# The Strand Magazine/Volume 4/Issue 24/The Toilers of the Rocks

From the German. Illustrated by Paul Hardy.
Layout 4
Translated from Ferdinand de Saar.
NE of the most remarkable railways in the world is that which crosses the Sennmerimg—a ridge belonging to the Noric Alps which marks the frontier between Austria and Styria the Green.
The traveller who makes this journey for the first time receives a deep and lasting impression. In truth, what can be more terrible, more striking, than the narrow track running at infinite heights between beetling walls and yawning precipices?—what more impressive than the carriages rolling with a crash like thunder over viaducts elevated to fabulous heights, or burying themselves to the shrill scream of the locomotive in the deep night of the long tunnels?
The air is cold—freezing. The train is swept along as by a whirlwind. The earth below is so far away that it can hardly be distinguished through the half-transparent mists. In the midst of scenes and works of such sublimity man realizes his own insignificance. But little thought is given to the thousands of poor people who amidst the greatest dangers have spent their strength in hauling the enormous rocks and blocks of stone, in spanning the gigantic gulfs with bridges, and in bringing their Titanic task to a successful issue.
It is the story of two of these poor creatures that I propose to tell. Not that my intention is to excite the public pity for their fate, or to idealize their lives. I shall simply strive to shed a little light upon the immense mass of the suffering poor who, after a life of struggle, of privations, and of rude labour, sink, despised and unremembered, into the common tomb. I shall speak of the human heart, of its joys and its sorrows, and of the great tragedy of life which is renewed for ever amongst the humblest as among the most powerful of the earth.
The Semmering railway was almost finished. The hubbub of the labourers, the thunder of the blasting, had ceased. The swarm of workpeople who had come from Bohemia, from Moravia, from sterile Karst and fertile Frioul, had dispersed, and had pushed on farther south in search of work.
Reassured by the tranquillity of the place, the wild animals began to come forth again from the depths of the forest. Only here and there were still seen some of the little wooden huts which the wandering labourers had inhabited; most of which they had pulled down before they left.
These scattered cabins served as a shelter to a small number of workers who still remained to finish the railway; for still, at certain places, rails had to be fixed, telegraph poles to be placed, and the pointsmen's boxes to be completed, under the roofs of which the swallows had already made their nests.
​One Sunday afternoon, a woman was sitting upon the threshold of one of these little huts, which stood against the rock, near the line. Her hair was hidden by a coarse scarf twisted round it; her face was worn and old-looking, and contrasted with her girlish figure. Deep lines crossed her forehead, and drew down with a mournful expression the corners of her lips.
The sun was sinking at the horizon. Great shadows already wrapped the highest summits; but a flood of living light bathed the valley and the forest pines. A cloud of flies, of butterflies and bees, whirled dizzily in the sunlight. The solitary girl saw nothing of this charming landscape. Her eyes were fixed upon a man's shabby jacket which she was darning. This work appeared to be particularly difficult to her, for if the coarse and horny hand that awkwardly held the needle was examined, it was easy to see that it was accustomed to handle the hoe and spade.
Suddenly the young woman's attention was attracted by the sound of footsteps. She lifted her head, and perceived a man of miserable aspect advancing towards the cabin.
"Is this Hut Number 7?"
He was slight and insignificant in figure, and was clothed in an old military coat with flapping skirts, too loose and too long for him. A soldier's cap, blue and greasy, was pulled down over his forehead to his eyes. He staggered as he walked, though to sustain himself he leant upon a knotty stick, and though the little sack which he carried slung across his back appeared almost empty. He approached timidly, and looked helplessly at the young girl out of his weak eyes.
"Is this hut Number 7?" he asked, in a faltering tone.
"Yes, this is it," she replied, with the harsh accent peculiar to the Germans of Central Bohemia. "What do you want?"
"I have been sent here to work." And, as he spoke, he showed her a paper which he held in his hand.
The young girl scrutinized the strange costume of her questioner, and his thin white face with its straggling beard.
"The overseer is not here at present," she said at last. "He has gone down to the tavern at Schottwein with the men. Rest yourself whilst you wait, if you are tired." She cast a last glance upon the poor creature, who appeared to be in suffering, and then returned to her interrupted work, drawing the needle with renewed haste.
The soldier did not reply. He dragged himself a little farther away, and let himself fall upon the grass with a great sigh of weariness. He lay there at full length, whilst the sun sank more and more at the horizon, pouring over the whole scene its liquid golden light. A deep silence reigned. Far above in the azure sky a solitary vulture wheeled, uttering its piercing cry. Very soon from the distance came the bellowing of drunken voices. The girl trembled.
​"Heavens!" she murmured, speaking to herself. "They are already returning, and the jacket is not done!"
The voices became more and more distinct, the howlings stronger, and in a few minutes a band of individuals of savage aspect burst upon the scene. In the midst of them, and rather better clothed than his companions, a man of herculean figure caught the eye. He was about fifty years of age. His big face was red and swollen by drink, and from under his straw hat, which was tilted backwards on his head, escaped a tangled mass of greyish hair. On his left shoulder was slung his coat, which he had taken off; his right arm, with its powerful muscles displayed by the turned-up sleeve, carried a great pannier filled with provisions. Two of his companions were loaded with heavy sacks full of potatoes, which were hoisted on their shoulders.
"Halloa! Tertschka," cried the man with the basket in a hoarse voice, "give us a light, so that we can put our provisions in the cellar."
As she stood before him his eye fell upon the unfinished jacket, which she held timidly against her breast.
"Well, is it done?" he asked, abruptly.
"Not quite," she replied, in some confusion.
"What, not done yet?" he cried, so fiercely that his face grew purple. "Did I not tell you that I should want it to-morrow?"
"I have worked at it all the afternoon. But I cannot darn it as quickly as someone who has learnt to sew."
The reproach contained in these plaintive words appeared to increase his irritation.
"You have always an answer ready," he cried. "But if at daybreak to-morrow my jacket is not finished, take care of yourself!"
He put down his basket of provisions and strode towards her, menacing her with a terrible gesture. She shrank back from the blow, and at that moment he caught sight of the man in the soldier's coat, who had timidly drawn near.
"Who is this?" he demanded, letting his hand fall.
"He has been sent here to work," replied Tertschka, breathlessly. The overseer, for it was he, drew himself up to his full height and advanced towards the wretched little creature, measuring him from head to foot.
"Bah! to work! The rascal cannot even stand upon his legs."
"I have come a long journey," said the stranger, hesitating. "I have walked here from Otterthal."
"That is a feat, no doubt," sneered the overseer, scanning in the twilight the paper which the young man held out with a shaking hand. "You are called Huber?" he asked, after a pause.
"Yes, George Huber."
"And why do you wear a soldier's uniform?"
"I have been in the army and have been discharged."
"What, you have been in the army?"
"Seven years in the 12th Regiment. I have been dismissed now because I cannot get rid of a bad fever which I caught during the siege of Venice."
"Good Heavens! Fever! This is the last straw! The devil must be in the Government that sends us such fellows. We get nothing but invalids to make stonebreakers of. And then people are astonished that no work is done. As for you," he added, with another threatening gesture, "take care, for if you fail to do your two cart-loads of gravel daily, I shall send you packing. This is not a hospital, remember!"
Thereupon he picked up his basket and, followed by his companions, entered the cabin. Tertschka led the way, holding in her hand a brand lighted at the fire. A door barred with iron led into a sort of grotto hollowed in the rock, in which the provisions were stored. The overseer then retired to rest in an adjacent room; upon which the labourers stretched themselves, yawning, here and there upon the floor, and without troubling themselves about their new comrade, prepared to sleep upon the old straw mattresses which were ranged against the walls.
George all this time stood irresolute by the door. In a few minutes Tertschka came towards him.
"You can sleep there," she said, pointing with her hand to a vacant place.
He obeyed her awkwardly, screwing himself together so as to take up as little space as possible. After making a pillow of his sack and covering himself with his old coat which he had taken off, he uttered a great sigh of weariness and composed himself to sleep. Tertschka lighted a little lamp, and crouching down by the fire began to sew with feverish haste. When she had finished her work, she extinguished the smoky flame, and stretched herself, dressed as she was, in a corner near the chimney.
Outside, the night was blue and balmy—a ​summer's night in all its splendour. A cool wind blew. From the interior of the hut, whence could be heard the deep breathing of the sleepers, myriads of stars sparkled through the disjointed planks and crannies of the roof.
II.
The dawn was already beginning to whiten the horizon, when George awoke from his deep sleep. He watched the workmen quit their meagre couches; rise and pass out, furnishing themselves as they did so with all sorts of tools which were hanging on the walls of the cabin. He followed their example, and after putting on his coat, stood hesitating in what direction to proceed in search of his work, when Tertschka came up to him, carrying on her shoulder a long handled hammer.
"The overseer is still asleep," she said, "but I know what you have to do. Take this hammer and come with me."
He obeyed her, and they went out together.
"They went out together."
Outside, all was cool and peaceful. Only now and then a bird twittered in the bushes. The grass was heavy with clear dew. They walked silently along.
After some distance they came upon a stone quarry, where several of the men were at work, whilst the rest were busy upon the line, with wheelbarrows and spades. Tertschka, followed by George, passed these groups and paused at a heap of stones.
"This is my place," she said, seating herself on the middle of a pile of stones. "I never care to remain near the men. They are coarse and wicked; but if you like, you can work here."
He made no reply, but sat down at her side.
"See, these great fragments of rock must be broken into tiny pieces. "There," she added, pointing to a great heap of fine gravel, "is my last week's work."
He took a piece of limestone, and struck it with his hammer, but the stone remained unbroken.
"Strike harder," cried Tertschka. This time she struck it in her turn, and the rock flew into fragments. He watched her in amazement, and after making a second attempt was rewarded with success. Then, without saying a word, both devoted themselves to their task.
All around them lay stretched a wild but charming scene of hill and valley. But the work-people did not pause in their labour to admire its beauties. With stooping shoulders they struck and broke their stones, whilst the sun, now mounting in the heavens, beat down with scorching heat upon their unsheltered heads. The strokes of George's hammer became fainter and fainter, and at last the tool fell from his hand. He began to fan himself with his cap, and to dry the moisture which streamed down his face. Tertschka stopped also.
"Are you tired already?" she asked, surveying him compassionately.
"Ah! Heaven only knows how tired," he replied, in a dreary voice. "It is only now that I begin to feel how low the fever has brought me."
"Feeble and ill as you are, how could you accept work so hard and rude as ours?"
"What else remained for me to do? To beg? Not that, at any rate. I had learnt no trade. In my nineteenth year I was placed in the army. Now I am ill, they send me ​here to break stones. Yes, now I am a stonebreaker," he said, with a smile frightful in its bitterness. He picked up his hammer.
Tertschka stood silent with drooping head.
"But you will never be able to stand it," she said at last, in a low voice.
"Oh! yes, perhaps, when I get food to eat; these last days have been very hard for me. I have eaten nothing since yesterday morning."
She made no reply, but slowly unwrapped and took out of her apron a piece of black bread, which she broke into two parts. She held out to him the largest of the two pieces.
"Eat," she said.
He glanced timidly at the piece she offered him.
"But—it is your bread," he replied in confusion. And he made a gesture of refusal.
"That does not matter. I have quite enough for myself."
As he made no movement to accept it, she placed the bread by his side.
"You must be thirsty also," she continued:
"I will go and fetch you some water; there is a stream hard by."
She rose, took a small pitcher fixed among a heap of stones, and ascended the quarry towards the pine forest, where a tiny rill of limpid water trickled between tufts of green moss. She filled the pitcher and drank, and then filled it again, and returned with it. The piece of bread was still untouched.
He accepted the cool draught with gratitude.
"Thank you very much—very much," he said, in a broken voice, when he had finished drinking.
"It was done willingly; there is nothing to thank me for."
She sat down again.
"Eat," she continued, in a tone of sweet persuasion. "You can surely accept that of me."
The blood rushed to his face, and he took up the bread.
"Surely you, who are so kind-hearted, must also have been unhappy," he said, without looking at her, and breaking off a piece of bread.
"Yes, I know what it is to be unhappy; and I am often hungry myself."
A lump rose in his throat, and he felt as if he were choking.
"Is this work so badly paid then?" he asked, after a pause.
"I do not get paid at all."
"What—you receive no wages?"
"No; the overseer takes charge of them."
"The overseer?"
"He is my step-father."
"Your step-father?" he repeated, mechanically.
"Yes; my father was killed when I was quite little. Then my mother married the overseer, who at that time was simply a labourer. We all came hither from Bohemia."
"Then you are a native of Bohemia? and that is why you speak such a strange dialect, and why you have such a singular name? Tert———I cannot pronounce it."
"Tertschka," she repeated. "In German it is the same as Theresa; for short, I am called Resi."
"But," he continued, "if the overseer receives your wages, it is his duty to maintain you."
"Oh! he gives me just enough to keep me from starvation. He is a bad man. He beats me continually. You saw him, how he threatened me yesterday about his jacket?"
She paused, plunged in mournful remembrances.
"But if he illtreats you like that, why do you stay here?"
"I know that he would never let me go," she replied. "Some poor, defenceless being is always necessary to him, to torment with impunity. For he is a coward, though always ready to quarrel. And then, where should I go?" she continued, with a sigh. "Everywhere, life is sad. Everywhere, there is suffering."
So saying, she picked up her hammer, and George, feeling a little more revived, followed her example. Silently they returned to their work.
The hours rolled on; the heat of noon spread into the valley and upon the mountain. All was quiet, except for the regular heavy strokes of the hammers, and the tapping of the woodpecker in the branches. From time to time the hoarse voices of the men occupied on the line were heard, bursting into some brief refrain.
Suddenly the shrill tinkle of a bell rang out.
"What is that?" asked George, seeing the workpeople leaving their work and proceeding in the direction of the cabin.
"It is the dinner-bell," replied Tertschka. "Come, let us go."
He rose and followed her in silence. After finishing their meagre meal they returned together to the quarry, where they continued their hard toil until night fell.
III.
"They worked side by side."
Thus days followed days, and they worked together side by side. George began to pick up his strength with amazing rapidity. The wretchedness in which he had hitherto lived was overcome. The vivifying mountain air swept away the fever which was consuming him. Already he handled his hammer with real vigour, whilst at the same time recounting to his companion the perils and adventures of his military life. There were many things which Tertschka only understood intuitively—others not at all. They were all so alien to her monotonous life, passed amidst the solitude of the great mountains. One thing she seized clearly, and that was that George had suffered. She began to tell him in return her own sad life and all its unhappiness. These long days of toil, passed side by side under the high, scorching sun, became very sweet to them both. They started each morning at daybreak to the quarry, and when the bell rang at meal-time, they were loth to be torn from their solitude and pleasant companionship, to endure the coarse jests and savage humour of the other occupants of the hut.
But, alas! These days when mutual friendship was beginning heal their wounds, and to soothe their poor bruised hearts, were not to last.
Whether the overseer had been informed of their intimacy by some vindictive companion, or his own evil nature made him divine the pleasure they took in each other's society, they never knew. But suddenly one day they perceived him standing behind them.
"What are you always doing here together, like two toads?" he bellowed. "Begone, to your proper place, you famished scarecrow," he cried, turning to George, and pointing to another part of the quarry.
"As for you, you hypocrite," he continued to Tertschka, whilst George crept silently away, "I should like to know what plots you are contriving with that wretched dwarf. Listen: if I see you speaking to him again, I will kick the vagabond out of the place, and that day will be your last; you understand?"
Thus were the two poor creatures brutally separated. On the following day, George received an order to work farther away, near the line. It was only at meal-times, or in the evening after the sun had set, that they saw each ​other; and then they dared not give a glance of recognition. Harder still, they could not speak a single word, for the overseer's eye was ever on them, and they were under the constant surveillance of their companions, who watched them with mocking smiles.
"What are you doing here?"
It was Saturday evening, and the overseer, accompanied by some of the labourers, had gone to the tavern. Those who remained sat down to a game of cards, and soon became absorbed in handling the greasy pack. Presently they began to quarrel. Now was his time. George stepped softly over to Tertschka. The young girl was sitting in a corner on an old box, lost in thought.
"Why has he separated us like this?" he asked. "Surely it cannot matter to him if we sit together, as long as we do our work?"
She looked straight before her with a mournful expression.
"He is a wicked man," she said at last. "He cannot bear to see anyone happy. He would like to deprive everyone of every pleasure."
She rose and, lifting up the lid of the box, began to take out some articles of clothing.
"What are you going to do?" George asked, watching her.
"I have a great desire to go to-morrow to the church at Schottwein. There is no doubt I shall have great difficulty in obtaining permission from him. But let him say what he likes, I must not forget my religion in the midst of creatures who do nothing but drink and gamble."
George stood musing, with bowed head.
"It is a very long time since I went to church also," he said. "How delightful it would be if I could come with you."
"But it is impossible."
"Why? The overseer will know nothing. Let us each start separately and meet afterwards."
She reflected for an instant.
"It might be managed. In that case, you must start before I do. Listen! On issuing from this cabin, there is a little pathway to the right which leads into the valley, and at the bottom of the path a wooden cross. Wait for me there. Now go," she added, in an imploring voice, "or we shall be observed."
66 George went back and threw himself upon his couch, whilst the players roared and squabbled over their cards. He felt quite light-hearted and joyous in thinking of the morrow, and absorbed in pleasant anticipations, he soon fell asleep.
The next day was magnificent. A bright sun glittered through the pine trees as George descended the narrow green path that Tertschka had pointed out to him. He peered about for the cross which he was to find at the entrance to the valley. Soon he caught sight of its brown, worm-eaten wood among the young beech leaves. As he was there in good time, he sat down upon a large, mossy stone which served as a prie-dieu.
A deep silence reigned; the stillness of a Sabbath day. Even the bees, which were plundering the many-coloured petals of the flowers, seemed to restrain their drowsy hum. The moss was starred with blue gentians.
At length he started up impatiently, and ​began to walk up and down. He gathered some of the gentians, and also some white and some yellow flowers which gleamed amid the grass.
"I will give them to Tertschka," he murmured, casting a complacent glance at his improvised bouquet.
At last he caught the gleam of a light dress upon the hill. Some seconds after he saw Tertschka descending the pathway. He hastened to meet her. "Here I am," she said, out of breath. "I have been able to get away this time without hindrance."
George stood gazing at her.
Her head was bare; the scarf which she habitually wore was gone, and her thick hair was parted simply on her forehead. A crimson kerchief which she wore around her neck cast a soft flush upon her pale cheeks, and her sober-coloured bodice, though too large for her, and her striped petticoat of muslin, were not unbecoming.
"How pretty you look!" he said at last.
She cast down her eyes and blushed.
"Take these flowers," George continued. "I plucked them whilst I was waiting for you."
She took the bouquet which he had until then held behind his back, and tried to fasten it in her bodice, but it was too large, and so she continued to hold it in her hand, together with her rosary. They went on together down the mossy path and on through the cornfields, where the newly-reaped wheat stood in great sheaves of burnished gold.
At length they reached the hamlet of Schottwein. They found it in a state of great animation. It was mass day; the long, wide street which composed the village was thronged with all sorts of vehicles and with peasants clothed in their holiday garb. Opposite the church stalls were standing, crammed with every kind of goods for sale in rich variety shawls of gay colours, cotton handkerchiefs, pipes, knives, glass bead necklaces, imitation coral ornaments, were piled side by side with cooking utensils, gingerbread, and children's toys.
They paused in ecstasy before the grandeur of the sight. George longed for a pipe. He used to smoke when a soldier. Now that he gained a living, and neither drank nor gambled with his comrades, he could well afford the luxury. He asked Tertschka's advice, and she encouraged him to buy one. Whilst he made his purchase, Tertschka strolled on in advance.
George elbowed his way through the crowd of loafers who pressed around the stall, and bought a pretty porcelain pipe, embellished with tassels and a silken cord.
A brilliant necklace of amber beads caught his fancy. He imagined how pretty it would look on Tertschka's neck. The stall-keeper asking him but a moderate sum, it was soon wrapped in paper and in his pocket. And next, out of the change of the florin which he had given in payment, George bought at a neighbouring stall a gingerbread cake in the shape of a heart. He finally purchased some tobacco, and hastened on to join Tertschka.
He began by showing her the pipe, which she admired exceedingly.
"This is for you," he added, holding out the gingerbread heart. The heart was stamped in the centre with another heart, red, thrust with an arrow, and encircled with a garland of flowers.
She slipped it with a pleased smile of gratification between her bouquet and her rosary.
"I have something else for you," he continued presently, drawing the little packet slowly from his pocket, half opening it, and letting her see the gleaming of the yellow beads. She cast a rapid glance upon it.
"How could you spend so much money on me?" she cried. But her face was all rosy with pleasure, and her eyes sparkled with innocent joy.
"If I could only give you all that I desire!" he replied, with emotion. "But put it on and see how it looks."
She gave him her things to hold whilst she put on the necklace. But she could not succeed in fastening it.
"Let me do it," said George, and lifting gently the heavy masses of hair which clustered on her neck, he brought the two little ends of the snap together.
"There!" he said, examining her with a look of satisfaction. They continued their route and soon came in sight of the little chapel standing in a cluster of lime trees.
Tertschka knelt down in the last row of benches, and placed her flowers and gingerbread before her. George stood erect behind her. He was much affected by that scene, so calm, so still. A mellow light streamed down through the lofty arched windows. But he could not pray. His eyes were fixed constantly upon that kneeling figure with bowed head and murmuring lips before him.
The mass ended. The priest blessed the congregation as they passed out; but still she knelt. At length she rose, and, followed ​by George, advanced to the door where the impatient verger was shaking his bunch of keys. Outside, the sun was glittering through the green foliage.
"Come," said Tertsehka, "let us go and sit down."
They proceeded towards a forest of young pine trees which fringed the meadows. A little hill, carpeted with soft moss, provided them with a seat, from which they looked down upon the village inn at their feet. They gazed with interest. The little inn was en fête. A merry wedding party were celebrating their happiness before the entrance, under a great beech tree, which spread its branches above their heads. Strains of music, softened by the distance, presently stole upon their ears. They saw the bridal pair advance and begin dancing upon the greensward to the music.
"How gaily they dance," cried Tertschka. "Do look at them."
"Yes, they are happy," he replied, dreamily. "If only we could celebrate our marriage too!"
"Oh! what are you o saying?" she murmured, almost inaudibly; and, stooping down, she plucked a red flower in the grass at her feet.
"Resi!" he whispered—he called her by this name for the first time—and at the same moment he passed his arm timidly about the young girl's waist. "Resi, if you knew how much I love you!"
She made no answer, but she raised her eyes and fixed them upon his. In the love light of their depths he read his happiness. He drew her gently to his heart, and their lips met for the first time in one long kiss of love.
"'Resi!' he whispered."
IV.
Since I have undertaken the task of narrating this simple story as faithfully as possible, must I describe to you the dream of happiness in which our lovers lived from that day? I think it will be wise for me to pass it by in silence. What words can render the exquisite joys of a passion so pure as theirs?
It is true that they were compelled to conceal their happiness from all eyes, trembling with fear lest it should he discovered, as if they had been guilty of a crime. But in their secret hearts their passion throve and flourished.
The fear that the overseer should learn of them visit to Schottwernn dimimished little by little; so much so that one day George, having gone to that part of the quarry where Tertschka was working, took the opportunity to snateh a few minutes by her side. For a little while the lovers forgot their woes in a passionate embrace; but almost at the same moment they heard the sound of rapid steps behind them. They started instantly apart and perceived the overseer, who, with an evil smile upon his lips and his face purple with rage, stood gazing at them.
"Ha! so I have caught you this time, you wretched creatures!" he hissed forth. "This is the way you obey my orders! And you think I do not see your little game! I know well that you were together last Sunday, but I wanted to surprise you in the act. You shall pay for this." As he spoke, he seized George by the throat, and, with a savage shake, threw him with such force upon the ground that the dust and stones flew up around him.
​"Take away your load of stones, you gallows-bird! then pack, and be off. If ever I catch you prowling about here again, I will break every bone in your body!"
He kicked the poor fellow as he raised himself painfully; then following him to his cart, he drove him to the road with blows.
Then he came back and glared at Tertschka with a ferocious glance of hatred. "As for you," he said, "we will settle our account by-and-by."
Muttering and growling to himself, he strode away.
Stunned and blinded by the shock, George had rejoined his comrades. He emptied his cart mechanically, and sitting down upon a stone, gazed before him with thoughts far away. Since the morning the day had become dull and the sky covered with clouds. A biting autumn wind whistled in the tops of the pine trees. Suddenly the rain came down. But George never felt the icy drops which beat upon his face. Sparks danced before his eyes, and a shiver ran through his frame. Shame at the treatment he had undergone, mixed with the burning injustice which Tertschka, as well as himself, was enduring, brought the angry blood to his face. And now he was dismissed—separated from Tertschka—from that which was to him the most precious thing in all the world. The more he reflected, the more his shame and rage increased. His timid and patient nature was stung to revolt, and he felt within him a new-born strength to struggle, to resist, to conquer any obstacles which should rise to separate him from his betrothed. Gradually his dejected countenance assumed a terrible expression, and his eyes shone with a strange lustre.
He rose and took his way towards the little hill where Tertschka worked. His companions eyed him curiously. He found Tertschka sitting on the ground in tears.
"Do not weep, Resi," he said. His voice was calm and gentle, but singularly grave. She made no reply. He came to her side, and raised her head. Her sobs grew more violent.
"Do not weep," he repeated. "It was all for the best; we now know what we have to do."
She looked straight before her.
"You will come with me when I go away?"
She shook her head slowly.
"I shall try to obtain the post of crossing-keeper, which is given, I believe, to soldiers who have served during the war. You shall be my wife, and we will live in one of the little cottages beside the line. And if I fail in that," he added quickly, seeing that she made no sign of consent, and that her sobs redoubled—"if I cannot obtain this post—we will work for years with all our strength, and economize as much as possible. But, Resi, speak—tell me that you consent! Answer me!"
"Alas!" she moaned, "all that you say is Paradise, but you are not thinking of the overseer. He will never let me go."
"He cannot prevent you. You are no longer a child. He has no hold upon you, none. You are a worker like ourselves. You are free to come and go at your pleasure."
"Believe me, he will not let me go, and above all with you. I have never told you,' she replied, after a pause, whilst a crimson flush of anger dyed her face, "but he killed my mother with his cruelty. I told him at the time what I thought of him. Ever since that day he has hated me like poison, and never loses an occasion to revenge himself upon me."
George grew pale to the lips. He seemed as if he were choking.
"The scoundrel!" he cried. "At any cost you must come with me, and we shall see if he will prevent you from going."
"Be careful," she cried, in alarm. "He is quite capable of killing any being too feeble to defend itself."
"I do not fear him," said George, his small stature dilating. "He took me at a disadvantage before, but now let him come!"
"Madonna!" she moaned, wringing her hands in agony. "You must not fight! I cannot bear it."
"No, no, it will not come to that," he replied, striving to appear calm. "First of all we will tell him our decision, and you will see that he will say nothing. Coward that he is, he will be forced to acknowledge that he has no hold upon you, and that you are free. Take courage, Resi," he added, gravely. "Would you let me go away alone?"
For answer she sprang towards him, and clung tightly round his neck.
"Now we will go and find him," he said, stroking her hair gently. They went slowly towards the cabin, Tertschka in a tumult of alarm, George dignified and perfectly calm. When they reached the cabin, they found the overseer, knife in hand, seated before the table, peeling potatoes. He started on perceiving the two young people, but his surprise soon changed into a sort of frenzy.
​"What do you want here?" he cried, half rising, and gripping nervously the handle of his knife.
"'What do you want here?' he cried."
"You have dismissed me," replied George, with a calm voice, "so I have come to get my things, and to tell you that Tertschka will go away with me."
The overseer made a movement as if about to spring upon them. Then, seeing George's determined attitude, he recoiled in alarm.
"I have nothing to reply to you," he said at last, through his clenched teeth.
"That is not necessary. Tertschka is of age, consequently she is free to do as she pleases."
The overseer burst into a hiss of fury.
"Take what belongs to you, Resi," George continued, taking down his own coat which hung on the wall, "and let us go."
The overseer gasped painfully for breath. A struggle was passing within him. He hardly knew what to do next. As he hesitated, he threw a sidelong glance at Tertschka, who, unfortunately, could not control her agitation. As she walked towards her box he sprang upon her, and, grasping her by the shoulders, pushed her into the cellar, the door of which was half open, locked the door, and put the key in his pocket.
"That is my answer," he bellowed, with such fury that his whole body trembled. Then, gulping down his rage, he returned to his seat, and renewed his occupation.
This scene had passed so rapidly, and in a manner so unexpected, that George could do nothing to prevent it. Without any undue haste, he buckled on his knapsack, and approached the overseer slowly.
"Let Tertschka out!" he said, in a firm voice.
The overseer went on peeling his potatoes.
"Let Tertschka out!" repeated George, again.
The overseer's hands began to shake. As George repeated his demand, for the third time, in a more imperative tone, he started up with clenched fists.
"Be off," he shouted, "unless ———"
"Unless what?" repeated George, calmly. "You cannot frighten me, with all your bluster. You ill-treated me when I was weak and defenceless. Now I defy you to your face!"
The overseer's countenance was terrible to look at. Hate and vengeance struggled on it with the basest cowardice. He gasped for breath, and his curved fingers seemed to clutch at something to rend to pieces.
"I advise you," said George, "to give up Tertschka, or else I shall use force."
In the midst of this scene several of the workmen had entered the cabin. Noon was approaching; perhaps they were also not unwilling to be witness of a scene which promised to be stormy. Their presence appeared to increase the irritation of the overseer. He felt that all their eyes were upon him, and to conceal his trepidation from those scrutinizing glances he assumed an air of insolence.
"Just listen to the cur! He threatens me. Come, kick him out of the place for me."
The men looked hesitatingly at one another, but no one stirred.
"You see," George continued, "no one will touch me. I ask you for the last time to let Tertschka out, or I will use this ​hammer. Two blows, and the door will be smashed to atoms."
"You would break down the door, would you, you scoundrel? Be off, or I will send for the police."
"He sprang at his opponent with a knife."
"Send for them," cried George, his blood boiling with righteous indignation. "We will soon see who is in the right. You will have to explain why you have locked Tertschka up. Everyone shall know that you have ill-treated her from childhood, that you have stolen from her the wages which she gained with so much labour. They shall also know how you oppress the feeble, and how you enrich yourself with the sweat and blood of the poor labourers confided to your charge."
George stopped. The truth of his reproaches stung his adversary into frenzy. The overseer's face turned livid. With a roar like that of a wounded bull, with foaming mouth and glaring eyes, he sprang at his opponent with his knife. George, on the other hand, scarcely knowing what he did, had gripped his hammer; it flew aloft; a dull blow resounded through the room, and the overseer, struck full upon the chest, staggered and fell backwards on the ground.
For an instant a death-like silence reigned. George stood like David over the dead body of Goliath.
"Resi! Resi!" he cried suddenly, as if returning to himself; and rushing to the door he broke it open with one blow. "You are free; our tyrant is no more."
"My God!" she shrieked, as she rushed out and saw the body lying stretched upon the ground. "He is dead! Oh! George! George! what have you done? You will be dragged to prison as a murderer."
"So be it! Nay, I will render myself up to justice. I will answer for my conduct to the court. My comrades can bear witness that the overseer attacked me with a knife and that I struck in self-defence. Go," he added, turning to the men. "Go to the police and tell them that George Huber, the stone-breaker, has killed your overseer."
V.
For four months George lay in the prison fortress of Wiener-Neustadt awaiting his trial. Then he and his witnesses, among whom was Tertschka, were brought before the court-martial. The following sentence was passed:—
"George Huber, formerly a soldier in the 12th Regiment, having pleaded guilty of causing, by a blow, the death of the overseer at Semmering, is sentenced to a year's imprisonment. But taking into consideration the evidence of the witnesses, who swear that he only acted in self-defence, after the highest provocation, and his exemplary conduct whilst in the army, coupled with the personal testimony of those who know him, the Court reduces his sentence to the four months of imprisonment which he has already undergone in the fortress of Wiener-Neustadt since his arrest."
Two days after this George and Tertschka were sent for to the colonel's house. He regarded them for a moment in silence. Their sad story had touched him to the heart. Round these two poor creatures, tortured by the miseries of existence, shone the radiance of a love pure, deep, and ​sublime. He advised them to remain at Wiener-Neustadt, where he would procure them work, and a salary sufficient to supply their wants. He promised to do still more for them in the future; and he kept his word.
To-day, where the black rails wind beside the gleaming River Mour, in the midst of green pastures and forests of sweet-scented pine trees, where the castle of Ehrenhauser rears its lofty towers upon the hill which overlooks the village, there stands a pretty little cottage. Behind the house extends a field of vegetables and maize. Roses and great golden-petaled sunflowers bloom before the door. A hedge surrounds the whole, over which the sweet pea twines its delicate tendrils.
In this pretty cottage, whose gay exterior attracts the admiration of the passers-by, George and Tertschka dwell. Their work allows them ample leisure to cultivate their ground, to keep a goat and a brood of cackling fowls, and to bring up two chubby-cheeked, flaxen-haired children, who thrive amazingly behind the high hedge of sweet peas. In the evening they sit together before their cottage door, while the sunset dyes the sky with crimson flame; and their thoughts return to that well-remembered evening when first they saw each other upon the high summits of the Semmering, and to their past with all its suffering and its joys.
If these memories cast too sad a shadow on their minds they draw their laughing cherubs to their knees, and with the little, clinging arms around their necks, the silky hair against their cheeks, and the sweet innocent eyes regarding theirs, they forget, as if it were a dream, their past experience of the tears and sorrows which are the destined lot of every child of man.