Page:Der Freischütz (The Free-Shooter); A Lyric Folk-Drama (1849).djvu/27

 time”—said he to Wilhelm, at parting—“perhaps you’ll sleep the sounder for ’t.”

These words had weighty import with him to whom they were addressed. He thought within himself that the postponement of his project would banish all calm sleep for that night.

The third evening came. That which had to be done, must be done this day, for the morrow was fixed for the trial. Mother Ann had been busy from sunrise to sunset in the house with Kate making suitable reception for the guest above-mentioned. At evening, all were in their best and every thing arranged beseemingly. Mother Ann embraced Wilhelm, when he returned from the chase, and saluted him for the first time with the beloved title of “son.” Kate’s eyes glowed with the tender desire of a young and lovely bride. The table was adorned gaily with emblematic flowers, and richer than usual with Wilhelm’s marriage-presents from the mother, and with tall daintily-cared flagons set there by the Forester. “To-day it is our feast”—said the old Bertram, as he entered in his wedding garment—“to-morrow, shall we not be alone, and cannot sit so cosily and heartfully together: let us be joyful then, as though a life of joy were in this one hour.”

He embraced all round, and was so affected, that his voice betrayed him. “Now, Papa”—said his wife with a significant smile—“I do not think our young people will be as gladsome to-morrow, as to-day; do you understand me?”

“Aye, aye, mother”—replied the Forester—“I hope the young folk understand ye too, and make themselves as happy as they can. Children, the minister will be here in the morning, and as soon as Wilhelm has proved that he can

A rattling, and a loud cry from Kate, interrupted the Forester. Cuno’s picture had fallen from the wall, and the border of the frame had slightly wounded her upon the forehead. The nail had remained in its place, and had fallen with a large piece of the plaster.

“I cannot tell”—said the Forester concernedly—“why that picture will not hang as usual, this is now the second time that it has frightened us. Art thou hurt, Kate?”

Tis of no consequence”—she added cheerfully, and wiped the blood from her hair—“I was far more terrified.”

Wilhelm was in his turn dreadfully agitated when he saw Kate’s death-pale cheek, and remarked the blood upon her forehead. The phantoms of the previous night rose up before him, and all their gloomy bodings seemed fulfilled. His resolution to commence the twice-deferred work, that evening, was shaken; but the wine, of which he drank quicker and deeper than was his wont, filled him with a daring courage, and he determined a-fresh, boldly to undertake the venture, seeing in the attempt nothing more than the brave struggle of Love and Courage against Danger.

The clock now told nine. Wilhelm struck his breast with force. He sought for an excuse to absent himself; a likely thing, for a bridegroom to leave his bride upon the nuptial-eve! Time flew on swiftly, a thousand pangs tormented him thus dallying with delaying Love. At last, ten was passed, now was the time for parting. Without a farewell he slank from the side of his bride; already with his tools he stood outside the house, when the mother came after him. “Wilhelm, Wilhelm!” she anxiously enquired. “I have shot a buck, and forgotten it in the thicket,” was the answer. In vain she besought him, in vain Kate hung smiling on him, there was something terrible but undefined in his agitated haste, as repulsing them both, he hurried into the forest.

The moon was on the wane, and appeared on the horizon of a dark red color. Grey clouds floated across it, and occasionally darkened the landscape, soon though again it re-appeared, sleeping in the awful stillness of the moonlight. The birchen and the aspen seemed like spectres in the wood, and the white-poplars appeared to Wilhelm to beckon him as though they stood, a dim host of phantom-shadows. He shuddered, and his disquietude of the previous night, in conjunction with the second fall of Cuno’s picture, seemed to him the last warnings of his guardian-angel, ere he should consummate his evil deed.

Once again he swerved from his determination. Already was he upon the point of retracing his steps, when a voice seemed to whisper his ear. “Fool! hast already not used magic, lack you the courage to create it?” He paused, the moon issued smiling from her dark clouds, and was reflected on the peaceful roof of the Forest-lodge. Wilhelm saw Kate’s window twinkle through the silvery beam; he stretched forth his arms, and stepped back towards his home; then the voice whispered to him again, and a powerful wind brought the sound of the half-hour’s chime. “On, to the deed,” it seemed to say. “To the deed!” he repeated aloud; tis weak and childish when half way to turn me back; folly to attempt a great thing, when perhaps one has for one’s welfare ventured so little. I will proceed.”

He made a bold step forward, the wind drove the scudding clouds again across the moon, and Wilhelm entered the deepest part of the forest.

At last he was arrived at the cross road. The magic circle was described, the skulls and cross-bones laid in order round. The moon sank deeper and deeper behind the clouds, leaving it to the dull coals, blown by the chance gusts of wind, to lend their red and mournful glimmer to the deed of night. In the distance a turret-clock chimed the three-quarters past: Wilhelm laid the melting ladle on the coals, and threw in the lead, together with three bullets which had already hit their mark, for he remembered to have heard say, that this with the Free-shooters was the usual custom. It now began to rain in the forest. Owls, bats, and birds of night, dazzled by the blaze, fluttered about. They perched on various branches, and sat round the magic circle, where their low hooting seemed to maintain an unintelligible conversation with the skulls. Their numbers increased, and behind them vapory figures waved to and fro like clouds; some of the fashion of beasts, and some of men. The gusts of wind played with their mournful robings, as with the dew-cloud at even; one only stood firm, drawing near to the circle, and looking fixedly and sadly upon Wilhelm. At times it stretched out towards him its pale hands, and seemed to sigh. The coals burnt lower when it raised its hands, but a grey owl flapped its wings and fanned them up again. Wilhelm raised himself, and the countenance of his dead mother seemed to look forth on him in the dim phantom, with an expression of mournful woe.

The clock then struck eleven: the pale spectre vanished sighing. The owls and night-ravens fluttered and hooted; between their wings they rattled the bones and skulls. Wilhelm kneeled down before his pile of coals, he poured the lead, and at the last stroke of the clock,—fell the first bullet from the mould!

The owls and skulls were quiet. But through the forest came an old decrepid beldame, making straight for the circle. She was surrounded with wooden spoons; pot-ladles and other cooking utensils were hanging from her waist and made a frightful clattering; the owls welcomed her with screechings, and stroked her with their wings. At the circle she bowed to the bones and skulls, but the coal-flame flickered towards her, so that she drew back her horny hand. She then ran round the circle, and grinning held out her several wares to Wilhelm,—grumbling the whiles to him thus:

Wilhelm shuddered, but remained quiet and hastened on his work. The old witch was not unknown to him. A mad beggar-woman was she, who had often made her appearance in the neighbourhood, until she found Rh