The iron tomb

Prologue

The village school has been dismissed.

There goes Micken, the fair, pretty child, returning home with her slate beneath her arm. Her neighbor Janneken, whose head is covered with thick, curling hair, walks beside her . 1

While rambling along they cull the corn flowers and red poppies growing in the rye; then seat themselves upon a moss-grown stone at the entrance of the cemetery.

Janneken weaves a wreath with the flowers, but the little girl thinks that takes too long, and shows great impatience to become possessed of it.

But Janneken works away with great earnestness, without comprehending the reason which impels him to do so. He arranges and disposes of the flowers with an eye to the harmony of color, now and then trying the wreath on his pretty companion’s brow.

Is it the awakening of friendship or of love that has converted the child into a precocious artist ?

Back of these innocent friends extends the city of eternal rest, with its silence that nothing can break, its grass-grown tombs and broken crosses.

1 Micken, Janneken, are little Mary, little John.

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The modest little church rises above the graveyard. Its old tower, both heavy and massive at the base, resembles an aged man weeping for his children that are no more. Gradually it becomes lighter in form, points towards the sky like a needle, showing the golden star of hope beaming above the generations sleeping peacefully within the bosom of the earth.

The sun diffuses its cheerful light around the graveyard, the flowers wave upon the tombs with the breath of the south wind, the birds sing in the lindens that shade the hallowed ground, gaudy butterflies flutter above the little wooden crosses, but nothing disturbs the solemn silence or the sacred solitude of the garden of the dead.

Janneken has finished his work ; on Micken’s brow blooms the red and white wreath he has woven for her.

They both take the path that winds across the cemetery.

Janneken sees a white field daisy shining like a silver star upon a grave ; he springs aside, plucks the flower from its stem, and places it on the brow of his friend.

It is the most precious jewel in the diadem of a queen — a queen whose budding royalty is life, whose sceptre is beauty, and whose treasures are faith and truth.

Micken walks along full of happiness, her blue eyes glisten with childish pride and blend their sweet radiance with that of the blue corn-flowers waving on her brow.

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But she pauses and glances with a smile at a little wooden cross, upon which the fresh garland of flowers indicates a newly-made grave.

“ The wreath you wear is much more beautiful,” says Janneken.

“ The wheelwright’s little Lotte is buried there,” said the little girl, dreamily.

“ Poor little girl ! ” answers the boy, “ She can never go to school with us any more.”

“ But she is in Heaven, isn’t she ?”

“ Yes, she is in Heaven, poor girl ! ”

“Why are you sad because little Lotte is in Heaven ? ” asked Micken, astonished. “ She is so well off in Heaven. You can walk about there from morning until night with the pretty little angels and get an apron full of good things — all days are Sundays — and when you are tired of playing the good God takes you on his knee, kisses you, and puts you to sleep.”

“Yes, yes, it must be very nice in Heaven,” sighed Janneken, absorbed in his own thoughts.

“ I saw Lotte when she had already become a little angel and was sleeping a long sleep before going to Heaven,” continued Micken. “ Oh ! how beautiful she was. She had on a lovely white dress, and her face and hands were still whiter than the dress. She wore on her head a gold and silver crown with little stars and pearls like the Infant Jesus in the Church , 1 and Lotte smiled so sweetly

1 In some parts of Belgium it is the custom to adorn dead children with wreaths of artificial flowers.

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in her sleep, one might suppose she was already dreaming of Heaven. I did not see her wings, but my mother told me they were folded under her shoulders to get rest for the long journey. . . For Heaven is very far, very far from here, Janneken.”

“ Come, Micken,” muttered the boy, pulling her away from the little grave, “ I should not like to die all the same, because I would no longer be able to play with you.”

“But if we could go to Heaven together that would be as well, wouldn’t it?”

“ No, no, don’t speak of that any more,” replied Janneken sadly ; “ it makes me sorry. Ah !

Micken, are you not satisfied with earth?”

They were approaching the other side of the church.

Against the wall is a little enclosure surrounded by an iron grating to protect a grave within from the feet of the passers by ; the grating contains a door with a lock, and two steps off is a bench made of oak wood, the surface of which has become polished with long use.

In the enclosure no stone is inscribed with the name of the cherished dead, but the ground is covered with beautiful flowers. It is plain to be seen that a pious hand tends and watches them, for while in other portions of the cemetery the grass is half burnt with the heat of summer, the flowers here show wonderful freshness and vitality.

“See! ” said the little girl, “there are more fresh flowers on the iron tomb, flowers that have grown

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out of the earth, and blossomed in a single night — that’s strange, isn’t it ? Flowers that are not found anywhere else, neither in the meadows nor the fields, nor in the woods ! ”

“Oh ! simple Micken, it is the hermit who plants them there.”

“ Yes, then what is the use of that worn out bench ? It is the white lady who comes every night, and sits upon it, near the iron tomb, until the cock crows.”

“ No, it is the old hermit who comes every day to pray upon the bench.”

“ But who is buried there, Janneken ? My mother does’nt know.”

“I asked my father about it. The story is a dreadful one, that I cannot understand. I believe the hermit was married to a woman already — dead — ”

“Look, Janneken, what a pretty flower!” interrupted the little girl admiringly, “ with yellow leaves like gold and a cup as red as blood.”

The little boy looked around defiantly, then said.

“ I should like to gather that flower to add to your wreath, Micken, but am afraid the hermit may see me.”

“ No, no, don’t pick it,” said the child, frightened, “ the white lady would know it.”

But Janneken bent across the iron grating and stretched out his full length to gather the beautiful flower.

“ Fly, there comes the hermit ! ” cried Micken.

And the two children ran terrified out of the cemetery.

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THE IRON TOMB.

Chapter I

On a beautiful summer’s day I was walking along, staff in hand, upon one of those broad roads that lead from Antwerp to the country. I was tired with musing and contemplating nature, for the long walk had wearied my limbs, and the stifling heat deadened my sensibilities.

It was not that I had made so long a journey or hastened my steps so much as to exhaust my strength. I had left the city early in the morning, had walked and seated myself by turns on the side of the road, had talked with the people who kept the inn, had gathered herbs and passed over flowers, and thus dreaming, sauntering and enjoying with infantile pleasure, had only made nine miles of the way when the sun attained its meridian height.

It was with true pleasure that I heard the distant sound of wheels behind me, and that I distinguished, in a cloud of dust, the huge black mass that announced the arrival of the stage coach.

When the heavy carriage finally approached the spot where I found myself, I made a sing to the

IO

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conductor who from afar had already sent me a friendly salute, as to an old acquaintance.

He stopped his horses, opened the door of the coach, and replied to my telegraphic message.

“There is still one place left in the coupe. Where are we going in this stifling weather ?”

“ Put me down on the road to Bordeghem.”

“ Very well sir; let’s be off! ”

I jumped into the diligence, and before I was seated the horses had recovered their jog trot.

There was only one passenger in the coach, an old gentleman with gray hair, who had responded to my salute with a “ Good morning, sir,” uttered in a low tone, almost without observing me, who seemed little inclined to converse.

For a time I looked out of the window, contemplating in an absent-minded manner the trees filing off one after the other as the diligence went along.

But soon an impulse of curiosity directed my attention to my traveling companion ; and, as he held his head and eyes down, I could look at and watch him at leisure.

There was nothing remarkable about him. He seemed to be over sixty ; his hair was as white as silver, and his back appeared to me slightly bent. His features were refined, and bore the traces of faded beauty. His apparel, which was simple though rich, was that of a man belonging to the respectable middle classes. The fixity of his widely opened eyes, a smile that at times played about his mouth, and the thoughtful wrinkle above his brow,

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I 1

indicated that at this moment he was preoccupied with some absorbing thought.

What most attracted my attention was a small block of alabaster placed beside him on the seat. As this object, which was still in the rough, resembled the pedestal of a clock, and as I saw three or four steel instruments of a peculiar shape obtruding from a paper placed near the block of alabaster, I thought I was not mistaken in coming to the conclusion that my traveling companion must be a clockmaker.

After a long silence I ventured this commonplace remark.

“ It is very warm to-day, isn’t it sir ? ”

He started as if awakened from a dream, looked towards me, and replied with a pleasant smile,

“ It is indeed very warm, sir.”

Then he again turned away his eyes and resumed his original position.

I felt no desire to become better acquainted with a man who was so chary of his words and so little given to conversation. Moreover, his face, which I had just caught an entire glimpse of, inspired me with a degree of respect, on account of the dignity imprinted upon his features, which were impressed with genius and sentiment.

I sunk into a corner of the diligence, closed my eyes, and I reflected so long and well that I finally lost consciousness.

“ Passengers for Bordeghem,” cried the conductor, opening the door.

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I jumped out on the road and paid my fare.

The driver re-mounted, whipped up his horses, and cried out in token of farewell, “ A pleasant trip, Mr. Conscience, and do not relate too many fables of the Iron Tomb.”

Quite astonished, I followed the conductor with my eyes. Who could have betrayed the motive for my trip, since the whole way along I had never spoken a word to any one ?

A voice behind me calling my name made me turn my head.

I saw my strange companion of the diligence approaching me, hat in hand, a smile on his lips and his block of alabaster under his arm. He had probably alighted just after me without my noticing it.

He saluted me cordially, and said: “You are Mr. Conscience, the poet of our humble country neighborhood ? Excuse my troubling you, but I should like to shake you by the hand — I have so long wished to see you ”

I stammered some words thanking the good old man for his kindness.

“And you are going to Bordeghem?” he asked.

“Yes; but I shall not remain long; I expect to be at Benkelhout before the evening, and will spend the night there.”

“ I shall at least have the pleasure of being your companion on the way, and perhaps, your guide as far as Bordeghem — for you have never yet been in our little forgotten village?”

“ No, sir, never yet ; and I shall avail myself of your kindness with pleasure, on condition that you will let me carry that stone.”

“ Don’t think of it ; my hair is white and my back is beginning to bend, but the legs and heart are still in good condition.”

I insisted upon carrying the stone, speaking of his advanced age, my younger powers, and the respect due to age, but he excused himself and held on with determination ; but finally I took his burden from him almost forcibly, and thus compelled him to follow me along the sandy road.

To put an end to his expressed regrets, I said to him :

“ That block of alabaster is intended no doubt for the base of a clock. The gentleman is probably a clockmaker ?”

“ Clockmaker ! ” he replied, laughing. “No, I am a sculptor.”

“ Indeed ! am I then in the society of an artist ? I am most happy.”

“ An amateur, sir.”

“ And have you lived long at Bordeghem ?

“ For at least forty years.”

“ Perhaps your name is not unknown to me.” The old man shook his head, and after a moment’s pause replied,

“ You are still too young, sir, to know my name. I do not mean that in the world of art some little fame was not attached to that name, but this did not last long. More than thirty years have gone by since that was the case.”

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“ Did you never exhibit any of your works?” I asked.

“ Once only — it was in 1824. There was a great stir in the domain of art, for peace gave an impulse to all the living forces of the nation. Unfortunately every one was bound by those narrow rules that the so-called school of David had marked out as a condition of beauty. They endeavored in everything to imitate the ancient Greek models, but had only borrowed from them the outward and material forms, and for lack of a soul that could give life to the creations of the new school, they had had recource to theatrical poses and exaggerated action. All figures, either painted or sculptured, which were not stiff and devoid of soul, could find no favor in the eyes of a public whose taste was perverted. It was under these circumstances that I exhibited my first work. The statue — a recumbent one in marble — was that of a young girl lying on her death-bed, still holding in her clasped hands the crucifix, when death overtook her. I had irradiated the inanimate face of my statue with a joyous smile, an expression of confidence, of hope and of happiness. I wished to impress upon the marble the moment when the soul was quitting the. body, yet was imbued with a sense of certainty in a better life. This work, to which I gave the name of ‘A Presentiment of Eternity,’ created a sort of uprising among the artists. The larger number attacked me with great fury, and criticised my statue as the work of a diseased imagination,

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and as a heresy against the rules then in vogue. And indeed the lines of my statue were spare, delicate, slight and pensive ; the material form was sacrificed to the moral expression of an idea or sentiment. There were also many who admired my work and encouraged me by saying I was destined to revolutionize the school of art and elevate the Christian above the Pagan expression of it ; but in proportion to the number who took up my defense, my rabid enemies increased. If the struggle had been limited to the discussion of the defects and merits of my statue, I should not have succumbed ; but my adversaries, blinded by passion, sought to find motives in my past life to hold me up to public ridicule. Without intending it they made my heart bleed, deeply wounded and profaned memories that were dearer than life. Since then, I have feared publicity, and exhibited nothing more.”

There were in the old man’s words a touching calmness and affecting serenity. At this moment he presented such an appearance of noble majesty that I was deeply moved, and it was only after a moment’s silence that I said to him,

“And do you never work any more now?”

“ Occasionally I do,” he said, “ it would be impossible for me to desist, even did I wish it ; art has become an imperious necessity, because it is the magic wand with which I wake the happy thoughts of my past life and transport myself to the springtime of existence.”

The road had become very sandy, and we found

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some trouble in walking along. This interrupted our conversation for some moments. When I was able to resume my place beside the old man, I asked him,

“ If I am not mistaken, you have read some of my works — are you then fond of books ?”

“ I do not read much,” he said, “ yet I possess the most of your works.”

“ And they have succeeded in pleasing you ?”

“ Your stories of the country, and especially your moral tales — yes, better than you might suppose. Some I have read as many as ten times ; after several readings it is not so much the stories that give me pleasure, it is the tone — a sort of secret harmony which accords with my nature and delights me.”

I gazed at the old man with a look of interrogation that he might more fully explain himself.

“In the stories I speak of,” he said, “there is an innocent simplicity, a sweet sensibility and undying hope, a sincere sentiment of admiration for nature and love of humanity. In reading them I have often been deeply touched, but they never tire me ; and when I put them down I feel consoled, have more faith and more love, and I rejoice to find that the pure and tender chords which seem only appropriate to childhood still vibrate in my soul.”

I stammered forth some words, and endeavored to make the old man admit that he was praising my works more than they deserved, probably through kindness and sympathy, but he rejected the idea and resumed in conclusion,

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“ It is true that each man thinks in a manner peculiar to himself as to that he holds within him, but it is owing to some feeling that belonged to his early life, or the events that colored that life. I therefore know that all do not necessarily think as I do. Let this be as it may, had I only found in your works the religion of memory, and the faith in a better life, these would have sufficed to make me love them. There are besides other reasons, that I cannot tell you.”

We were just then nearing two or three peasants on the road who w r ere coming towards us. We kept silence until they passed on. Then the old man asked me,

“ Will you only go through Bordeghem and spend the night at Benkelhout? Then you have no particular object in visiting our little village ?”

“ Yes, I have; I had intended as I went along to obtain some information upon a matter that was related to me; but since you are so good and obliging, why should I not ask you about what I want to know? In the cemetery at Bordeghem is there not an iron tomb ?”

“ There is indeed a tomb which the simple villagers call the iron tomb, because it is surrounded by a grating; but the tomb itself is not remarkable.”

The old man’s voice seemed suddenly to have undergone a change ; it was reserved and dry, as if he wished to stop or shorten the conversation.

“Are there not always fresh flowers growing about the tomb ?” I asked.

“ Flowers grow there always,” he replied.

“And there is a wooden bench near the tomb, and the bench is worn, because a spirit, a white lady, has for many years sat there every night?”

“ Children’s tales,” said the old man, with a smile on his lips.

“ I know very well, sir, it can only be a tale, but there is some one who takes care of the flowers on the tomb. For it must also be a fable that these flowers spring from the earth of themselves.”

As my companion did not immediately reply to my question, I said to him,

“Several days ago a peasant woman from this neighborhood came to ask my advice about obtaining the pardon of her son, upon whom a large fine had been imposed for poaching. I made her talk. It is in this manner I learned all the details that belong to a peasant’s life. She spoke to me of the iron tomb, of the flowers which are ever renewed, of the white lady, and of a hermit who remains in prayer beside the tomb for days together. Be good enough to tell me what there is of truth in the peasant’s story.”

“ The matter is very simple,” replied my companion. “ The man whom they call the hermit, because he lives alone, takes care of and ornaments the tomb of one who was dearer to him than the light of his eyes. In living thus, since the fatal separation, near the tomb, and in concentrating all his affection upon it, he triumphs over death itself. For who can say that the spouse whom the tomb

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sought to ravish from him is really gone, when he beholds her every moment, and she lives again a hundred times a day in his thoughts ?”

I looked at the old man in astonishment : his eyes glistened with a strange lustre, and his face beamed with enthusiasm.

He observed the impression his words had made upon me, and overcame his emotion. He pointed with his finger to the road, and said in a calmer tone :

“ There is our little church. Had we taken the cross road we should already have been able to see from afar the iron tomb.”

I scarcely paid attention to what he pointed out, and asked dreamily :

“A bride, did you say, sir? Then it is a married woman who rests beneath the iron tomb?”

“A virgin as pure as the lilies before they fade,” he muttered.

“ But married ?”

“ In truth, a virgin and a wife.”

I did not know what to think of the solemn tone in which the old man pronounced these words. I began to feel under the influence of a strange emotion. I fancied that the iron tomb must conceal a touching story, and my curiosity was excited to the greatest degree.

The old man must most assuredly have guessed that I was going to press the subject further. He took the block of alabaster from me before I had fathomed his intention, and when I endeavored to

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continue to carry the burden, he said that at least in the village he would have to refuse my assistance, and escaped from the questions I was about to put to him, much to my disappointment, by walking to the entrance of the cemetery, saying :

“ Come, I will show you the iron tomb. See, over there near the church wall, those flowers behind the grating — that is the iron tomb.”

I approached the spot indicated, and looked with astonishment into the small enclosure. I sought in vain for a stone or any other indication that could give me the name of the dead who was so sorrowed for. Nothing but flowers, but such beautiful flowers, and such rare ones, selected with so great a sentiment as to the form and color, that it was only a lover’s hand that could attain such a degree of harmony. For myself it seemed beyond truth that the hermit — if really a hermit, who watched over the tomb — must be young, and still imbued with the sweet illusions of life. But when I looked at the wooden bench worn with use, I began to recover from this impression.

“ How long has that bench been there ? ” I asked the old man.

“ For forty years.”

“ It must be the hermit who has worn it so, by sitting down or kneeling in prayer upon it ?

“ It is the hermit,” my guide replied.

“ But this seems beyond human power,” I exclaimed in admiration. “ To sit during forty years near a grave ! If this be love, what a profound, all-

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absorbing, infinite sentiment ! The sacrifice, the devotion, the fusion of one soul that inhabits earth with another which is in heaven ! This might be called idolatry, if this aspiration towards heaven did not attest strong faith in the divine bounty, and a hope of future happiness without end. To live for the dead and with the dead ! ”

“ She is not dead/’ murmured the old man.

“ Not dead ? ” I repeated. “ What mystery, what prodigy do these flowers hide ? ”

“ Do you assume not to understand me, sir,” said the old man in a calm and deep tone, “ when your heart has however so well understood me ? Dead ? Why while I am speaking to you I seem to see her ; she smiles, I hear her voice, she cries out to me from the midst of these flowers ‘ The time is becoming shorter — I wait, I wait.’ ”

“ She awaits you ! ” I exclaimed stupefied. “ Is it then you who have worn away this wooden bench ?” “ No other than myself.”

” The hermit ? ” —

“ Is the old man whom chance gave you as a guide, the sculptor for whom you carried the alabaster, without knowing what sacred memory he would engrave upon it. But come with me : ask me nothing more. Over there behind the cemetery wall is my home. Follow me : I will tell you things that none other has known so well as you will know them.”

I allowed myself to be conducted from the cemetery. As we walked along, the old man resumed:

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“ Since that iron tomb was placed there, I have never opened my heart to any one. I love you, because in your writings I found you capable of understanding a life that others call a long folly. My existence here below is drawing to a close, a secret presentiment assures me I shall see her soon other than in my dreams. Accept the confidence I am about to place in you of what I have hoped and suffered, and when I sleep beside her in the little tomb, then narrate my humble and sad life, if you think it worthy of being written.”

He stepped behind the cemetery wall and rung at the door of a house whose front was white, the windows being closed with green shutters. An aged servant opened the door ; as we entered, the old man said :

“ Katherine, here is a friend who will dine with me. Set two places at the table.”

The servant went off without replying. I wished to apologize for the trouble I was giving him and his old servant, but he took me by the hand and conducted me to the end of the house, into a large room, which received light from an immense garden filled with flowers. The appearance of the room astonished me. I seemed to have been transported by magic into the study room of the Academy at Antwerp, for it contained many objects that I had more than once held in my hands, or whose counterparts I had seen a hundred times.

“ Cast a rapid glance upon these objects,” said the old man to me ; “ they all play a more or less

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important part in the story I am about to relate to you ; but do not now ask for an explanation of them. It would be time lost, and compel me to wearisome repetition.”

Yet I had never seen what my host first pointed out to me, and I could perceive no meaning in them. On a table were all sorts of shapeless figures of dogs, cows, birds, horses, and other animals, very roughly fashioned with a knife in white wood. On a piece of blue velvet were spread several rather unusual figures, beside one of those opal boxes which women use to contain mint lozenges or lemon drops. There was also a knife with a mother-of-pearl handle, and several gold and silver medals with faded ribbons.