“Des Baches Wiegenlied”

Short Story

Franz soaked in all of the sights, sounds, and most importantly, the feel of the land, where the grass was greener than it had a right to be. It was drunk with fire, he closed his eyes to absorb the color of texture of the rural, for wandering is the miller's joy (almost a lust for water), and high mountains looking down a part of the feeling of being with time and free. He was indeed absolutely a wander, in an outfit that displayed the city but not the city which you or I are thinking of; it is that city which is far in the distance of an immortal time, in a land which was once known as the Archduchy of Austria, the East Land the foreign land, but the city was called the same thing – “Wien,” or as the English now say, “Vienna” with three syllables rather than one. And with over 400,000 souls in its care; and more coming in with each day of May in 1823 A.D. And more leaving by way of the Black Death. The city drew in more than it hatched.

But he was free! And he had three silver pennies jangling in the pocket. They were also loose and free. The only other thing he possessed was a blue ribbon for marking books.

It was also the case, as with other young men, he was considerably shorter and skinnier than any developed man would be today. And his garb was at the end of the neoclassical line and the beginning of the romantic collage of color. This meant that he wore a dress coat, with three buttons on it, and a slip waistcoat, with trimmings and a large collar, and a pair of white trousers which exposed both the shoes and the socks. As his own set of style, he took a thin ribbon of green ribbon and tied it on his wrist for luck. Looking through his spectacles he thought himself very fine. If the clothes were a trifle threadbare, few mentioned that to his face. He was clearly out of fashion so far from the narrow gin alleys and wide beer lanes that he was used to frequenting. The neoclassical age was not friendly to Wien, with the French marching left and right and firing muskets abandoned. But it was now peace: all heaven and earth are still.

And he liked that tremendously - both the peace and the city at rest. Even if his left foot still hurt from a stone’s sprain. It did not hurt. Much.

He tried rubbing it. It had been a long afternoon.

Imagine if you will the leaves of late spring: oak and beech rising over the grass and in the distance, over low rolling hills, the dense forest which included a few fir trees holding on for dear life amidst the rolling verdant leaves. Occasionally a bird would wing his way free of the branch. In such a mood Franz was humming a different tune when his eyes spotted an old three-story structure with a large waterwheel on the side at the trough of the hill and transported down the side a stream – fluid but chomping at the bit.

“I must capture that in music.” It came out as a whisper, even though there was no one to hear him. It was now at this point that he walked towards the mill so he could introduce himself and ask if he could look around. You never could be certain what the reply would be, because oftentimes nefarious means were hiding under a man’s clothes, especially when they were unusual for the countryside.

As he walked to either side of the stone and dirt road, pin cushions of daisies and roses of poppies littered among the grass. He lifted his eyes over the field, which was fallow, the field was taking a rest from its usual task of making barley, wheat, or beans. He thought wistfully “Somewhere in here I have moved from wild fields to cultivated crops, and so there must be a farmer around here someplace, perhaps the Miller if he does not have enough grain to pulverize for golden lager.”

Then he saw a husky man, in dark green pants with a large jacket and high boots, cross the fields. And on his back were three pheasants. Franz Peter Schubert noted all of the details.

It was strange that he should be here, and he recounted the conversation that brought him to this conjoined moment.

“You should seek Nature and commune with it and all its glory.” Almost, but not quite, an exclamation point. The old (and should be noted fat and more conservative dressed) man was Johann Michael Vogl, but called Johann by his enormous number of friends, acquaintances, and hangers-on. “These pieces are excellent but merely one of a kind.” His face was stern but friendly. But then he had his own house and that could not be said of Schubert.

Franz looked toward the wall which had a skimpily coated whitewash with a few small drawings. The frame was worth more than the drawing in most cases. “I know you want a song cycle to be a world in a moment - as do I - but there is the problem of beginning.” He stared out on the cloudy scene at the tall thin buildings, that were mostly divided into apartments.

“That and you spend your time when you are not composing or having the pieces played, in the tavern with a large tankard of whatever the cheapest imbibement is on the menu.”

“I will admit that perhaps drinking shade too much might be a problem - but it is the only inspiration that I can afford. The law forbidding marriage unless you have money certainly applies to me.”

“You should have a better circumstance with your parents.”

“Too many children and I am far down the list. Then there is how much my father wants me to work. What shall I do to be forever known?”

“No time for composing is your constant refrain, I know.”

“I must have time. And yet Papa ceases not to crave, he needs me not.”

“You also need to feel. Go out to nature!”

“No heller.” He lied for he had 3 silver pennies in his pocket.

“Then I will provide thaler.”

Schubert thought deeply about this. It was not that he had enabled spending from friends, it was the cost that surprised him. Johann was serious and serious about his need to divine with the rocks and trees. And then set it for Johann to voice in the deep baritones which he could muster. The thaler that Franz could feel the weight of even now rather than that pocket change that he was, sadly, more used to. The long and large fenestra went from hazy to clear letting forth the sun.

“I will take it.”

And here he was: staring at the trees, grass with mountains in the distance, and some money in his purse. Franz murmured “All mine!” The stars watched over him like brothers. The half-moon was almost setting, blooming down on him. The face on the moon was not serene but plotting some plan.

Repose, the hills, and plunge forwards to the mill. Once the mill had been painted red, but that was many ages past, and no one had thought it worth it to paint it again or even touch up the bare wood-grained spots. But it was set in a small clearing where younger trees had grown up around it in bushels and water with tears from the sky. The was a stone wall and on it, a black cat slept.

Franz could see in the opening above the wheel a gaunt man grinding the grain with rollers. A face which, against all odds, was slightly feminine though it had a stubbly beard. He watched as the man ground the grain three times in three different wheels: coarse, finer, then finer still. The Franz focused on the wooden door, almost like a shed in its ruined state. He notices one streak of red, half faded. He brushed his black hair down to be presentable. He called out: “Wohin?”

From above came a deep and stuttering voice: “Who is it? Why have you come here? What business have you?”

Though taken aback, Franz eventually answered: “My name is Franz, Franz Schubert. I know you have never heard of me, and I do not wish to interrupt your labors, but I was wondering how far the nearest village is, oh Müller?”

“Come upstairs and we can talk, Herr Schubert.”

At this time, this was not an unusual request for conversation to be private even among the farmers, hunters, and millers. Franz opened the door, which squeaked, past the shafts that held the axle, and finally up the stairs along the barn past the spur that started the grinding process. There was the soothing purr of water hitting buckets and being drained out of the flume into the trough.

Franz watched the man in full with an apron over rough-hewn pants and a sorrily done-up black hooked shirt. There was a cloak tacked to the long wall. Then beyond the board that held up the roof was a crucifix near the center of the short wall. Jesus wept. It was only at this point Franz realized that he too was being looked over by the gaunt man, and the impression was not entirely fine - he realized that his countenance and output were from another world, one that the gaunt man seldom saw. He thought he saw something else, but he assumed it was the black cat. Funny how he still did not truly see it.

Suddenly the gaunt Miller exclaimed: “You are a trifle scruffy even in your jacket. Your mother should be ashamed of you.” And then he simply laughed, though no joke had been made. Just the suite was enough for simple mirth. Franz did not laugh, at first, but then issued a chuckle hoping that this would ingratiate him to the gaunt man. Franz could not tell one way or the other from the gaunt man’s blank face.

The music of the trough continued along with the grinding in counterpoint. The gaunt man shut down the grinding. Then the gaunt man was playing with something in his hands.

“What is that?” Franz leaned over to look.

“Just an old ring.” The old miller hid it in his apron. Then he pointed to Franz’s wrist. “Why the ribbon?”

“Just for luck.”

“No other purpose? Perhaps it is to catch a lady’s fancy.”

“Unlikely. I am poor.”

The gaunt man reached for the ribbon but pulled back.

Franz spoke again to relieve the discomfort he felt: “So, you have been to Wien?”

The cat came up through the opening and set himself under the gaunt man’s hand, clearly demanding attention by weaving around the arm. The thin man complied and merely nodded. Then went back to petting the cat. The cat purred.

Franz looked around the miller’s kingdom – no storm and struggle seemed possible here. Franz spoke: “You live alone here?”

“Die Mutter died long ago, but I have a daughter. And occasionally a hunter delivers me some pheasants in return for grinding some grain for his bread and beer. By the way, you can call me Krespel.”

“Now that is a strange name for a miller.”

“I inherited this mill in a bet, and ever since then, I have stayed grinding grain for the people around me. Married, had a child. Stayed. After all, if it was good enough for Haydn, it should be good enough for me.”

“I was born there under a full moon. Now let us answer your question about the nearest village.” Krespel moved as if there were no walls as if he were in the forest directing, not from memory but by sight. “Go down this hill and you will reach a clean brook; it is straight and true and seems like it flows out to the sea. Follow that brook until you see a steeple. There is the village of It is about half a day. It is called Hafnerbach. The nearest town is St. Pölten.”

Franz was going to reply that there was little enough to reach it today. He knew vaguely where Pölten was and that was way too far. “Sorry, I have no horse.”

With that Krespel looked oddly, it seemed clear he was expecting Herr Schubert to be mounted. He immediately said: “Well, Franz, you can pay me 4 Thaler to sleep the night.” 1 Thaler would be generous, more than that would be some sort of robbery. A thief in the night would not be so bold.

“No, I will walk.” And he set himself to the stairs.

“How about a silver Madonna?” 1 Thaler. But Austrian only, with Francis II on one side and the Mother of God on the other.

Franz stopped. His foot argued for rest. “Agreed.” He fumbled for the right coin, without displaying all that he had.

Kespel looked closely at it. Then he cried: “Strange child.” One could just hear some branches below being knocked over. Then a few moments later up the stairs came a young face, a pretty face, but no more than that.

But for Franz, she was a revelation. Her eyelashes curled over her blue eyes the rosy cheeks showed over a pink-lipped smile her black hair went all the way to her waist in braids of blue lustrous color. Anyone could see that Franz was deeply and truly smitten. But remember, the face was only pretty, it was an inner sense that this girl was special in some magical sense. Or so Franz thought. Suddenly, he thought that Krespel might be persuaded the let him marry his daughter with the mill going to both as the dowery, but he quickly put it out of his mind.

The lush mouth then opened: “Who is our guest? Do you want me to set up another place for him? Is he staying the night?”

Krespel moved his hands as if to quiet her. “This is Franz, or should I say Herr Schubert, he will be joining us for dinner and then he will sleep up here for the night.” She bowed to her father and left. Krespel turns to Franz: “It is too bad she cannot work the mill when I am gone. Now you will excuse me, I have to deliver some flour to one of the farmers, but I should be back for supper.” He left without saying anything goodbye and without mentioning what was for supper, though, possibly, Fiakergulasch, -coachmen’s goulash. It was served with fried egg and sausage with a healthy dose of paprika.

Franz was sleepy and decided to take a nap until supper.

 But when he awoke it was already dark and he went to the opposite opening, there being no windows on the mill, and saw the house that Krespel must have lived in. From the tiny window, he could see a light flickering in the distance. He put on his shoes, which were as dilapidated as the rest of his attire, and went down through the mill with its turning still in place, and out to knock on the small house door. There were two white crosses, but he did not think to check what they marked because a dead body made him shiver let alone two.

The door grew closed, and Franz knocked upon it. It opened to reveal a dining room with a rough oak table and six chairs with a bare amount of white cushion, but no one seemed to open the door. So, he gently secured the latch.

There were white porcelain dishes (very expensive for such owners) in the cupboard and a few niceties, but only a few, and an old piano in the corner. It did not see that must use if any at all. Then he saw a green jacket. It glared at him because he recognized it as the same one that the Hunter wore. Suddenly, Franz realized that the girl and the Hunter must have been engaged. He mentally kicked himself because he interpreted Krespel’s words oppositely from how they were intended. Love went out in his heart.

Then from around the corner, probably in the kitchen, he heard cooings and whispers; with that, he decided to look in and introduce himself. There were the two of them on a kitchen stool he on the stool and she on him. They looked at him, encased by another door out through the kitchen. Faces in silhouette. The pheasants strung over a hook to hang for savoring. The cat was sleeping beneath the quarry.

Then the lips so tender said: “This is Jäger, but you must not tell my father; he does not approve. He is out for a little while longer.”

Franz merely nodded, though he looked at the hunter and thought he saw something sinister and wild like a hound. “I can play you something on your piano.”

Then the Hunter slid the girl off and stood up, much higher than Franz. He took off his large green cap and said: “That would be good of you.” It was down in his throaty growl. “You promise not to tell her father?”

“On my soul, to the East of Eden and the till morning in the land of Nod.” Franz choked back his horror at that shade of green.

This satisfied the Hunter, who gave Franz a stein of lager from the small table. With that, the composer sat on the stool in front of the upright and played into the night - while he was no virtuoso, though he could teach lessons to the young and was passable in a pinch. The Hunter and the maiden danced with their eyes and looked in an embrace. Franz poured himself into the notes, crying only softly. But then she moved her hands aside and said: “Can you play Kennst du das Land?”

“I shall try my best to do Mignon’s arpeggios if you do her voice.”

So, he played the whole piece up to “lass uns zen!” Then they all fell silent, and a distant noise came up the road – tromp, tromp, tromp. Heavy boots on the gravel.

Then the door opened and within it stood Krespel – as livid as only Faustus could make him. He was cloaked in a long cowl that had rained upon it. Franz thought he saw a green glamor around Krespel. Outside it had grown stormy and, in the air, lighting crisped a tree, which fell to the littered earth. Krespel’s countenance glared. Flash and then crash. Then Krespel howled: “How dare you!” Krespel seemed like a magician with a wand: reaching out to strike anyone. “I was going to have him placed around my finger like a jade ribbon. This alone would allow us all to escape.” Krespel clenched his fist up above his ghastly head. The night and wind played a ländler around him.

The maiden replied: “Father, do not you see the Erlking?” She pointed at the cat.

The gaunt man was now searching. “The silver! And the ring!” Then he realized the elf king wanted the coin. The hunter reached for the ribbon then the black cat disappeared, with Franz seeing a man’s face just an instant afterward which flicked out of view. Krespel turns to his daughter: “You should not have mentioned its name. Now we are lost, the ribbon would have bound him to the ring. The spell is broken.”

Krespel shook the maiden, almost wringing the life out of her. He raised his skull and tears caught his cape. “We needed the silver to give the elven king, it is the payment of the mother for a son.” Towards the hunter, he turned but the gaunt man only fumed.

The hunter asked: “Why did you not take the ribbon?”

“It has to be given willingly.” Then Krespel got onto his knees and began to weep, but it was not water but blood – or so Franz perceived. Pennies flew out of his pocket. And the ribbon turned to dust.

Franz grabbed his jacket and ran out the kitchen door into the night not looking back. He just ran. And ran. Seeking the village by sense of sound, guided by the feel of the land. There was no cracking of his foot this time. He rushed until he saw the white steeple and when he got to it, he collapsed into delirium digging deeply as if to die. He was dried like a winter bloom stilled.

Sun opened his eyes and faces were dark and babbling. A crowd had gathered One broad woman in white asked: “Now where are you from on this morning?” Rapidly he blurted out his story and feared that Krespel would be after him.

“That is not possible because Krespel has been dead for at least 10 years. Along with his daughter and the hunter she was going to elope with.” It was a teamster on deliveries.

Franz shook his head. “I saw them. How did they die?”

Looking back at him, the teamster sighed. “Some say it was the plague.”

Another voice said: “The legend is that he collects silver Madonnas to escape because he put the young ones out of their misery.”

Then the original teamster said: “I will get my wagon and show you. I have to get out that way.” And with that, they moved along to the mill, but it was different. Instead of a mill which was functional if worn out, it was the ruins of a mill as if in the past, perhaps painted by von Ruisdael. Franz jumped off the wagon and ran upstairs with only the broken tools and a crucifix with no ornament on it. Franz saw the old house and ran out. Instead of melodious noise, the roof merely groaned.

Franz stopped by the high white crosses. They were marble. On one it read Adelaide Krespel and a date that was in the past. Inside, next to the kitchen door, were three skeletons of pheasants, limp and lifeless. They were ashes in his heart and he went walking out to the open space to watch the moon set over the field.

Almost a month later in Vienna, Franz was talking with Johann. When it was Johann’s turn, he remarked: “I did not know you were a teller of tales.” It was a somber tone for a somber moment.

“On my word of honor, everything was true.” Franz looked out the giant-sized window, perhaps to catch a glimpse of the schöne berg or sultry maid.

Vogl reached his cuff for luck. “Perhaps, but not in this world. The other world? Who can say.”