Regina Ullman: The Country Road

He washed himself at the well, as if for Judgment Day. Then he went on his way, without a walking stick, as if he were going to church. And he stuck to the proper route, as befitted such an important matter. He followed the road that led straight through the woods. Now and then he encountered strangers from nearby towns. Or a farmer’s wife pulled her skirts closer and greeted him. Or a bird hopped off in front of him with a cry. Or he simply stopped and stood still, because such treks were new to him. His spirits were high. It is always so when someone sets his mind on what seems right to him. Besides, the road appeared as if sown with gold. And even more gold clung to the trees. And among them, perhaps outnumbering the golden ones, and not shining so brightly, stood the fir trees and the reddish trunks of the pines. He felt the air perched lightly on his hand like a ladybird. And one squirrel after another looked with its juniper-berry eyes at this young man as he continued down the middle of the wide road. It was good that the journey wasn’t too long for a hardy hiker, otherwise he would indeed have gone astray. For the horse pasture was large, and you could always find your way back there, even without a path. To tell the truth, he still hadn’t put the thought of going there out of his mind entirely, but he didn’t say so loudly to himself, instead he nobly fixed his thoughts on the weaver’s family, who were somehow related to him. And besides, he wanted to buy new scythes in their village, where he’d heard they were less expensive.

Then a doe stopped in his path, far away, but facing him, right in the middle of the road. He had to stop, too. It lasted several minutes. The slender body in its holy nakedness moved even him, coarse as he was, even coarser now. Perhaps he had tears in his eyes (his thoughts had unconsciously followed another path). Then a shower of leaves fell from the trees. Another bird hopped off in front of him. And the farmhand, without knowing how, had reached the end of the forest. He felt the autumn much more strongly there, being accustomed to the fields; he was more at home there than in the most beautiful forest. He saw the church spire. He saw every single house, the weaver’s house among them. Now he could prepare for his visit. Again he passed by country people in their Sunday clothes. Again he heard the chiming of the bells. Judging by their sound, the church service would soon be over.

He entered during the benediction. The holy water ran over his forehead like a salty tear. Then the organ began to flow like flowers, roses and dahlias, richly swelling garden flowers. Then a censer, its silver jingling, filled his ears. Then the church emptied. First came the men. They were always in a hurry to leave the church. Then came the little girls, and finally the women. The farmhand looked on. The weaver’s wife was there among the churchgoers. She recognized him at once. She invited him to pay them a visit. And so he went first to the grocer, and purchased a quarter sugarloaf and a pound of coffee. Then he went to the tavern for lunch, and after that to the weaver’s house. He felt uneasy among all the people. He felt he’d never seen so many people in his life. He was glad that the massive loom was quiet that day in the weaver’s shop, that the spools had been laid aside, and only the cats lay purring on the spinning stool, one on each side, as if the girl were between them. They were magnificent animals, well versed in beauty and idleness. They received the sort of generous attention that others lavish on their geraniums. Apart from them, the room was empty. That is, the weaver was sleeping beside the oven. He was wearing short sleeves. His shaven face had a Sunday shine. The young man sat down to pass the time. The clean, bright room made an impression on him. Of course it wasn’t like that at home. How could his old grandmother have managed to provide for more than their daily needs. — It was time to have a woman in that household. He was feeling warm and eager. Then the young woman entered, shyly, because she already knew who was in the room, and placed a basket of knit stockings on the table. After a few words had been exchanged, she set to darning. Then finally her mother came to wake her husband. Then everything came alive. The weaver told stories. He told how much linen and half-linen he had woven. He said you could calculate how far it would reach out into the world. Of all the kilometers in the world, he had woven many a meter. For he was seventy years old, and since the age of thirteen he’d been sitting at this loom. If you added it up, you could go quite a distance without even getting your feet wet, quite a long journey under his own roof. He didn’t even need an umbrella. Everyone laughed. They almost forgot about the tavern. But they did go in the end, after they’d each had a little glass of schnapps and a warm cup of coffee. Just the men, of course. The weaver’s daughter closed the door behind them, half smiling, half blushing. She had understood the purpose of his visit and the pound of coffee and the sugarloaf. No woman was dumb enough to miss that. Besides, she wanted to understand it, since she rather liked the young man. He was quiet like her, and a decent young man, too. She thought this to herself as she took up her knitting wool again, setting aside a mountain of mending behind which she nearly disappeared, silently working. This was a Sunday after God’s own heart.

She didn’t know where the men had been all this time. It was night when the weaver returned home, and night again — the same night, and yet another — when they went to bed.

Outside all the colors were gone. Only the autumn wind was beginning to rustle now. It was shaking the jewels from its own crowned head. Leaves were raining down. But the country road could still be seen from afar in the moonlight. The moon lavishly cast its woven cloth on the ground at the young man’s feet. He could not lose his way. Slightly drunk as he was, this moonlit night was just right for him. It entered his eyes, it led him onward as in a trance. And for a long time that was good enough. But because there was no one on the road, because he met no one else, he began to feel uneasy with himself. He felt that horror of oneself that comes in the night. He stopped. (Not to avoid going further, just to think.) Hadn’t he wanted something? Hadn’t he planned something for the way home? He understood at once. He leapt over the ditch almost as swiftly as a stag. Now he could no longer be seen. Now he could no longer be heard, either. His steps were cushioned by the leaves that blanketed the narrow paths. Only his high jackboots with their stiff leather produced a groaning, almost natural sound, a rattling reminiscent of the sound of deer in rutting season. It would have been better not to wear those boots. But he didn’t think of that. His only thought was that he wanted to see that beautiful, feeble-minded girl. Maybe he imagined that he could carry her off. After all, she was only an animal. But then he stopped thinking altogether, because nothing seemed true except that one thing, that he wanted to have her. He forged ahead with large, reckless steps. And while he was still an hour or more away, he already felt close to her. He cherished every leaf that fell on him. A stag belled. He understood it well. He thought about the doe he had seen on the way. Now everything was clear to him. Except that the incidental things now seemed essential, the essential things incidental. He saw the pastor. He felt the drops of holy water. The organ’s flowery petals scattered down to him. In his mind, he left that sacred place with a sense of peace, as if he had prayed for poor souls. Meanwhile, he heard his shoes rattling loudly, and a deer belling. It must have been a stag, he heard it now as if nearby. Love had robbed him of his senses. Bodiless, it held him in its arms—. And as if something were standing in his path, he moved on only with great effort. He was breathing loudly from his exertion. Now his boots were quiet too, of course, for he was standing still, listening. But without seeing anything. He thought he was already very close to the horse pasture. Now he heard a dog howling. It must have been howling at the moon. Well, animals have to suffer, too. He looked up into the air. He could hardly see any sky through the gap in the trees above the narrow path. But one star shone through. There was no breeze now. Yet he smelled something. Something strange, something meant for him. “Ah,” he thought suddenly, “if only I’d bought the scythes.” But then he continued on, a jumble of wine and beer and schnapps and thoughts of all kinds, petty and base. His shoes rattled again. The stags belled. It was coming from many sides.