause. She did not even fail to show him that a good willing boy was suffering for a wife's faithfulness toward her absent husband, who unsuspectingly and self-complacently was busy with alien things. She poured such a storm of good arguments and sound object-lessons upon the absorbed mind of her partner, that she really succeeded in arresting his attention.

Hoeflinger finally stopped and looked at her in astonishment. He had never noticed that his wife had grown from a little girl into a mature woman. It was the first time that he heard her talk like that, and her speech rang so true that one could not help agreeing with her in general. This was what that man of reality enjoyed most in all her argumentation. His eyes grew clearer and clearer before her. What her dances and her tricks had not accomplished, was achieved by this violent thunderstorm. When he had got over his first amazement, he began to rejoice in every fibre of his being; and his face showed a youthful and animated glow which pleased her so much that she allowed the storm to pass by and to be followed by a partial rainbow. Finally her magnetism so overpowered him, that in spite of the jealousy which gnawed and stung, as she had desired it should, he began to laugh. His. eyes were so kindly and so enterprising, that she joined in his laughter, and morning and night were turned into another wedding-day. Victor had been watching behind a tree to see whether Hoeflinger would abuse his wife for the incident of the necktie. He witnessed a scene which filled him with burning misery from head to foot. He saw Spiele wrestling with her husband, laughing and brushing her hair from her forehead and apparently running away from him. He firmly believed that she really feared him and suffered his amorous mood only because she could not help herself. At the end he heard Hoeflinger whistle a tune, while he was locking the door of the cottage and bolting the sitting-room, and saw him, candle in hand, follow his wife to her bedroom. Victor decided that this evening cried for revenge in his own and in Spiele's name.

One day a thunderbolt came down before his eyes. Hoeflinger took leave for three days and Victor was to remain alone with the idol and the wife. The long one had to take this trip in the interest of the workingmen's consumers' league which was now about to be realized. Pratteler spent half of each night on his wheel. He ate nothing and drank much. In those days he sought the midday rest with the other laborers and lay down where Hoeflinger was wont to take his nap. Having to pay so much more attention to the machine used up his nervous energy, already much tried, and wore him out. He wanted to sleep, but the wild and foolish notion that he might take the place of Hoeflinger at night, too, banished the rest he craved. Then he jumped up and went about in the courts and between the steel monsters, wherever the spirit of revolt was brooding and whispering into his ears wild and extravagant words. He breathed more freely when the siren called the herd to work. His task of serving the idol filled him with a dull indifferent hatred; he despised the monster. Sometimes he gave vent to all the bitterness and the scorn his breast was harboring by spitting into the revolving shining face. But that had not the slightest effect. The idol continued to screech and wheeze, and its claw greedily grabbed the next iron bar. Then Victor turned away weary and sad at heart, and mounted the iron staircase to attend to the oiling.

At noon Spiele came as usual through the dark gate, jumped off her wheel in her light-footed way and approached his place with a nod. Recently she was inclined to be late and no longer waited in the crowd. The first day, eager to cut short the ceremony of taking the lunch-pail from her, he managed to bump his head against hers. She looked straight at him, surprised at his haste. He trembled like a wall hit by a shot, and did not know whether to fall backward, or forward into her arms. Both blushed. He exclaimed with embarrassment: "Hopla!" and set the pail down. She scolded him for neglecting his lunch, while his trembling fingers rolled a cigarette and he lapsed into a moody silence. The next day he let her do everything herself. He ate a little, while she explained to him that it was unhealthy for him to be so much on his wheel. Besides, he should raise his handle-bar, for it could not be good for a stomach to float like a cloud over the ground. It also shocked the nervous system too violently, when the arms alone bore the weight of the body, as was natural when the wheel leaped and bumped over the uneven roadbed. Submissively and somewhat cautiously he replied that she might be right. That evening he obediently drew up the handle-bar by the width of a hand, and lowered the saddle. It was hard for him; but since she was solicitous about his health, there was some consolation in it. He thought she would not care, if she did not love him a little.

When he returned late from a tavern, his passion got the better of him. He went to the door of the sitting-room which led to the bedroom, and firmly pressed down the latch—not softly, but as if he had a right to enter. But the door was bolted. He rapped. Nothing moved; the door remained locked. With aching limbs he went up the stairs to his garret-room; he felt as if smoke were rising from his lungs and his very vitals were on fire. A tempest of thoughts was brewing in his head. In the morning he drank his coffee, pale and tortured. Spiele was invisible. It was not her habit to be present; she always retired once more after serving the men's breakfast and before Victor appeared. But that morning he considered it a special measure upon which she had decided—or a proof of guilt. He had all the day to decide which of the two it was. At noon he asked Spiele incidentally, whether Hoeflinger were sure to return that night and observed her from the corner of his eyes. She said "yes" in a rather absent-minded manner, which he at once interpreted as secret sharing of his impatience. Heaving a deep breath he opened all doors to the remotest back gate of his soul to give free entrance to any idea that would promise help. After work he was busy with the idol a few minutes longer, as though he had to put something in order. In reality he loosened some screws and unfastened a coupling. Then he threw himself once more upon his wheel. He did not return for supper. He sat in the inn down in the valley and only started for the house when he was sure that Hoeflinger had returned and the couple had retired.