Page:Halek's Stories and Evensongs.pdf/335

 was scarce strong enough to be perceived, ay, rather it resembled the faint breathing of a child or the mere echo of a sigh.

As we know from the beginning of our story that tinsel music in which the Christus indulged was not over-attractive towards nightfall, and people took to flight before it as if an enemy were in full pursuit behind them. But of those who came hither this evening none paid any attention to it; perhaps they did not even hear it, because in their inmost hearts resounded an unrest far more fierce, more discordant, harsh, so that they fled from it into this strange harbour of refuge.

And hereupon old Loyka, as soon as they had set foot in the cemetery, embraced with one hand that ruddy wood of the cross, and raising the other on high and fixing his eyes upon the white-iron figure of the Christus, began to lament his fate, to call aloud, to curse, to pray, and to prostrate himself at the same time. “Thou martyred Head,” he cried, “Thou hast suffered much, but Thou hadst not a son to cut out Thy heart piece by piece—I suffer more. Thou hadst no home, but because Thou never hadst a home, Thou knowest not what it is to be forced to leave a home, a home which I proffered to every one who needed it, and now I have not even so much as I proffered once to others—I suffer more. Thou wert young and vigorous when Thou didst suffer, but Thou hadst not hair streaked with grey and wrinkles on Thy face, Thou hast not suffered when the feet long to faint and flag, and must tramp on—I suffer more! But Thou didst voluntarily undergo Thy torments, mine are the punishment of my sins—yonder in that grave sleeps the witness of my words and of my evil deeds—I suffer more! And I but now entreated Thy Father about some fire that He would send it as He sent it upon Gomorrah, and He heard me not—what is there still left for me to suffer?”

After these words, pronounced with immeasurable anguish, a silence fell on everything in the cemetery, as though it would accentuate Loyka’s bitterness—the white-iron figure of the Christus clanged upon the cross from time to time—perhaps it did not wish without reserve to adapt itself to this train, of thoughts.

On this Vena said, “If you would have allowed yourself, pantata, to be nailed to a cross like the Lord Christ, look you there, you never need have been banished from your home, and for my part I believe that Joseph would have helped you up if you had requested him.”