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THE SILENT MILL

THE

SILENT MILL

BY

HERMANN SUDERMANN

NEW YORK

BRENTANO'S

PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1919, by
BRENTANO'S

Copyright, 1917, by
Story Press Corporation

All rights reserved

THE SILENT MILL

No one can tell how many years ago it is was since the "Silent Mill" first received its name. As long as I can remember it has been an old, tumble-down structure, an ancient relic of long-forgotten times.

Old, and weather-beaten, and roofless, its crumbling walls stretch upwards toward the sky, giving free access to every gust of wind. Two large, round stones that once, maybe, bravely fulfilled their task, have broken through the rotten wood-work and, obeying the natural law of gravitation, have wedged themselves deep into the ground.

The large mill-wheel hangs awry between its moulding supports. The paddles are broken off, and only the spokes stick up into the air, like arms stretched forth to implore the "coup de grâce."

Moss and lichen have clothed all in green, and here and there some water-cress puts forth its sickly green, sodden growth. From a half-broken pipe the water runs slowly down, trickles in sleepy monotony onto the spokes and breaks there, filling the surrounding air with fine, drizzling spray. Under a gray thicket of alders the little rivulet lies hidden in malodorous slothfulness, washed full of water-weeds and frog-spawn, choked up with mare's tail and flowering rushes. Only in the middle there trickles still a tiny stream of thick, black water, in which the little palegreen leaves of the duck-weed lazily drift along.

But those long years ago the mill-stream flowed right gayly and jauntily; snow-white foam gleamed at the weir; the merry chatter of the wheels resounded as far as the village; in long rows the carts drove in and out of the mill-yard; and far into the distance there echoed the mighty voice of the old miller.

Rockhammer was his name, and all who saw him felt that he did honor to it, too. What a man he was! He had it in him to blast rocks. Of course there was no such thing as trying to bully or contradict him, for it only served to make him perfectly wild with rage: he would clench his fists; the veins on his temples would swell up like thick thongs; and when he started swearing into the bargain, every being trembled before him, and the very dogs fled in terror to their kennels. His wife was a meek, gentle, yielding creature. How could it be otherwise? Not for twenty-four hours would he have endured at his side a more sturdy-natured being, who might have attempted to preserve even the shadow of an independent will. As it was, the two lived together fairly well, happily one might almost have said, had it not been for his fatal temper, which broke forth wildly at the slightest provocation and caused the quiet woman many a tearful hour.

But she shed most tears when misfortune's hand fell heavily upon her children. Three had been born to them--bonny, healthy, sturdy boys. They had clear, blue eyes, flaxen hair and, above all, "a pair of promising fists," as their father was wont to declare with pride, though the youngest, who was still in his cradle, could as yet only make use of his to suck at them. The two elder boys, however, were already splendid fellows. How defiantly they looked about them, how haughtily they took up their stand! With their heads thrown back and their hands in their trousers pockets, each seemed to assert: "I am my father's son. Who'll dare me?"

They fought each other all day long and it was their father himself who always goaded them on. And if their mother in her terror intervened and begged them to be at peace with one another, she got laughed at into the bargain for her fears. The poor woman lived in constant anxiety about her wild boys, for she saw to her terror that both had inherited their father's violent temper. Once already she had only just arrived in the nick of time, when Fritz, then eight years old, was about to attack his brother, two years older than himself, with a large kitchen knife; and a half a year later the day really dawned on which her dark presentiments were realized.

The two boys had been fighting in the yard, and Martin, the elder one, wild with rage because Fritz had beaten him, had hurled a stone at him and hit him so unfortunately at the back of his head that he fell down bleeding and immediately lost the power of speech. They could stanch the blood, and the wound healed up, but his speech did not return. Indifferent to all around, the boy sat there and let them feed him: he had become an idiot.

It was a hard blow for the miller's family. The mother wept whole nights through, and even he, the energetic hard-working man, went about for a long time as if in a dream.

But the perpetrator of the disastrous deed was the one most impressed by it. The defiant, boisterously happy boy was hardly recognizable. His exuberance of spirits had disappeared; he spent his days in silent brooding, obeyed his mother to the letter and, whenever possible, avoided joining in the games of his school-fellows.

His love for his unfortunate brother was touching. When he was at home, he never stirred from his side. With superhuman patience he accustomed himself to the brutalized habits of the idiot, learned to understand his inarticulate sounds, fulfilled his every wish, and looked on smilingly when he destroyed his dearest toy.

The invalid boy got so used to his companionship that he would not be without him. When Martin was at school, he cried incessantly and preferred to go hungry rather than take food and drink from anyone else.

For three years he dragged on this miserable existence; then he began to ail and died.

Though his death certainly came as a relief to the whole household, all mourned his loss sincerely, and Martin especially was inconsolable. During the first months he wandered out daily to the cemetery and often had to be torn by force away from the grave. Only very gradually he grew calmer, chiefly through intercourse with the youngest boy, Johannes, to whom he now appeared to transfer the intense love which he had lavished upon his dead brother.

As long as the invalid lived, he had taken little notice of Johannes, for he seemed to think it almost sinful to give even the merest fraction of his affection to any one else. Now that death had robbed him of the poor unfortunate, an invincible longing drew him towards his younger brother--as if by his love for him he might fill the agonizing void which the loss of his victim had left in him as if he might atone toward the living for what he had inflicted on the dead.

Johannes was at that time a fine lad of five, already quite a little man, who was to have his first pair of stout boots at next fair-time. He seemed to have inherited nothing of his father's harsh, defiant nature; he took much more after his gentle, quiet mother, to whom he clung specially as her pet, and whose very idol he was. Not hers alone, though, for all in the