The music grated and jarred; but
for the last hour the village steeple, which rose heavenward as
the watchful finger of God, had been lost in the darkness.
for the last hour the village steeple, which rose heavenward as
the watchful finger of God, had been lost in the darkness.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v09 - Dra to Eme
Since the death of my mother his
beautiful, sonorous, and contagious laugh had been heard no
more.
Chattering thus, we came to a mound at the bottom of the
garden, from which we could see a corner of the village; the
## p. 5199 (#371) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5199
over-
spire emerging from a screen of limes, the crossed sails of a
silent mill perched on a grassy knoll, farms scattered among corn-
fields and meadows, until the plain was lost in the horizon.
“Look, George,” he said, “this will be our world in future.
It will be good for us both to live here; for if I need
solace, you will gain equally. . . . No more confinement, my dear
little fellow; we are rich enough to live in the country as phi-
losophers. . . . And when I am gone . . . for one must provide
for everything. . . . " He stopped. I remember that a broken-
winded barrel organ ground out a polka behind the screen of
limes which shut off the village.
My father had suddenly become serious, and the solemnity of
his last words moved me deeply. Then that distant melancholy air
made me shudder. When he had finished speaking, he coughed
for a long time.
We were seated on the slope, our backs to the house, facing
the vast plain, the silence of which was rendered more
whelming by the jarring notes of the barrel organ.
“Father,” I murmured, as if in prayer, “what do you mean ? »
In reply he drew me towards him, took my head in his hands
and looked at me long, his eyes lost in mine; then he embraced
me, attempted to smile, and said :-
"It is nothing. I am well, am I not? Why do my family
worry me with their advice ? Indeed, they will frighten me with
their long faces and perpetual visits. . . , To-day at least I have
escaped from them. . . . We two are alone . . . free! Soon it
will be always so! ”
Despite this reanimation, an inexpressible agony wrung my
heart, and I made no effort to escape from this influence, which
I felt to be due to our deep sympathy.
Regret was already mingled with my delight; and on this
exquisite afternoon there was that heart-rending sense of things
which have been and will never be again — never.
I threw my arms round my father's neck, and made no other
reply to his last words. It required a mutual effort to break the
silence; neither of us made the effort. In the distance the organ
continued to grind out the tune as if it too were choked with sobs.
Thus we remained for long, until the day waned.
"Is it not time to go back, sir? ”
Yana's interruptions aroused us. Silently my father got up,
and with my hand still in his we passed through the graying
## p. 5200 (#372) ###########################################
5200
GEORGES EEKHOUD
country, where the twilight already created fantastic shadows. At
about a hundred yards from the house he turned round, and
made me look once more at the little corner of earth, the hermi-
tage which was to shelter us.
“We will call it Mon Repos! ” he said, and he moved on.
Mon Repos! How he lingered over those three syllables.
Even thus are certain nocturnes of Chopin prolonged.
When we reached Ambroes farm, we took affectionate fare-
well of Yana's family. My father thanked them for their wel.
come, and reminded them of his invitation. He gave Jan a few
further instructions about the garden; the lad stood cap in hand,
his dark eyes expressive of vivid sympathy.
Yet another au revoir"; then the carriage drove away, and
we turned our backs on the dear village.
Was it still the kermesse organ which obsessed me, lingering
above all other sounds, growing fainter and fainter but never
quite dying away? And why did I ceaselessly repeat to myself,
whatever the music, these three unimportant syllables “Mon
Repos” ?
The sun was setting when we reached the gates of the town.
Country masons, white and dusty, with tools over their shoulder
and tins hanging by their side, walked rapidly to the villages
which we had left behind. Happy workmen! They were wise
to go back to the village, and to leave the hideous slums of
West Antwerp to their town comrades.
A fresh breeze had risen which stirred the tops of the aspens.
The purple light on the horizon beyond the ramparts grew faint.
During the whole drive my father remained sunk in prostration;
his hands, which I stroked, were moist; now burning, now icy.
He roused himself from this painful torpor only to slip his hand
through my hair, and to smile at me as never friend has smiled
since.
Yana too looked sad now, and pretended that it was the
dust which caused her to wipe her eyes continually with her
handkerchief.
I was tired, overcome with so much open air, but I could not
fall asleep that night. I dreamed with open eyes of the events
of the day, of the farm, of good-natured Jan, of the happy meal,
of the kid, of the coming day when I should be boer Jorss," as
the kind fellow said. . . . I was happy, but from time to time
a fit of terrible coughing from the next room stifled me, and
## p. 5201 (#373) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5201
« You
me.
then I recalled the scene in the garden, our silence against the
jarring sound of the organ, and later these two words
« Mon
Repos. ” I did not close my eyes until the morning.
When I awoke, my uncle was already waiting for me. He
was an old officer and adhered to military time only.
“We must be off ! ” he said in his gruff, harsh voice.
must go back to work, my lad. ”
Must I go away again ? Why this week's separation ? What
did my uncle's authoritative tone mean in my father's house, in
our house? Why did Yana look at him respectfully but sullenly?
I did not guess the horrible but absolute necessity for this intru-
sion; it exasperated me.
What a bitter leave-taking! And that, too, for a week's sepa-
ration only. It was in vain that my uncle made fun of our tears.
I clung to my beloved father, and he had not the strength to repel
The impatient officer tore me at last from his embrace.
«The train does not wait! ” he grumbled. "Were there ever
such chicken-hearted people!
I was indignant.
“No, not at parting from you,” I said to my unsympathetic
relation, (but from him ! »
“Djodgy! Djodgy! my father tried to say in a tone of re-
proach. “Forgive him, Henry. . . . Au revoir! In a week's
time! . . . Be good ever. ”
This time Yana no longer tried to hide her tears. Lion
moved sadly from one to another, and his human eyes appeared
to say, “Stay with him. ”
But nothing would move my obdurate uncle.
We drove away
in the same carriage which had taken us the day before to
S'Gravenwezel.
We waved to one another as long as the carriage was in the
street.
In a week I should see him again!
In a week he was dead!
But I have forgotten nothing.
Thus it is, ever since then, that I love, I adore this Flemish
country as my heritage from him who loved it above all others;
from him, the sole human being who never wrought me any ill.
These vast pale-blue horizons, often veiled with mist or fog,
gleam before me again as that tearful smile which I caught for
the last time upon his dear face.
IX-326
## p. 5202 (#374) ###########################################
5202
GEORGES EEKHOUD
KORS DAVIE
From The Massacre of the Innocents, and Other Tales by Belgian Writers):
copyrighted 1895, by Stone & Kimball
I* Verhulst, was sace
WAS fair-time, yet Rika Let, the young dairymaid of bats
She had worked so hard all August that
this morning, before mass, the baezine had given her a bright
florin and spoken kindly to her: -
«Rika, it is fair-time for every one. Enjoy yourself, my girl.
Here is something to buy yourself a neckerchief at the fair, a
bright-colored one with fringe to cross over your breast. ”
Rika accepted her mistress's present. Alone in her garret
above the stable, she turned the shining coin over and over, but
hesitated to exchange it for some coveted trifle at Suske Derk's
stall, down there by the church. Great tears sprang to her eyes,
eyes which were faintly tinged with green. What sorrow filled
the heart of this fair young girl of eighteen summers ?
"Ah,” she sighed, “if only one of the village lads would take
me to the fair and give me a gay kerchief! But who cares for
poor Rika? Our lads woo other girls, better born and richer than
I am! Baezine Verhulst knew that, or she would not have given
me money to buy a thing which the poorest laborer, or even the
humblest thresher, gives gladly to his sweetheart to-day.
Who will dance this evening with Rika Let at the Golden Swan ?
. . No one. No, baezine Verhulst, it is not a fête day for
every one ! »
Tears rested on her fair lashes as the morning dew clings to
the bearded ears of corn. Mechanically she looked at herself in
a piece of glass which hung beneath a little Notre-Dame of
Montaigu. She was not plainer than many of her companions
who were admired by the ardent and happy lovers. Ugly - Rika!
No indeed. Fair as the August cornfields of the Verhulsts were
her tresses. Her lips were red and full as ripe cherries. If you
feel aught of the charm of the young peasant girls of our coun-
try, you would admire Rika.
She dressed herself in her simple Sunday clothes; a little col-
lar and flat cap, both of dazzling whiteness; a skirt and bodice,
unsoiled by any speck of dust.
The bell sounded for mass.
Go and pray, Rika! Who can say ? the good God mayhap will
unseal the eyes of the blind gallants of Viersel.
## p. 5203 (#375) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5203
A savory
She told her beads so earnestly, that a friend had to remind
her when the service was at an end.
Outside the church a crowd of gay youths, with crossed arms
and flowers between their lips, watched the blushing procession
of girls who were to be their partners in the evening. Sympa-
thetic glances were exchanged, and with a smile or a simple
movement of the head a meeting was arranged, a promise con-
firmed, a consent given. Eager hearts throbbed under the blue
smocks, the many-colored kerchiefs; but no glance sought to
attract the bright eyes of the orphan girl, not one of those young
hearts beat in unison with hers.
To reach the farm, Rika had to pass through the fair. Suske
Derk had displayed her wares. Rika did not even deign to look
at them. The mercer called to her:
“Ha! my pretty devotee! Won't you even wear a scapulary ? »
At midday there was a great feast at the Verhulst farm in
honor of the fair. Masters, friends, and servants, all with big
appetites, seated themselves round a table laden with enormous
dishes, brought in by the farmer's wife and Rika.
smell filled the large room; the steam dimmed the copper orna-
ments on the chimney-piece, the crucifix, the candlesticks, the big
plates, which were the pride of the cleanly Rika. At first the
guests, speechless, gravely and solemnly satisfied their hunger.
Then came the bumpers to wash down the viands, for mealy
Polder potatoes make one thirsty. As the tankards were re-filled,
tongues were loosed, and jokes piquant as the waters of the
Scheldt flew apace.
Rika in her turn sat down to the table, but the sorrow at
her heart robbed her of appetite, and she ate little. The lively
guests, distressed by her silence, attributed it to arrogance, and
turned their attention elsewhere. Later they would rejoin their
buxom wenches, and think no more of the poor little soul tor-
mented with the desire for love.
The more the day advanced, the less Rika thought of pur-
chasing a fichu at Suske Derk's stall; she would rather return the
florin to her mistress! Bugles and screeching fiddles could be
heard from the Golden Swan.
Houpsa! rich and poor hasten to the dance, some in shoes,
others in sabots. Lourelourela! The quadrilles form. The
couples hail their vis-à-vis across the room. All is ready. They
set off. . .
## p. 5204 (#376) ###########################################
5204
GEORGES EEKHOUD
Rika alone is absent from the ball. Seated on the threshold
of the barn, the sound of the brass and wind instruments, the
patter of feet, the laughter and oaths, reach her ear.
The low-roofed houses of the village fade slowly in the twi-
light. The church steeple rises heavenward as the watchful fin-
ger of God; at its base lies the Golden Swan; against the four
red-curtained windows the figures of the dancing couples are out-
lined black as imps.
Rika could not tear herself away from this scene. Her heart,
till now pure as the veil of a first communicant, was filled with
bitter thoughts.
Marvelous tales were told of Zanne Hokespokes. The little
old woman possessed some wonderful secrets; she could give rot
to sheep, make cows run dry, and poison nurses' milk. She
could see the fate of those who consulted her in cards and in
coffee-grounds. She could recall the fickle lover to the side of
the deserted maiden. Perhaps she could find a sweetheart for
lonely Rika?
Unholy thoughts rose with the oppressive mists of the even-
ing. They grew in the solitude, in the remoteness from others'
joy. The ungainly couples danced up and down, black as imps,
against the four red windows.
The music grated and jarred; but
for the last hour the village steeple, which rose heavenward as
the watchful finger of God, had been lost in the darkness.
Would it be well to take advantage of the absence of her
master and mistress and consult the fortune-teller ? No one
would meet her. All the village was at the Golden Swan.
Holy Virgin! how they are enjoying themselves! Among the
whirling couples Rika saw two figures intertwined, their faces so
close that their lips must meet!
Yes, she would have recourse to the spells of the old woman
Hokespokes, whatever might happen. She had still the bright
coin in her pocket. This and the few coppers which she had
saved would suffice.
The sorceress lived in a clay hut deep in the dark woods of
Zoersel. The peasants avoided these woods and passed through
them in broad daylight only, making the sign of the cross. At
nightfall weird melancholy sounds, which seemed to come from
another world, murmured in the tree-tops. It took an hour to
reach the cottage from Viersel. Rika calculated that she could
be home before midnight. Her master and mistress would not
## p. 5205 (#377) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5205
return earlier than that. She overcame her last fears, and set
out bravely towards the lonely heath.
In this bag, little one, are the ashes of the tooth of a corpse;
the tooth was picked up in the cemetery of Safftingen, the vil-
lage that was submerged by the Scheldt; therein is also a mush-
room, called toadstool, gathered at the foot of the tree on
which Nol Bardaf the cobbler was hanged.
Next full moon,
on a cloudless night, sprinkle the magic powder at the foot of
your bed, and prick the mushroom deeply with a hairpin, utter-
ing these words three times:-'I command thee, charmed plant,
to bring me the man who shall wound me as I wound thee! )
Then go to bed with the mushroom under your pillow, and wait
in perfect quiet without speaking. The beloved one will appear.
Open your eyes, but above all things neither speak nor move.
You must even hold your breath. If he leaves you, do not try to
detain him. You will see him again, and will then become his
wife. ”
Thus spoke Zanne Hokespokes.
Rika followed the instructions of the sorceress. She waited
several days for the fine cloudless night, and when the full moon
rose she did as the witch had bidden her.
"I command thee, charmed thing, to bring me the man who
shall wound me as I wound thee! ”
Once -- twice — thrice.
Rika, with wide-open eyes and strained ear, lay in bed eagerly
awaiting the promised vision. Shadow became substance in the
garret, which was bathed in the silvery-blue beams of the moon.
The silence was so overwhelming that Rika thought she heard
the sound of the white light as it fell on the bare floor.
Now she regretted her traffic with a servant of the Devil, now
she rejoiced at the prospect of seeing him, the man who would
love her; but again she feared that he might not come.
The yard door swung on its hinges. A hasty, heavy step
crossed the court without disturbing the watch-dog. He opened
the kitchen door. Clope! Clope! rapidly he climbed the ladder
which led to the attic. Terror seized Rika; she stifled a cry, as
the trap-door opened.
There he was in her room; a soldier, a young artilleryman.
He passed by her unnoticed in the white light of the moon.
Ah! Rika loves him at first sight; it is he for whom she has
waited. He has a round face, curly auburn hair, a well-cut
## p. 5206 (#378) ###########################################
5206
GEORGES EEKHOUD
more
mouth, a slightly aquiline nose, with dilating nostrils, a square
chin, and broad shoulders. A fine mustache covers his upper
lip. He wears a brigadier's braids on his sleeve, and spurs on
his heels. What mad race has he been running ? His broad
chest rises and falls, he gasps for breath, and throws himself
down on the only stool. Rika longs to rush to him, to wipe the
sweat from his brow. As if overpowered, he loosens his tunic,
unclasps his belt, and exposes his fine chest. Somewhat rested,
oblivious of Rika, he scrutinizes his uniform from head to foot,
and notices that one of the buttonholes of his boot-strap is torn.
He takes off the strap, and with a knife which he draws from
his pocket makes a fresh hole in the leather. Then he readjusts
the strap to the trouser.
Rika observed all these movements. More and
more she
admired his military bearing and the ease with which he moved.
Animated by his run, the soldier's face struck her as
expressive than the faces of the other fellows of her acquaint-
ance, even than the faces of the scornful Odo and Freek, the
Verhulsts' two sons, whom she had once admired.
The stranger re-buttoned his coat, fastened his belt, put his
cap on his head, and left the room with the same quick firm
step. She dared not call to him and hold out her arms. The
door closed.
The sound of his footsteps, the clank of his sword, were lost
in the distance. To Rika a memory only remained.
Has it not all been a dream, poor impressionable little thing?
No; a moment ago he sat quite near Rika's bed.
By the wan light of the moon she saw a sparkling object, the
knife which he had just used; here was her proof. She could no
longer doubt. She picked up the knife, pressed the still-open
blade to her lips, and as her breath dulled the steel, she wiped it,
kissed it again; twenty times she repeated the same childish trick.
Truly the good Zanne Hokespokes keeps her word. The
pretty knife with its tortoise-shell handle will henceforth be a
pledge for Rika. Her fingers lovingly caressed the blade, as if
they stroked the mustache of the brigadier; she would fain see
her reflection in the dark eyes of the beloved one, as she saw it
in the shining metal.
Her eyes grew weary with gazing on the bright surface; she
was compelled to lie down. She slept and dreamt of her soldier
visitor, with the precious knife clasped to her breast.
## p. 5207 (#379) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5207
TARATA! Tarata! Tarata!
“Wake up, Kors Davie! . . . Perhaps you're sorry to leave the
barracks! Confound it! the fellow snores as if he did not care
for his holiday! ”
Brigadier Warner Cats, Davie's fellow-countryman and com-
rade, tired of speaking, shook Kors roughly, as the bugle sounded
the réveille. Kors sat up, stretched himself, appeared astonished,
and rubbed his eyes with his fists.
« That's strange! Pouh! What a vile dream! ” he muttered
with a yawn.
Comrade, just listen: I was out in the country,
very much against my will, I assure you. . . . A horrible old
woman pursued me with repeated blows. We crossed heath and
swamp; my shoulder-belt and my sword caught in the thickets;
my skin was scratched with thorns. . . . I few over ditches
three yards wide to escape from my persecutor. But the wicked
old woman galloped after me and belabored me incessantly. . .
I was too much of a coward to turn and face her. . . . Oh! that
race by starlight! . . . I almost hated our beloved Campine,
. . . for all this happened in La Bruyère. . . But I'll be
hanged if I know where! . . . Oh! my legs, my poor legs. . .
You'll not believe, but I'm as exhausted
"Pouh! Pouh! ” interrupted the faithful Warner Cats.
“Dreams are lies! so my grandmother used to say. You'll have
forgotten all about these phantoms by the time you're beyond
the ramparts, on the way to our beautiful Wildonck, these phan-
toms will all vanish. . . Be done with grumbling. . . Hang
nightmares, if only the awakening is sweet! ”
Kors got up, packed his kit, folded his blankets, and cheered
by the thought of his holiday, hummed a soldier's tune.
As he felt in his pocket he stopped suddenly. “Good heavens!
I could have sworn that I put it in my waistcoat pocket. ”
« What ?
What's up now, you grumbling devil ? ” asked
Warner.
« Dash it! Begga Leuven's penknife, . .
my Begga. . The
pretty knife which she bought me for my fête day when I was
last in Antwerp. ”
« Well ? »
“I cannot find it! . . . There's a fine state of things. .
What will Begga say? I wanted to show her the little treasure
still bright and new.
The dear soul will never forgive my care-
lessness. ”
.
## p. 5208 (#380) ###########################################
5208
GEORGES EEKHOUD
Nonsense! she'll give you another. . Besides, it is not
lucky to give knives; they cut the bonds of love! ” Warner added
gravely; "they bring misfortune. ”
«In the mean time, the bother is that I've lost the knife.
Damn it! ”
He turned his pockets inside out in vain.
« Well, I suppose I must make the best of it,” he said at last.
When he was ready, he shook hands with his comrade and
took up his bundle.
“Au revoir ! ” said Warner. “Remember me to all friends,
and drink a pint to my health next Sunday at Maus Walkiers.
Don't forget to go and see my old parents, and tell them that
my purse is as flat as a pancake. Remember me also to Stans
the wheelwright. ”
“Good. Are these all my orders ? ”
Davie hastened into the street.
Having left the town by the Vieux-Dieu fort, he followed the
treeless military road on a hot July morning. When he came
within sight of the spire of Wommelghem, he turned off by the
short cut which led to Ranst and Broechem.
Here the copses
and brushwood protected him from the intense heat of the sun.
He walked sharply, cap in hand, the sweat standing on his brow.
Over his shoulder he carried his bundle, tied in a red handker-
chief and fastened to a stick which he had cut on the way. He
stopped for a drink of beer at the toll-houses and cross-roads,
chatted with the barmaids if they took his fancy, then went
happily on. Towards midday he had passed through or skirted
four villages, and was a mile only from the home where his
father and Begga awaited him. As he recalled the bright
healthy face of his young sweetheart, the remembrance of his bad
dream and of the loss of the knife came back to him. Con-
founded knife! Kors could not separate the thought of Begga
from the lost treasure, and by a strange contradiction of human
nature he was almost angry with the poor girl, because she had
bought him this pocket-knife which had now come between them.
This ungenerous conclusion more and more took possession of
him. So preoccupied was he that he forgot to look where he
was going. Suddenly he noticed that he had gone astray
He was about to cross a bridge over the Campine canal,
though this bridge did not really lie in his route. Beyond it,
trees lined the road on either side for a great distance. Between
## p. 5209 (#381) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5209
the trunks could be seen vast meadows, which stretched towards
an immense purple heath, bathed in soft mist. Four fine cows
stood knee-deep in the meadow-grass which fringed the banks of
the canal; not far from the cows a young girl with a branch in
her hand sat on the slope guarding them.
He called to her:-
"Hi, Mietje, come here !
beautiful, sonorous, and contagious laugh had been heard no
more.
Chattering thus, we came to a mound at the bottom of the
garden, from which we could see a corner of the village; the
## p. 5199 (#371) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5199
over-
spire emerging from a screen of limes, the crossed sails of a
silent mill perched on a grassy knoll, farms scattered among corn-
fields and meadows, until the plain was lost in the horizon.
“Look, George,” he said, “this will be our world in future.
It will be good for us both to live here; for if I need
solace, you will gain equally. . . . No more confinement, my dear
little fellow; we are rich enough to live in the country as phi-
losophers. . . . And when I am gone . . . for one must provide
for everything. . . . " He stopped. I remember that a broken-
winded barrel organ ground out a polka behind the screen of
limes which shut off the village.
My father had suddenly become serious, and the solemnity of
his last words moved me deeply. Then that distant melancholy air
made me shudder. When he had finished speaking, he coughed
for a long time.
We were seated on the slope, our backs to the house, facing
the vast plain, the silence of which was rendered more
whelming by the jarring notes of the barrel organ.
“Father,” I murmured, as if in prayer, “what do you mean ? »
In reply he drew me towards him, took my head in his hands
and looked at me long, his eyes lost in mine; then he embraced
me, attempted to smile, and said :-
"It is nothing. I am well, am I not? Why do my family
worry me with their advice ? Indeed, they will frighten me with
their long faces and perpetual visits. . . , To-day at least I have
escaped from them. . . . We two are alone . . . free! Soon it
will be always so! ”
Despite this reanimation, an inexpressible agony wrung my
heart, and I made no effort to escape from this influence, which
I felt to be due to our deep sympathy.
Regret was already mingled with my delight; and on this
exquisite afternoon there was that heart-rending sense of things
which have been and will never be again — never.
I threw my arms round my father's neck, and made no other
reply to his last words. It required a mutual effort to break the
silence; neither of us made the effort. In the distance the organ
continued to grind out the tune as if it too were choked with sobs.
Thus we remained for long, until the day waned.
"Is it not time to go back, sir? ”
Yana's interruptions aroused us. Silently my father got up,
and with my hand still in his we passed through the graying
## p. 5200 (#372) ###########################################
5200
GEORGES EEKHOUD
country, where the twilight already created fantastic shadows. At
about a hundred yards from the house he turned round, and
made me look once more at the little corner of earth, the hermi-
tage which was to shelter us.
“We will call it Mon Repos! ” he said, and he moved on.
Mon Repos! How he lingered over those three syllables.
Even thus are certain nocturnes of Chopin prolonged.
When we reached Ambroes farm, we took affectionate fare-
well of Yana's family. My father thanked them for their wel.
come, and reminded them of his invitation. He gave Jan a few
further instructions about the garden; the lad stood cap in hand,
his dark eyes expressive of vivid sympathy.
Yet another au revoir"; then the carriage drove away, and
we turned our backs on the dear village.
Was it still the kermesse organ which obsessed me, lingering
above all other sounds, growing fainter and fainter but never
quite dying away? And why did I ceaselessly repeat to myself,
whatever the music, these three unimportant syllables “Mon
Repos” ?
The sun was setting when we reached the gates of the town.
Country masons, white and dusty, with tools over their shoulder
and tins hanging by their side, walked rapidly to the villages
which we had left behind. Happy workmen! They were wise
to go back to the village, and to leave the hideous slums of
West Antwerp to their town comrades.
A fresh breeze had risen which stirred the tops of the aspens.
The purple light on the horizon beyond the ramparts grew faint.
During the whole drive my father remained sunk in prostration;
his hands, which I stroked, were moist; now burning, now icy.
He roused himself from this painful torpor only to slip his hand
through my hair, and to smile at me as never friend has smiled
since.
Yana too looked sad now, and pretended that it was the
dust which caused her to wipe her eyes continually with her
handkerchief.
I was tired, overcome with so much open air, but I could not
fall asleep that night. I dreamed with open eyes of the events
of the day, of the farm, of good-natured Jan, of the happy meal,
of the kid, of the coming day when I should be boer Jorss," as
the kind fellow said. . . . I was happy, but from time to time
a fit of terrible coughing from the next room stifled me, and
## p. 5201 (#373) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5201
« You
me.
then I recalled the scene in the garden, our silence against the
jarring sound of the organ, and later these two words
« Mon
Repos. ” I did not close my eyes until the morning.
When I awoke, my uncle was already waiting for me. He
was an old officer and adhered to military time only.
“We must be off ! ” he said in his gruff, harsh voice.
must go back to work, my lad. ”
Must I go away again ? Why this week's separation ? What
did my uncle's authoritative tone mean in my father's house, in
our house? Why did Yana look at him respectfully but sullenly?
I did not guess the horrible but absolute necessity for this intru-
sion; it exasperated me.
What a bitter leave-taking! And that, too, for a week's sepa-
ration only. It was in vain that my uncle made fun of our tears.
I clung to my beloved father, and he had not the strength to repel
The impatient officer tore me at last from his embrace.
«The train does not wait! ” he grumbled. "Were there ever
such chicken-hearted people!
I was indignant.
“No, not at parting from you,” I said to my unsympathetic
relation, (but from him ! »
“Djodgy! Djodgy! my father tried to say in a tone of re-
proach. “Forgive him, Henry. . . . Au revoir! In a week's
time! . . . Be good ever. ”
This time Yana no longer tried to hide her tears. Lion
moved sadly from one to another, and his human eyes appeared
to say, “Stay with him. ”
But nothing would move my obdurate uncle.
We drove away
in the same carriage which had taken us the day before to
S'Gravenwezel.
We waved to one another as long as the carriage was in the
street.
In a week I should see him again!
In a week he was dead!
But I have forgotten nothing.
Thus it is, ever since then, that I love, I adore this Flemish
country as my heritage from him who loved it above all others;
from him, the sole human being who never wrought me any ill.
These vast pale-blue horizons, often veiled with mist or fog,
gleam before me again as that tearful smile which I caught for
the last time upon his dear face.
IX-326
## p. 5202 (#374) ###########################################
5202
GEORGES EEKHOUD
KORS DAVIE
From The Massacre of the Innocents, and Other Tales by Belgian Writers):
copyrighted 1895, by Stone & Kimball
I* Verhulst, was sace
WAS fair-time, yet Rika Let, the young dairymaid of bats
She had worked so hard all August that
this morning, before mass, the baezine had given her a bright
florin and spoken kindly to her: -
«Rika, it is fair-time for every one. Enjoy yourself, my girl.
Here is something to buy yourself a neckerchief at the fair, a
bright-colored one with fringe to cross over your breast. ”
Rika accepted her mistress's present. Alone in her garret
above the stable, she turned the shining coin over and over, but
hesitated to exchange it for some coveted trifle at Suske Derk's
stall, down there by the church. Great tears sprang to her eyes,
eyes which were faintly tinged with green. What sorrow filled
the heart of this fair young girl of eighteen summers ?
"Ah,” she sighed, “if only one of the village lads would take
me to the fair and give me a gay kerchief! But who cares for
poor Rika? Our lads woo other girls, better born and richer than
I am! Baezine Verhulst knew that, or she would not have given
me money to buy a thing which the poorest laborer, or even the
humblest thresher, gives gladly to his sweetheart to-day.
Who will dance this evening with Rika Let at the Golden Swan ?
. . No one. No, baezine Verhulst, it is not a fête day for
every one ! »
Tears rested on her fair lashes as the morning dew clings to
the bearded ears of corn. Mechanically she looked at herself in
a piece of glass which hung beneath a little Notre-Dame of
Montaigu. She was not plainer than many of her companions
who were admired by the ardent and happy lovers. Ugly - Rika!
No indeed. Fair as the August cornfields of the Verhulsts were
her tresses. Her lips were red and full as ripe cherries. If you
feel aught of the charm of the young peasant girls of our coun-
try, you would admire Rika.
She dressed herself in her simple Sunday clothes; a little col-
lar and flat cap, both of dazzling whiteness; a skirt and bodice,
unsoiled by any speck of dust.
The bell sounded for mass.
Go and pray, Rika! Who can say ? the good God mayhap will
unseal the eyes of the blind gallants of Viersel.
## p. 5203 (#375) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5203
A savory
She told her beads so earnestly, that a friend had to remind
her when the service was at an end.
Outside the church a crowd of gay youths, with crossed arms
and flowers between their lips, watched the blushing procession
of girls who were to be their partners in the evening. Sympa-
thetic glances were exchanged, and with a smile or a simple
movement of the head a meeting was arranged, a promise con-
firmed, a consent given. Eager hearts throbbed under the blue
smocks, the many-colored kerchiefs; but no glance sought to
attract the bright eyes of the orphan girl, not one of those young
hearts beat in unison with hers.
To reach the farm, Rika had to pass through the fair. Suske
Derk had displayed her wares. Rika did not even deign to look
at them. The mercer called to her:
“Ha! my pretty devotee! Won't you even wear a scapulary ? »
At midday there was a great feast at the Verhulst farm in
honor of the fair. Masters, friends, and servants, all with big
appetites, seated themselves round a table laden with enormous
dishes, brought in by the farmer's wife and Rika.
smell filled the large room; the steam dimmed the copper orna-
ments on the chimney-piece, the crucifix, the candlesticks, the big
plates, which were the pride of the cleanly Rika. At first the
guests, speechless, gravely and solemnly satisfied their hunger.
Then came the bumpers to wash down the viands, for mealy
Polder potatoes make one thirsty. As the tankards were re-filled,
tongues were loosed, and jokes piquant as the waters of the
Scheldt flew apace.
Rika in her turn sat down to the table, but the sorrow at
her heart robbed her of appetite, and she ate little. The lively
guests, distressed by her silence, attributed it to arrogance, and
turned their attention elsewhere. Later they would rejoin their
buxom wenches, and think no more of the poor little soul tor-
mented with the desire for love.
The more the day advanced, the less Rika thought of pur-
chasing a fichu at Suske Derk's stall; she would rather return the
florin to her mistress! Bugles and screeching fiddles could be
heard from the Golden Swan.
Houpsa! rich and poor hasten to the dance, some in shoes,
others in sabots. Lourelourela! The quadrilles form. The
couples hail their vis-à-vis across the room. All is ready. They
set off. . .
## p. 5204 (#376) ###########################################
5204
GEORGES EEKHOUD
Rika alone is absent from the ball. Seated on the threshold
of the barn, the sound of the brass and wind instruments, the
patter of feet, the laughter and oaths, reach her ear.
The low-roofed houses of the village fade slowly in the twi-
light. The church steeple rises heavenward as the watchful fin-
ger of God; at its base lies the Golden Swan; against the four
red-curtained windows the figures of the dancing couples are out-
lined black as imps.
Rika could not tear herself away from this scene. Her heart,
till now pure as the veil of a first communicant, was filled with
bitter thoughts.
Marvelous tales were told of Zanne Hokespokes. The little
old woman possessed some wonderful secrets; she could give rot
to sheep, make cows run dry, and poison nurses' milk. She
could see the fate of those who consulted her in cards and in
coffee-grounds. She could recall the fickle lover to the side of
the deserted maiden. Perhaps she could find a sweetheart for
lonely Rika?
Unholy thoughts rose with the oppressive mists of the even-
ing. They grew in the solitude, in the remoteness from others'
joy. The ungainly couples danced up and down, black as imps,
against the four red windows.
The music grated and jarred; but
for the last hour the village steeple, which rose heavenward as
the watchful finger of God, had been lost in the darkness.
Would it be well to take advantage of the absence of her
master and mistress and consult the fortune-teller ? No one
would meet her. All the village was at the Golden Swan.
Holy Virgin! how they are enjoying themselves! Among the
whirling couples Rika saw two figures intertwined, their faces so
close that their lips must meet!
Yes, she would have recourse to the spells of the old woman
Hokespokes, whatever might happen. She had still the bright
coin in her pocket. This and the few coppers which she had
saved would suffice.
The sorceress lived in a clay hut deep in the dark woods of
Zoersel. The peasants avoided these woods and passed through
them in broad daylight only, making the sign of the cross. At
nightfall weird melancholy sounds, which seemed to come from
another world, murmured in the tree-tops. It took an hour to
reach the cottage from Viersel. Rika calculated that she could
be home before midnight. Her master and mistress would not
## p. 5205 (#377) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5205
return earlier than that. She overcame her last fears, and set
out bravely towards the lonely heath.
In this bag, little one, are the ashes of the tooth of a corpse;
the tooth was picked up in the cemetery of Safftingen, the vil-
lage that was submerged by the Scheldt; therein is also a mush-
room, called toadstool, gathered at the foot of the tree on
which Nol Bardaf the cobbler was hanged.
Next full moon,
on a cloudless night, sprinkle the magic powder at the foot of
your bed, and prick the mushroom deeply with a hairpin, utter-
ing these words three times:-'I command thee, charmed plant,
to bring me the man who shall wound me as I wound thee! )
Then go to bed with the mushroom under your pillow, and wait
in perfect quiet without speaking. The beloved one will appear.
Open your eyes, but above all things neither speak nor move.
You must even hold your breath. If he leaves you, do not try to
detain him. You will see him again, and will then become his
wife. ”
Thus spoke Zanne Hokespokes.
Rika followed the instructions of the sorceress. She waited
several days for the fine cloudless night, and when the full moon
rose she did as the witch had bidden her.
"I command thee, charmed thing, to bring me the man who
shall wound me as I wound thee! ”
Once -- twice — thrice.
Rika, with wide-open eyes and strained ear, lay in bed eagerly
awaiting the promised vision. Shadow became substance in the
garret, which was bathed in the silvery-blue beams of the moon.
The silence was so overwhelming that Rika thought she heard
the sound of the white light as it fell on the bare floor.
Now she regretted her traffic with a servant of the Devil, now
she rejoiced at the prospect of seeing him, the man who would
love her; but again she feared that he might not come.
The yard door swung on its hinges. A hasty, heavy step
crossed the court without disturbing the watch-dog. He opened
the kitchen door. Clope! Clope! rapidly he climbed the ladder
which led to the attic. Terror seized Rika; she stifled a cry, as
the trap-door opened.
There he was in her room; a soldier, a young artilleryman.
He passed by her unnoticed in the white light of the moon.
Ah! Rika loves him at first sight; it is he for whom she has
waited. He has a round face, curly auburn hair, a well-cut
## p. 5206 (#378) ###########################################
5206
GEORGES EEKHOUD
more
mouth, a slightly aquiline nose, with dilating nostrils, a square
chin, and broad shoulders. A fine mustache covers his upper
lip. He wears a brigadier's braids on his sleeve, and spurs on
his heels. What mad race has he been running ? His broad
chest rises and falls, he gasps for breath, and throws himself
down on the only stool. Rika longs to rush to him, to wipe the
sweat from his brow. As if overpowered, he loosens his tunic,
unclasps his belt, and exposes his fine chest. Somewhat rested,
oblivious of Rika, he scrutinizes his uniform from head to foot,
and notices that one of the buttonholes of his boot-strap is torn.
He takes off the strap, and with a knife which he draws from
his pocket makes a fresh hole in the leather. Then he readjusts
the strap to the trouser.
Rika observed all these movements. More and
more she
admired his military bearing and the ease with which he moved.
Animated by his run, the soldier's face struck her as
expressive than the faces of the other fellows of her acquaint-
ance, even than the faces of the scornful Odo and Freek, the
Verhulsts' two sons, whom she had once admired.
The stranger re-buttoned his coat, fastened his belt, put his
cap on his head, and left the room with the same quick firm
step. She dared not call to him and hold out her arms. The
door closed.
The sound of his footsteps, the clank of his sword, were lost
in the distance. To Rika a memory only remained.
Has it not all been a dream, poor impressionable little thing?
No; a moment ago he sat quite near Rika's bed.
By the wan light of the moon she saw a sparkling object, the
knife which he had just used; here was her proof. She could no
longer doubt. She picked up the knife, pressed the still-open
blade to her lips, and as her breath dulled the steel, she wiped it,
kissed it again; twenty times she repeated the same childish trick.
Truly the good Zanne Hokespokes keeps her word. The
pretty knife with its tortoise-shell handle will henceforth be a
pledge for Rika. Her fingers lovingly caressed the blade, as if
they stroked the mustache of the brigadier; she would fain see
her reflection in the dark eyes of the beloved one, as she saw it
in the shining metal.
Her eyes grew weary with gazing on the bright surface; she
was compelled to lie down. She slept and dreamt of her soldier
visitor, with the precious knife clasped to her breast.
## p. 5207 (#379) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5207
TARATA! Tarata! Tarata!
“Wake up, Kors Davie! . . . Perhaps you're sorry to leave the
barracks! Confound it! the fellow snores as if he did not care
for his holiday! ”
Brigadier Warner Cats, Davie's fellow-countryman and com-
rade, tired of speaking, shook Kors roughly, as the bugle sounded
the réveille. Kors sat up, stretched himself, appeared astonished,
and rubbed his eyes with his fists.
« That's strange! Pouh! What a vile dream! ” he muttered
with a yawn.
Comrade, just listen: I was out in the country,
very much against my will, I assure you. . . . A horrible old
woman pursued me with repeated blows. We crossed heath and
swamp; my shoulder-belt and my sword caught in the thickets;
my skin was scratched with thorns. . . . I few over ditches
three yards wide to escape from my persecutor. But the wicked
old woman galloped after me and belabored me incessantly. . .
I was too much of a coward to turn and face her. . . . Oh! that
race by starlight! . . . I almost hated our beloved Campine,
. . . for all this happened in La Bruyère. . . But I'll be
hanged if I know where! . . . Oh! my legs, my poor legs. . .
You'll not believe, but I'm as exhausted
"Pouh! Pouh! ” interrupted the faithful Warner Cats.
“Dreams are lies! so my grandmother used to say. You'll have
forgotten all about these phantoms by the time you're beyond
the ramparts, on the way to our beautiful Wildonck, these phan-
toms will all vanish. . . Be done with grumbling. . . Hang
nightmares, if only the awakening is sweet! ”
Kors got up, packed his kit, folded his blankets, and cheered
by the thought of his holiday, hummed a soldier's tune.
As he felt in his pocket he stopped suddenly. “Good heavens!
I could have sworn that I put it in my waistcoat pocket. ”
« What ?
What's up now, you grumbling devil ? ” asked
Warner.
« Dash it! Begga Leuven's penknife, . .
my Begga. . The
pretty knife which she bought me for my fête day when I was
last in Antwerp. ”
« Well ? »
“I cannot find it! . . . There's a fine state of things. .
What will Begga say? I wanted to show her the little treasure
still bright and new.
The dear soul will never forgive my care-
lessness. ”
.
## p. 5208 (#380) ###########################################
5208
GEORGES EEKHOUD
Nonsense! she'll give you another. . Besides, it is not
lucky to give knives; they cut the bonds of love! ” Warner added
gravely; "they bring misfortune. ”
«In the mean time, the bother is that I've lost the knife.
Damn it! ”
He turned his pockets inside out in vain.
« Well, I suppose I must make the best of it,” he said at last.
When he was ready, he shook hands with his comrade and
took up his bundle.
“Au revoir ! ” said Warner. “Remember me to all friends,
and drink a pint to my health next Sunday at Maus Walkiers.
Don't forget to go and see my old parents, and tell them that
my purse is as flat as a pancake. Remember me also to Stans
the wheelwright. ”
“Good. Are these all my orders ? ”
Davie hastened into the street.
Having left the town by the Vieux-Dieu fort, he followed the
treeless military road on a hot July morning. When he came
within sight of the spire of Wommelghem, he turned off by the
short cut which led to Ranst and Broechem.
Here the copses
and brushwood protected him from the intense heat of the sun.
He walked sharply, cap in hand, the sweat standing on his brow.
Over his shoulder he carried his bundle, tied in a red handker-
chief and fastened to a stick which he had cut on the way. He
stopped for a drink of beer at the toll-houses and cross-roads,
chatted with the barmaids if they took his fancy, then went
happily on. Towards midday he had passed through or skirted
four villages, and was a mile only from the home where his
father and Begga awaited him. As he recalled the bright
healthy face of his young sweetheart, the remembrance of his bad
dream and of the loss of the knife came back to him. Con-
founded knife! Kors could not separate the thought of Begga
from the lost treasure, and by a strange contradiction of human
nature he was almost angry with the poor girl, because she had
bought him this pocket-knife which had now come between them.
This ungenerous conclusion more and more took possession of
him. So preoccupied was he that he forgot to look where he
was going. Suddenly he noticed that he had gone astray
He was about to cross a bridge over the Campine canal,
though this bridge did not really lie in his route. Beyond it,
trees lined the road on either side for a great distance. Between
## p. 5209 (#381) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5209
the trunks could be seen vast meadows, which stretched towards
an immense purple heath, bathed in soft mist. Four fine cows
stood knee-deep in the meadow-grass which fringed the banks of
the canal; not far from the cows a young girl with a branch in
her hand sat on the slope guarding them.
He called to her:-
"Hi, Mietje, come here !
