Return to Death
By J. WESLEY ROSENQUEST
A brief tale about the ghastly horror that befell the man in the coffin
GREAT sadness reigned in the little Transylvanian village of Rotfemberg; Herr Feldenpflanz was dead. Here and there, as one walked in the cobblestoned streets, one saw a sudden dampness in the eyes of passers-by as his name was mentioned. Everyone was talking about him, praising his virtues, lamenting his early death; and in the eyes of many a fräulein was more than a trace of tears. He was indeed well beloved by all the village.
"Poor Herr Feldenpflanz,” said the tailor sadly, "a fine man, as honest as the day is long. And a learned man, too. He went to the University of Berlin for four years, and knew more than any other man in Rotfernberg. Yes indeed, a very fine man.”
The tailor blew his nose with vigor, and his listeners did likewise.
"And poor Fräulein Feldenpflanz! She loved her brother very dearly. She has no one else in the world. What will she do now?”
The tailor and his listeners all shook their heads sadly.
"Even now she sits beside him. For two days she has watched him, lying like life, so calm, and prays for his soul. We all know how he drifted away from God. Those wizard’s things that he did in his big, white room! Tubes full of strange vapors and lights there were, and lightning in glass balls. He always said that it was not magic—as if we had not eyes!”
"Yes,” said the grocer sadly but with vigor, "as if we had not eyes!”
The village priest sat there also, a little outside the group, with sorrow written on his face; and every time one of the townsmen spoke of poor Herr Feldenpflanz’s obvious traffic with Lucifer, an expression of deep pain passed over his mild and benign countenance. He was a short, stout, dark-haired man, and wore the vestments of his calling. He sat very calm and still. At last he could no longer listen without speaking his mind.
"Please, please,” he said softly, "say no more of our good friend. He is now, I hope, among the blessed saints, and we must speak only well of the dead. Remember, he was a good man; perhaps he strayed without knowing that he was ensnared by the Enemy’s wiles. If that be so, there is salvation for him. Let us not speak of Herr Feldenpflanz; let us not use our human judgment; let us rather pray with the Fräulein Feldenpflanz, who even now prays beside her brother’s coffin.”
So saying, he got up from his chair and motioned to the men gathered there in the tailor’s store to follow him. They did so: the grocer, the tailor, the blacksmith, the butcher and the mayor. They climbed the steep mountain path with energy and puffing, and said nothing. The evening dew lay heavy on the long, wild grass; and from overhead fell cool drops from the leaves of the thick, ancient oaks growing on the mountainside. That cool, calm, mountain hush had descended with the twilight. It was as though a great, blue, star-sprinkled bowl had been
