Black Diamonds: A Novel
by Mór Jókai · English · Gutenberg #32668 · 747,345 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Black Diamonds: A Novel
Author: Mór Jókai
Translator: Frances A. Gerard
Release date: June 3, 2010 [eBook #32668]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/32668
Credits: Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLACK DIAMONDS: A NOVEL ***
Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: Budapest 1896 17/III Dr. Jókai Mór]
MAURUS JOKAI
BLACK DIAMONDS
A Novel
TRANSLATED BY
FRANCES A. GERARD
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
All rights reserved.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A BLACK PLACE 1
II. THE SLAVE OF THE BLACK DIAMONDS 11
III. THE MAN-EATER 27
IV. A MODERN ALCHEMIST 35
V. THE DOCTOR 50
VI. COUNTESS THEUDELINDE 63
VII. THE COUNTESS'S ALBUM 79
VIII. THE EXORCIST 95
IX. "AN OBSTINATE FELLOW" 132
X. THE HIGHER MATHEMATICS 146
XI. SOIRÉES AMALGAMANTES 155
XII. RITTER MAGNET 166
XIII. ONLY A TRIFLE 189
XIV. THIRTY-THREE PARTS 207
XV. TWO POINTS 225
XVI. GOOD-BYE 232
XVII. THE LAST REHEARSAL 245
XVIII. FINANCIAL WISDOM 253
XIX. FILTHY LUCRE 259
XX. NO, EVELINE! 278
XXI. RESPECT FOR HALINA CLOTH 291
XXII. TWO SUPPLIANTS 301
XXIII. FINANCIAL INTRIGUE 312
XXIV. THE BONDAVARA RAILWAY 317
XXV. THE POOR DEAR PRINCE 324
XXVI. DIES IRÆ 327
XXVII. FROM THE SUBLIME TO THE RIDICULOUS 348
XXVIII. TWO CHILDREN 352
XXIX. IMMACULATE 357
XXX. MAN AND WIFE 365
XXXI. EVA DIRKMAL 373
XXXII. CRUSHED 378
XXXIII. CHARCOAL 387
XXXIV. CSANTA'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT 395
XXXV. THE GROUND BURNS UNDER HIS FEET 401
XXXVI. CHILD'S PLAY 406
XXXVII. EUREKA 411
XXXVIII. AT PAR 419
XXXIX. THE UNDERGROUND WORLD 428
XL. ANGELA IS EVEN WITH IVAN 442
XLI. HOW IVAN MOURNED 450
XLII. EVILA 453
XLIII. THE DIAMOND REMAINED ALWAYS A DIAMOND 459
BLACK DIAMONDS
CHAPTER I
A BLACK PLACE
We are in the depths of an underground cavern. It is bad enough to be
underground, but here we are all enveloped in black as well: the
ceiling is black, so are the walls; they are made of blocks of coal.
The floor is one great black looking-glass. It is a sort of pond,
polished as steel. Over this polished surface glistens the reflection
of a solitary light, the light of a safety-lamp shining through a wire
net.
A man guides himself over the pond in a narrow boat. By the doubtful
light of the lamp he sees high pillars, which rise out of the depths
below and reach to the very roof of the cavern--pillars slender, like
the columns of a Moorish palace. These pillars are half white and half
black; up to a certain point only are they coal black, beyond that
they are light in color.
What are these pillars?
They are the stems of pines and palm-trees. These gigantic stems are
quite at home in the layers over the coal-mine, but how have they
descended here? They belong to another world--the world of light and
air. The coal layers overhead sometimes take fire of themselves, and
the fire, being intense, has loosened the hold of these giants and
sent them below.
Coal-pits kindle of themselves often, as every novice knows, but in
this case who extinguished the flames? That is the question.
The solitary occupant of the rudely shaped boat or canoe goes
restlessly here and there, up and down. He is a man of about thirty
years, with a pale face and a dark beard. His firmly closed lips give
him an expression of earnestness, or strong, decided will; while his
forehead, which is broad, with large bumps over the eyes, shows that
he is a deep thinker. His head is uncovered, for here in this vault
the air is heavy, and his curly black hair is in thick masses, so that
he needs no covering.
What is he doing here?
He drives his boat over the black looking-glass of the lake; round and
round he goes, searching the black walls with anxiety, his lamp raised
in his disengaged hand. Does he imagine that a secret is hidden there?
Does he think that by touching a spring, and saying "Open Sesame," the
treasure hidden there for hundreds of years will spring forth?
In truth, he does find treasures. Here and there from the black
wall--weakly constructed in some places by Nature's hand--a piece of
stone loosens itself--upon it the impression of a leaf belonging to a
long-ago-extinct species. A wonderful treasure this! In other places
he comes upon unknown crystals, to which science has not as yet given
a name; or upon a new conglomeration of different quartz, metal, and
stone--a silent testimony to a convulsion of Nature before this world
was. All these witnesses speak.
The pillars, too; over them the water of the pond has by degrees
formed a crustation of crystals, small, but visible even without a
glass. This, too, gives testimony.
The pond is in itself wonderful. It has ebb and flow: twice in the day
it empties itself; twice in the day it fills. The water rushes in
leaps and bounds, joyously, tumultuously, into this dark, sullen
vault; fills it higher, higher, until it reaches the point on the
pillars where the color changes. There it remains, sometimes for two
hours, stationary, smooth, and placid as a glass. Then it begins to
sink, slowly, surely, until it vanishes away into the secret
hiding-places from whence it has come. Curious, mysterious visitor!
The man in the boat knows its ways; he has studied them. He waits
patiently, until, with a sullen, gurgling sound, as if lamenting the
necessity, the last current of water vanishes behind a projecting mass
of coal. Then he hurriedly casts off his coat, his shoes, his
stockings; he has nothing on but his shirt and trousers. He fastens
round him a leather pocket, in which is a hammer and chisel; he takes
his safety-lamp and fastens it to his belt; and, so equipped, he
glides into one of the fissures in the black rock. He is following the
vanishing stream. He is a courageous man to undertake such a task, for
his way lies through the palace of death. It needs a heart of stone to
be there alone in the awful silence. It is a strong motive that brings
him. He is seeking the secret which lies under seven seals, the
treasure which Nature has concealed for thousands of years. But this
man knows not what fear is. He remains three hours seeking. If he had
any one--a wife, a sister, even a faithful servant, who knew where he
was, what danger he was in, how their souls would have gone out in
agony of fear for what might happen!
But he has no one; he is alone--always alone. There is no one to weep
for his absence or to be joyful at his coming; his life is solitary,
in the clear air of daylight as well as in the depths of the cavern.
The vanished stream is as capricious as a coquettish maiden, as full
of tricks and humors. Sometimes it does not show itself for three or
four hours; at other moments it comes frolicking back in one, and woe
to the unfortunate wight who is caught in its embrace in the narrow
windings of the coal-vault! But this man knows the humors of the
stream; he has studied them. He and it are old acquaintances; he knows
the signs upon which he can depend, and he knows how long the pause
will last. He can gauge its duration by the underground wind. When it
whistles through the clefts and fissures, then he knows the stream is
at hand. Should he wait until the shrill piping ceases, then he is a
dead man.
In the darkness a ghostly sound is heard--it is like a long-drawn
sigh, the far-away sobbing of an Æolian harp; and immediately the
shimmer of the lamp is seen coming nearer and nearer, and in a minute
the mysterious searcher of the hidden secret appears.
His countenance is paler than before--deathly; and drops of sweat
course down his forehead and cheeks. Down below the air must be
heavier in the cavern, or the nightmare of the abyss has caused this
cold damp. He throws his well-filled wallet into the boat, and seats
himself in it again.
It was time. Scarcely has he taken his place when a gurgling is heard,
and out of the fissures of the rock comes a gush of black water,
shooting forth with a loud, bubbling noise. Then follows a few
minutes' pause, and again another gush of water. The cavern is filling
rapidly. In a short time, over the smooth surface of the wall, the
watermark shows itself. Clear as a looking-glass it rises,
noiselessly, surely, until it has reached the black line upon the
pillars.
The boat, with its silent, watchful occupant, floats upon the water
like the ghost of the cavern. The water is not like ordinary water; it
is heavy like metal. The boat moves slowly, only now the rower does
not care to look into the depths of the black looking-glass; he pays
no attention to the mysterious signs on the walls. He is occupied
taking stock of the air about him, which is growing denser every
moment, and he looks carefully at his safety-lamp, but it is closely
shut. No escape there.
There is a great fog all round the lamp. The air in this underground
abyss takes a blue shade. The man in the boat knows well what this
means. The flame of the safety-lamp flares high, and the wick turns
red--bad signs these! The angel of death is hovering near.
Two spirits dwell in these subterranean regions--two fearfully wicked
spirits. The pitmen call one Stormy Weather, the other Bad Weather;
and these two evil spirits haunt every coal-mine, under different
names. Bad Weather steals upon its victim, lies like a thick vapor
upon his chest, follows the miner step by step, takes away his breath
and his speech, laughs at his alarm, and vanishes, when it has reached
its height, just as suddenly as it came. Stormy Weather is far more
cruel--fearful. It comes like a whirlwind; it sets everything in a
flame, kindles the lumps of coal, shatters the vaults, destroys the
shaft, burns the ground, and dashes human beings to pieces. Those who
gain their livelihood by working underground can never tell when they
may meet one or other of these evil spirits.
The secret of "stormy weather," whence it comes, when it may come, no
man has yet discovered. It is believed that it arises from the
contact of the hydrogen gases with the acid gases which are contained
in the open air; and "bad weather" needs only a spark to turn into
"stormy weather." The thoughtless opening of a safety-lamp, the
striking of a match, is sufficient to fuse the two evil spirits into
one.
The solitary man whom we have been shadowing sees, with an anxiety
that increases every moment, how the air becomes more and more the
color of an opal. Already it is enveloping him in a thin cloud. He
does not wait for the flood to rise to its highest point, for, when he
reaches a place in the wall where a sort of landing-stage has been
made, he jumps upon it, draws the boat by its chain, and moors it
fast, and then, ascending by some rude steps to a strong iron door, he
opens it with a key, and, closing it behind him, finds himself in a
passage which leads him straight into the pit.
Here he is in a busy world, very different from the solitude he has
left. The streets, which are narrow and close, are full of miners hard
at work with their hammers. The men are nearly naked, the boys who
push the wagons are wholly so. There is no sound heard but that of the
never-ceasing hammers. In the mine there are no jolly songs, no hearty
laughter. Over the mouth of each miner a thick cloth is tied, through
which he breathes.
Some of the passages are so narrow that the worker is obliged to lie
upon his back, and in this position to reach the coal with his pick.
When he has loosened it he drops it into the little wagon, which the
naked boys, crawling upon their stomachs, push before them to the
opening.
The man who has come out of the dark cavern does not differ in dress
from any of the others. He is clothed, certainly, but his clothes are
covered with coal-dust, his hands are just as coarse, and he carries
a pick and a hammer on his shoulder. Nevertheless, they all know him;
there is a rough civility in the tone of each man as he answers the
other's greeting, "Good-evening. Bad Weather is coming."
The word is repeated all round.
It was true. Bad Weather _was_ close at hand, and these men and boys,
who quietly come and go, hammer, shove the wagons, lie on their backs,
all know, as well as the convict who is awaiting the execution of his
sentence, that death is near.
The heavy, damp fog which lies upon each man's chest, and which fills
the mine with its unwholesome smell, needs only a spark, and those who
now live and move are dead men, buried underground, while overhead a
hundred widows and orphans weep and clamor for their lost ones.
And yet, knowing this, the miners continue calmly to work, as if quite
unconscious that the dread Angel of Death is hovering about them.
The man who has just entered is Ivan Behrend, the owner of the mine.
He unites in himself the office of overseer, director, surveyor, and
bookkeeper. He has enough to do; but we all know the proverb, and, if
we have lived long enough, have tested its truth, "If you want a thing
well done, do it yourself." Moreover, it is an encouragement to the
worker if he sees his employer go shoulder to shoulder with him in the
work. Therefore, as we have just seen, the master greets all his
workmen with the words, "Bad Weather is coming," and they all know
that the master does not consider _his_ life of more value than
theirs; he does not fly and leave them all the danger, because he is
the owner and gets all the profit. Quietly, with the most perfect
composure, he gives his orders--the ventilators are to be opened--a
charge of cool air at once to the heated coal; and the workers are to
go off work after three instead of six hours. He gets into the pail,
covered with buffalo-skin, and lets himself down to the bottom of the
shaft, to see if the new openings are dangerous. He turns over
carefully with an iron bar the coal-dust, to try if any of it is
heated, or if gas is there concealed which might cause an explosion.
Then, as the ventilators below and the air-pump above begin to work,
he takes his place at the anometer. This is a tender little machine,
something like the humming-top of children. Its axle turns upon a
ruby, and the spring sets a wheel with a hundred teeth in motion; the
velocity of this wheel shows the strength of the current of air in the
shaft. It should neither be stronger nor weaker than the motion of the
"bad weather."
He has now seen to everything; he has taken every precaution, he has
left nothing to chance, and, when all the miners have quitted the pit,
he is the last to ascend in the basket to the fresh air and the
daylight.
Fresh air--daylight!
In Bondavara the sun never shines, the shadow of the smoke hangs like
a thick cloud over the land; it is a black country, painted in chalk.
The roads are black with coal-tracks; the houses are black from the
coal-dust, which the wind carries here and there from the large coal
warehouses; the men and the women are black. It is a wonder the birds
over there in the woods are not black also.
The mouth of the Bondavara pit is on the slope of a hill, which, when
you ascend it, gives you a fine view over the whole country. On the
other side, in the valley, are the tall chimneys of the
distilling-ovens. These chimneys are busy night and day, vomiting
forth smoke, sometimes white, but generally coal-black; for here is
distilled the sulphur which forms a component of the coal.
The metal can only be melted when in this condition. One of the
principal customers of the coal-mine is the iron-foundry on the
neighboring mountain, which has five chimneys from which the smoke
issues. If the hammer throws up white smoke, then the oven distils
black smoke, and so contrariwise. Both factories working together cast
over the valley a continuous veil of cloud and smoke, through which
even the beams of the sun look brown and dingy.
From the foundry flows a rusty-red stream, and out of the coal-mine
another, which is as black as ink. In the valley both these streams
unite and continue their course together. For a little the rusty-red
tries to get the better of the inky-black, but it has to give up, and
the black rivulet flows on triumphantly through the black meadow
lands.
It is a most depressing landscape, and it is saddening to reflect that
in such a place men have grown from childhood to middle age, from
middle age to old age, and have never seen the green fields or the
blue sky of God's heaven.
But Ivan Behrend, when he ascended from the pit into the open air,
found little contrast between the upper and the under ground. Below,
there was the stifling smell of gas; above, a suffocating fog: below,
the black vault of the mine; above, the murky vault of the heavens:
and the same men above and below.
It was then evening; the sun had gone down, and for the moment even
the vile smoke could not rob it of its setting glory. The towers of
the distant castle of Bondavara were touched with its gleam, and the
chimneys of the distilling-houses were aglow with this crimson light.
The miners were standing about idly; the women and the girls, who are
employed in shoving the wheelbarrows, sat gossiping together, as is
the manner of the sex. One of them, a young girl, began to sing--a
simple little song, with simple words. It was a Slav volkslied--a sort
of romance. A mother is taking leave of her daughter, a bride of a few
hours; she recalls to the girl her childish days and her mother's care
in these words:
"Wenn ich das Haar dir strich,
Zerr' ich am Haare dich?
Wenn ich dich wusch, mein Kind,
War ich je ungelind?"
The melody was touching, with the sad strain that all the Slav music
has, as if composed with tears; and the voice of the one who sang was
musical and full of feeling. Ivan stopped to listen to the song until
the singer and her companions disappeared behind the houses.
At this moment it seemed to him that there was a great difference
between life underground and life in the open.
The song still sounded in the distance; the clouds had passed over and
extinguished the light of the setting sun, enveloping the landscape in
total darkness. No star, no white house; only the light from the
windows of the foundry lighted up the darkness of night; and the smoke
of the distilling-factory rose from the chimneys and cast yellow
circles upon the sky.
CHAPTER II
THE SLAVE OF THE BLACK DIAMONDS
There is nothing startling or new in the declaration that when we
speak of "black diamonds" we mean _coal_. That beautiful, brilliant
stone, the diamond, is made of carbon. So is your house-coal--the only
difference being, the one is transparent, the other black; and the
first is the demon, the last the angel.
Coal moves the world. The spirit of progress comes from it; railroads,
steamboats borrow from it their wonderful strength. Every machine that
is, and works, has its existence from coal. It makes the earth
habitable; it gives to the great cities their mighty blaze and
splendor. It is a treasure, the last gift presented by earth to
extravagant man.
Therefore it is that we call coal "black diamonds."
Ivan Behrend, the owner of the Bondavara coal-mine, was not exactly in
the condition of some of his pitmen. He had seen God's heaven, and
knew how in happier lands life was bright, careless, sunny as the
cloudless sky itself. But for an existence which was all play and no
work, Ivan would not have cared. He had inherited the coal-mine from
his father, who had left him also an inheritance of a strong will and
inflexible perseverance. No trifle, nor even a great obstacle, could
stand in the way of Ivan's wishes, and his wish and his pride was to
work the Bondavara mine without any help but what his pitmen gave
him. It was his ambition--perhaps a foolish one--to have no company at
his back, no shareholders to find fault, no widows and orphans to be
involved in possible ruin; the mine was his, and his it should be
absolutely. Therefore it was a quiet business. The foundry and the
inhabitants of the nearest town consumed the yearly output at an
uncommonly low price. It never could be, unless with enormous outlay,
a great money-making business, seeing that the mine was too far away
from any of the great centres. Nevertheless, it brought in a steady
income, especially as Ivan paid no useless expenses, and was, as we
have said, his own overseer and accountant. He knew everything that
went on, he understood his own business perfectly, and he took a
pleasure in looking after his own affairs; and these three
qualifications, as any business man knows, insure ultimate success.
It was well, however, that he enjoyed such good health, and that this
superabundance of vital energy kept him always occupied, and, by a
natural consequence, never dull. There was no denying that it was a
solitary life for so young a man.
Ivan was very little over thirty, and when he opened the door of his
small house with his key, and closed the door behind him, he was
alone. He hadn't even a dog to come and greet him. He waited upon
himself; and in this he was a great man. Eating he looked upon as an
unnecessary waste of time; nevertheless, he ate a great deal, for his
muscular and mental system needed food. He was not delicate in his
appetite. He dined every day at the tavern. His food was very little
better than that of his pitmen, the only difference being that he
avoided the strong drinks they indulged in--for this reason, that they
worked only with their bodies; he had to bring to his work a clear
intellect, not a soddened one. His bed needed no making. It was a
wooden plank, upon which a mattress was placed, covered with a
sheep-skin. There was no use in brushing his clothes; they were always
permeated with coal-dust.
Any one who would offer, by way of doing him a service, to clear out
his room, would, in fact, have done him a deadly injury. It was full
of every sort of thing--new books half cut, minerals, scientific
instruments, plans, pictures, retorts. Not one of these should be
moved from its place. There was order in the disorder, and in the
heterogeneous mass Ivan could find what he wanted. In one corner was
Lavoisier's pyrometer; in another Berard's gas food-warmer. Over there
a wonderful sun-telescope; against the wall Bunsen's galvanic battery,
together with every conceivable invention, every sort of chemical
apparatus for analyzing and searching into the mysteries of Nature.
Amongst these things Ivan was wont to spend the long nights. Another
man, tired as he must have been with his day's work, would have flung
himself upon his bed, and have sought in sleep some compensation for
the labors of the day, or if not weary enough for this, would have sat
before his door and breathed the fresh air, which at night was free
from smoke and coal-dust. But this student of the unseen withdrew into
his inner chamber, lit his fire, made his lamp blaze, and busied
himself breaking lumps of coal, cooking seeds, developing deadly
gases, a breath of which was enough to send a man into eternity.
What was it he searched for? Was he seeking the secret of the
philosopher's stone? Did he abandon sleep to find out how diamonds can
be made out of coal? Did he strive to extract deadly poisons, or was
he simply pursuing the _ignis fatuus_ of knowledge--trying
experiments, grubbing in the dark until, in the hopeless endeavor, the
over-strained brain would give way, and there would be only the wreck
of what was once a noble intellect?
Nothing of the sort. This man had a purpose; he wanted to learn a
secret which would be of infinite benefit to mankind--at least, to
those who are buried in the pits and caverns of the earth. He wanted
to find out by what means it would be possible to extinguish fire in
burning pits. To discover this he consumed his nights and the years of
his youth and his manhood. It was no thought born of to-day or
yesterday; it had been his one desire for many years. He had seen so
much misery, such heartrending scenes enacted before these pit
mouths--these monsters which swallow up human life like the
Juggernauts of old. He wanted to prevent this amount of sacrifice--a
sacrifice never thought of by those who profit from the labor of these
victims, whose very blood is spilled to keep others warm. It is
possible this one idea might drive him mad, or he might lose his life;
but the knowledge, if he did gain it, would be, in his opinion, worth
the loss. After all, what is the loss of one life against the saving
of millions? This man had a fine nature; there was no tinge of self in
Ivan Behrend. Also, he had a certain enjoyment in his search.
Enjoyment is not the word. Whenever he got even a glimpse of what he
wanted, his joy was something unearthly. Surely these moments were
worth all the pleasures the world could offer him; and if we can bring
our minds to understand this, then we shall comprehend how a young man
preferred to be shut up in a cavern, in danger of losing his life, or
in a stifling room, trying risky experiments, rather than spend the
night with beautiful maidens or pleasant fellows, drinking, dancing,
and love-making. There is a charm in Science to those who know her
that far surpasses carnal joys.
To-night, however, it must be confessed, Ivan's experiments fell a
little flat. Either he was tired, or some other cause was at work.
Could it be possible that a girl's song-- Yes, such was the
humiliating condition of affairs. At the moment when he least expected
it, this thing had unexpectedly seized upon him.
With an effort Ivan lit his lamp and lighted his furnace. His
experiments, however, were a failure. That girl's song kept running in
his head, and the words--how did they go?
"Say when I smoothed thy hair,
Showed I not tender care?
Say when I dressed my child,
Was I not fond and mild?"[1]
[Footnote 1: These lines have been kindly translated
from the original by Miss Troutbeck.]
It was very pretty, and the voice wonderful--so sweet and clear and
melodious. To-morrow evening she might be at the pit's mouth again,
and then he would find out her name. Even if she were not there, the
other girls would know; there were not so many singers among them.
"Say when I smoothed thy hair"--
Oh, he could settle down to nothing with this tiresome song!--
"Showed I not tender care?"
He wished he had seen her face, merely to know if it matched the
voice. Very likely not. She would be hard-featured, like the other
girls--bold, unwomanly creatures; beauty and modesty were rare gifts
in Bondavara.
The next day Ivan was early at the pit. The opening of the air-oven
had done its work; there was only a fractional quantity of hydrogen
mixed with the pit air. The ventilators could be shut, and Ivan was
able to spend some time in the open.
At twelve o'clock the bell rang to leave off work. As the girls came
from the wheelbarrows, he again heard the clear young voice singing
the same song. He had not been wrong as to the voice; it was fresh and
lovely, like the blackbird in the woods, uneducated and unspoiled, but
full of natural charm, tender and joyous as the feathered songster. He
could now see the singer--a very young girl, not more than sixteen.
The common blue bodice she wore showed every undulation of her girlish
figure, untrammelled by any fashionable stays. Her short red skirt,
tucked up on one side, and fastened to her waist, disclosed her still
shorter chemise, which only reached to her knees, so that her legs
were uncovered. They might have been modelled for a statue of Hebe, so
perfect were they in shape--the ankles small, and little feet
beautifully rounded, like a child's. About her head the girl had wound
a colored cloth, and under this she had tucked away her hair; her
face, like those of her companions, was blackened by the coal-dust,
but even this enemy to beauty could not disfigure her. You could see
that her features were regular, her eyebrows thick and dark, her lips
red. There was a mixture of earthly dirt and supernatural beauty about
this child; besides, she had one thing that even coal-dust could not
conceal or dim, her eyes--her large black eyes--shining like two
diamonds, which lit up the darkness as two stars.
As these wonderful eyes met Ivan's glance, it seemed to that
philosopher as if these diamonds cut away a portion of the glass phial
in which he had preserved his heart, and so kept it untouched up to
this. But he did not know that this was only the beginning; his glass
protector will soon lie in fragments all round him.
The girl made a little curtsey to her employer, and accompanied this
small act of duty with a smile which showed two rows of beautiful,
pearly-white teeth.
Ivan felt like an enchanted knight in a fairy tale. He forgot what had
brought him here, and what he wanted to say; he remained rooted to the
spot, gazing blankly after the retreating figure of the girl and her
companions. He hoped, without exactly defining what his hope was, that
she would look back. That little action would have broken the charm
under which he lay. But she did not look back, although one of her
companions called her by her name, "Evila." Ivan could see them
talking to her, whispering, no doubt, about him. This did not seem to
rouse any curiosity in her. She and they had now come to an open shed.
Here they seated themselves upon the ground, took out of their pockets
pieces of black bread and wild apples, and ate their meal with as much
zest as if it had been chicken and grapes.
Ivan returned to his house. For the first time in his life it struck
him how lonely it was. It was his custom to keep a sort of log-book,
in which he entered his personal notes upon all his work-people. He
found this practice very necessary; he knew that a skilled workman of
good conduct is far more useful at high wages than a lazy,
good-for-nothing fellow of doubtful character who would come for half
the wage. At the footnote by the name "Evila" he read--
"A young orphan; supports a crippled brother younger than herself,
who goes upon crutches, and whose tongue is paralyzed. She is very
steady, and does not go to the town."
It was certain, therefore, that he must have seen this child before,
but had given no attention to her. Every Saturday he paid every
workman, every girl and lad in the pit; how, then, had he escaped
noticing those wonderful eyes? He did not know, learned as he was,
that there is an affinity between two souls destined for one another.
It is like an electric shock, this sudden birth of love; but Ivan
ridiculed such an idea. Love? Nonsense! He in love with a girl out of
the pit? Ridiculous! It was compassion, merely pity for a pretty
child, left without either father or mother to watch over her tender
age, and, still worse, with a deformed brother to care for and provide
with food and medicines. No doubt she gave him the best of everything,
while she had to be content with black bread and wild apples, and all
the time remained an honest, steady girl. She never even turned her
head to look after him. There was nothing but pity in his heart for
this coal-black Naiad; it was only pity made him wish to cover those
tender little feet with proper shoes; it was only a proper regard for
the weakest among his work-people which would cause him to make
inquiries as to this poor forlorn child. Oh, self-deception, what a
part you play in men's hearts!
The following Saturday the workers came to receive their weekly wages.
Ivan, who always paid them himself, remained at his desk until the
last one came. On this occasion Evila was the last. Ivan sat at a
table, on which was placed the sum to be paid, which was regulated by
the account of the work done, which was registered in the day-book.
When the girl, who was dressed as when we first saw her in her blue
bodice and red skirt, presented herself, Ivan said to her kindly--
"My child, I have determined to increase your wages; from this day you
shall have double pay."
The girl opened her large eyes, and stared in surprise. "Why so?" she
asked.
"Because I am told that you have a crippled brother, whom you have to
keep out of your small earnings. You cannot have enough to clothe and
feed both him and yourself. I have also heard that you are a
well-conducted, honest girl, and therefore it gives me pleasure to
reward you by giving you double pay."
"I cannot take it."
"Why not?"
"Because I know what the others would say. They would joke and tease
me about your being my lover, and I should get so tormented that I
could not stay in the place."
Ivan was so confounded by this naïve explanation, given without the
slightest confusion, that he could make no answer. He counted out the
usual week's wages, which she stowed away in the bosom of her bodice,
wished him good morning, and went her way.
He remained, his thoughts in a maze. In all his experience--and he had
a good deal, for his time had not been always spent in Bondavara, and
out in the world he had known many women--he had known no woman like
this.
She is afraid they will say I am her lover; she is afraid they will
tease her so much on that account that she may have to leave the
place! Has she, then, no idea that once I, the master, loved a girl
here, she would not push the wheelbarrow any more? Does she even know
what a lover is? She knows well that she must guard herself against
one. Poor child! How earnest she was, and yet she laughed, and she did
not know why she laughed, nor yet why she was grave. A savage in the
guise of an angel!
He got up, locked his desk, and turned to leave his office; then again
remained, thinking.
She is unlike every other woman. I doubt if she knows how beautiful
she is, or what is the worth of beauty. She is Eve, a perfect copy of
Eve--the Eve of Scripture, and the Eve of Milton. She is Eve, in not
knowing wherefore she should blush over her own nakedness--the type of
the beautiful in its primitive state, unwashed, savage, with hair
unconfined, who wanders through the garden, fearing nothing, and even
playing with a serpent. With men she is a woman, by herself she is a
child, and yet she displays a motherly care for her little brother.
Her figure is a model for a sculptor, her countenance is full of mind,
her eyes bewitching, her voice melodious; and yet her hands are hard
with the barrow-poles, her mind is troubled with sordid cares for her
daily bread, her face is covered with coal-smut, and she has learned
her songs in the street.
"The worse for her!" and, after a pause, Ivan added with a sigh, "and
the worse for another besides her."
In his mind a total revolution had taken place. The intellectual
spirits had for the nonce deserted him, and in their place others had
come of a very different order--those demons which the blessed Antony
had fought with such good effect in the desert.
When poor Ivan tried to banish these tempters by burying himself in
his books and his scientific instruments the form of Evila came
between him and the experiment he was busy on, just as Marguerite
appeared to Doctor Faust in his laboratory; her voice sounded in his
ear, her eyes glowed in the coals, and when he tried to write he found
himself drawing a maiden in a blue bodice and short red skirt. It was
the same with everything he undertook. Some mocking demon seemed bent
on tormenting him.
Abandoning his experiments, this unfortunate man took to reading a
volume of light literature. What did he open on? The loves of great
and nobly-born men for lowly-born and inferior women. Thus Lord
Douglas fell in love with a shepherdess, and became a shepherd for her
sake; Count Pelletier took for his wife a gypsy girl, and went about
the streets turning an organ; Bernadotte, the King of Sweden, sought
the hand of a young girl who watched a flock of geese for a farmer;
Archduke John married the daughter of a postmaster; and another
Austrian duke raised an actress to the position of grand duchess; the
consort of Peter the Great was the daughter of a villager; a Bonaparte
married a washerwoman who had been his mistress.
And why not? Are not beauty, sweetness, fidelity, and true worth to be
found under a woollen as well as under a silken frock? And, on the
other hand, do we not find sinners enough in the upper circles?
Did not Zoraida kill her own children, and was she not a born
princess? Faustina took money from her lovers, although she was the
daughter of an emperor; the Marquise Astorgas ran a hairpin through
her husband's heart; Semiramis strewed a whole churchyard with the
corpses of her spouses; King Otto was poisoned in a grove by his
queen; Joanna of Naples treasured the ribbon with which the king, her
husband, was strangled; Jeanne Lafolle tormented her husband to death;
the Empress Catharine betrayed her sovereign and consort, and connived
at his murder; and the Borgias, Tudors, Cillis, all had wives who
became notorious in that they wore entwined in their crowns the girdle
of Aphrodite.
And do we not find the most exalted virtue in what is called low life?
The actress Gaussin, to whom her wealthy lover gave a check with
_carte blanche_ to write a million thereupon, only wrote that she
would always love him, Quintilla, another actress, bit off her tongue,
lest she should betray her lover, who was implicated in a conspiracy;
Alice, who undertook to fight a duel for her husband, and was killed;
and many others who have suffered silently and died for very love.
Philosophy and history both conspired against Ivan. And then came
sleep.
A dream is a magic mirror in which we see ourselves as we would be if
our own wishes and inclinations were all-powerful. In his dream the
bald man has hair and the blind sees.
Towards the end of the following week Ivan made the discovery that he
had lost the use of his understanding. The more he endeavored to force
his mind back to its original groove of abstract theories, the more
the demons ranged themselves against him. One evening, in a fit of
absence of mind, he overheated one of the retorts, so that it burst in
his face, and the small glass particles cut his nose and cheek, and he
was forced to bind up his wounds with bits of sticking-plaster. It did
not occur to him that these strips of black diachylon placed obliquely
across his nose did not improve his appearance. He was, however, very
angry at his own folly--a folly which went still further, for he began
to argue with himself in this way:
"It would be better to marry this girl than to become mad for her
sake. Marry her? Who ever heard the like? A pit-girl! What a
_mésalliance_! And who cares? Am I not alone in the world? Do I not
form the whole family? And does not this constant thought of her come
between me and my business? If this goes on I shall be ruined; and as
for the _mésalliance_, is there a soul for six miles round who
understands the meaning of the word? Not one; and if there should be
one, he would have to seek me in the coal-pit, and he would find my
face blackened with coal-dust, so that no one could see me blush for
shame."
All the same, he never sought the girl. He waited for the Saturday,
when he knew she would come for her weekly wages, and on that day she
appeared, as usual, the last, because she was the youngest, and stood
before him as he sat at his desk. But this time, when Ivan had put the
money into Evila's hand, he kept the little fingers in his firm clasp.
The girl laughed--perhaps at the plasters, which still ornamented her
lover's face.
"Listen to me, Evila. I have something to say to you."
Evila looked uneasy; she ceased to laugh.
"Will you have me for your lover? Nay, my child, I mean you no harm;
only one must play the lover before one talks of marriage."
The girl nodded, and then shook her head. "It is not possible," she
said.
"Not possible! Why not?"
"Because I am already engaged."
Ivan let go his clasp of her hand. "To whom?"
"That I am not going to tell you," said Evila, "for if I did, I know
very well what you would do. You would discharge him, or you would
keep him back, and we cannot be married until he is taken on as a
regular pitman."
"You mean as a day laborer?"
"Yes."
"And you think more of this low fellow than you do of me, your
employer?"
The girl shrugged her shoulders, held her head a little to one side,
and threw a look at Ivan which sent the blood coursing to his head.
Then she went on, quietly--
"I gave him my promise before mother died, and I must keep my word."
"To the devil with your father and your mother!" cried Ivan, out of
himself with baffled hope and rage. "Do you imagine I care what you
have promised to a fellow like that? I ask you again, will you give
him up and come to me?"
Again Evila shook her head. "I dare not. My bridegroom is a wild,
desperate fellow; he would think nothing of doing for you, and setting
the pit on fire into the bargain when bad weather was on.
Good-evening!" And so saying, she ran away quickly, and mingled with
her companions.
Ivan threw the day-book from him so violently that the leaves flew
from one corner to another. A common creature, a wheelbarrow-girl, a
half-savage, had dared to cross his wishes and refuse his offer! And
for a dirty, miserable, underground miner--a common mole!
Ivan had a hard battle to fight with himself when he was once more
alone in the solitude of the night. The suppressed passion of the
ascetic had suddenly broken through the dams, which moderation had set
up to restrain its course.
Beware of the man who professes to be above human passion, who glories
in his iron will and his heart of ice; avoid him and the quiet, holy,
studious man of soft tongue, who turns away his eyes from women, and
shuns what others enjoy. It is upon such as these that outraged human
nature revenges itself; and once the demon within gets loose, he plays
a fine game to indemnify himself for all the restraint he has
undergone. The love of the worldling is a small dog; that of the
hermit is a lion.
With this wild beast, which he had suddenly unchained, did Ivan, the
man of science, spend the long night, now walking up and down the
narrow room, now throwing himself on his bed, a prey to the most
horrible temptations, his heart beating with a thousand passionate
desires, his thoughts running in as many evil directions. The
opposition that had been made to its wishes by Evila had stimulated
his passion, and also roused the pride of his nature. The master of
the Bondavara mine was a man of fiery temper, kept in check by his
strong command over himself; but this command seemed now at fault. He
had no longer any power to lay this demon, which had got possession of
him, tempting him from every side. With his powerful fist he struck
himself a blow upon his chest, near to his throbbing heart.
"Wilt thou be silent? Who is master, thou or I? Do thy duty, slave. I
am thy lord, thy king. Thy duty consists in nothing but keeping my
arteries in motion, in pumping the air into my lungs, in forcing the
blood in the right direction. When you cease your work, your illness
is atrophy; but you cannot be my master, for the sovereign ruler is my
will."
And as Ivan beat his breast, it seemed to him as if in a magic mirror
there were reflected two forms--himself and another Ivan, with whom he
waged a deadly combat. It appeared to him as if this other self had
robbed him of his form and features, to perpetrate in his name the
most odious sins, and as he hit out against this horrid image of
himself, it slowly vanished; and then Ivan, falling back upon his
pillow, cried out in a loud voice, "Never return, O fiend; never
defile my sight again!"
In another hour, pale and exhausted, Ivan was seated quietly before
his desk. It required an heroic effort on his part to go into prosaic
calculations, to add up long columns of figures; but he forced his
weary brain, his tired fingers to the task, and the slave obeyed its
master, the body submitted to the mind.
CHAPTER III
THE MAN-EATER
The morning light found Ivan still seated at his table. As daybreak
and lamplight did not agree, he extinguished his lamp, threw aside his
papers, and gave himself a momentary rest.
He had conquered; he was himself again. All the fire of passion had
died out, the sinful images had vanished, and in his breast reigned
profound peace. He had resolved upon his course; an angel had been at
his side and inspired him.
It was Sunday morning. The engines which work the distillery were at
rest. On Sundays the enormous water-basin, or trough, which fed the
steam-pump was utilized to remove the dirt of the week from the
miners. From six to seven the basin was free to the women, from
half-past seven to nine to the men. The keys of the great pump-house
were given over by the machine superintendent on every Saturday night
to Ivan, so that no curious or peeping Tom of Coventry could hide
himself there, and see these Venuses bathing through a little window,
which gave upon the basin, and which was placed there to allow the
stoker to see that the water-course was not disturbed when the pumps
were at work.
It had never once entered Ivan's brain that he could play Tom if he
were so minded. But on this Sunday morning he took the key from its
nail and put it in his pocket. Don't start; he did this, not between
six and seven, but shortly after eight o'clock. He wanted to see the
men bathing, unseen himself. And wherefore? Because he knew the
customs which prevail in coal-mines, and that when a pair are engaged,
it is customary to inscribe the name of the girl upon the man's naked
body. Where the miners have got this Indian and savage method is hard
to say. There is a certain tenderness in it, and tenderness is more
often found with the savage than the civilized man. The lovers tattoo
themselves with a needle, upon the arm or shoulder, and then rub in a
corrosive acid, either red or blue. Such a testimony is ineffaceable.
Sometimes some poetic temperament adds two hearts transfixed by an
arrow, or a couple of doves, or it may be the signs of the miner--the
mallet and the pick. It occasionally happens that the relations alter,
and the lover would gladly remove the name of the fickle one from his
album. This can be done by placing a blister over the name, and then
the writing vanishes, together with the skin; a new skin grows, and
upon this a new name can be written. It is a real palimpsest. Many are
not so discreet. They punctuate a fresh name under the old one, and
let the register increase, until sometimes there is not a vacant
place.
It did not give Ivan much trouble to find the man he sought. As soon
as the water removed the black soot from the bodies of the bathers, he
saw on the shoulder of one of them the name of Evila, the letters in
blue, two hearts in red. His rival was an intelligent, most
industrious laborer; he was called Peter Saffran, and his comrades had
added the nickname--the man-eater. To this misnomer Peter had never
taken any umbrage. He was a particularly quiet man, and when they
teased him he took no notice. He never complained of anything, and
never entered either the church or the tavern. Towards children he had
a particular antipathy. If one came near him he drove it away, ground
his teeth together, and threw anything he had in his hand at it. This
peculiarity was so well known that the mothers always cautioned the
little ones against the man-eater. For the rest, he was on good terms
with every one.
Ivan, having found what he wanted, left the pump-house and returned
home, placing himself before the door, so that he could see the people
as they went by presently in groups towards the neighboring village to
the church. He noticed that Evila was among them. He examined her
critically and in cold blood, and he came to quite a scientific
conclusion as to the peculiar character of her beauty, which showed a
mixture of races. The small hands and feet, the slender form, the
narrow forehead, the finely cut nose, the silky black hair--all spoke
the Indian or Hindoo type; but the short upper lip and the long,
serpent-like eyebrows were derivable from some Slav ancestor. The
starry, seductive eyes were decidedly Eastern, the chin and the
coloring recalled the Malay race, and the quick, sudden rising of the
red blood to the velvet cheek the Caucasian--for this people blush
constantly, owing to the cellular texture being fine almost to
transparency.
Ivan pondered on all this as Evila passed him; he wondered also why
her lover was not with her, for this was an established custom in
Bondavara. Peter, however, evidently did not mind these rules of
courtship; he was lounging on one of the benches outside the gates of
the ventilation-oven, close to the pitmouth, his head in the air, his
chin in his hand.
Ivan went to him. "Good-morning, Peter. What are you doing there, my
man?"
"I am listening to the wind that is coming from below."
"Why don't you go to church?"
"Because I never pray at all."
"And why not?"
"I do nobody any harm. I neither rob nor murder, and if there is a
God, He knows better than I do what is good for me."
"You are quite wrong there, Peter. In these matters there is an
immense difference between educated people and what are called the
children of Nature. I have my science and thought to fall back on--my
intellect is my guide, and preserves me from temptation; but with you,
and men like you, it is otherwise. Those who have no other knowledge
but what concerns their daily labor have need of faith, of hope, of
consolation, and of forgiveness." As he spoke, Ivan seated himself
beside the other and laid his hand upon his shoulder. "Something is on
your mind, Peter?"
Peter nodded. "There is something."
"Does it weigh on your soul?"
"On my soul, on my body--everywhere!"
"Is it a secret, Peter?"
"No, it is not. If you care to hear it, I will tell it you."
"A murder?"
"Worse than that."
"Don't you think you had better not tell it to me? It may place you in
danger."
"There is no danger for me. If it were published on the Market Cross,
the law could not touch me; besides, most people know it. You would
hear it from some one else if not from me."
"Then tell me."
"It is a short story. When I was only a lad, not quite twenty, I went
to sea to seek my fortune. I bound myself as stoker on board a Trieste
steamboat. We sailed with a cargo of meal to the Brazils. Our voyage
there was prosperous. On our return we took black coffee and wool. On
this side of the equator we met a tornado, which broke our engine,
smashed our mainmast, and drove the vessel upon a sandbank, where she
foundered. Some of the passengers took to the boat; they went only a
short way when she upset, and they were all drowned. The rest made a
raft from the planks of the sunken ship, and trusted to this frail
thing on the open sea. I was one of them. We were in all thirty-nine,
including the captain, the steersman, and a merchant from Rio de
Janeiro, with his wife and a three-year-old child. We had no other
woman or child, for the rest had perished in the open boat. We thought
them unfortunate, but now I think they were happy. Better, far better,
to have died then. Out of our thirty-nine, soon only nine remained.
Oh, how I wish I had been among the dead! For eight days we floated
upon the water, the sport of the waves; now buffeted here and there,
again in a calm, immovable, nailed as it were to the ocean, without
one drop of water to quench our thirst or one morsel of food. Ten of
us had died of hunger. For two days we had never eaten, and the ninth
day came, and no hope of succor. The sun was burning us up, and the
water reflected the heat, so that we lay between two fires. Oh, the
horror of that awful time! That evening we took the resolve that one
of us should be a victim for the others--that is, that we should draw
lots which should be eaten by the others. We threw our names into a
hat, and we made the innocent child draw for us. That child drew its
own name.
"I cannot tell you, sir, the rest of the ghastly business. Often I
dream the whole thing over again, and I always awake at the moment
when the miserable mother cursed all those who partook of that
horrible meal, invoking heaven that we might never again have peace.
At the recollection of her words I spring out of my bed, I run into
the woods and wait, to see if I shall be changed into a wolf. It would
serve me right.
"Of the partakers of the cursed meal I am the only survivor. The
thought haunts me; it burns into my very soul. Besides my own blood,
the blood of another human being circulates in my veins. Fearful
thoughts pursue me. The piece of human flesh that I have eaten is in
me still; it has taken away all wish for any other food. I understand
the delight of the cannibals. I never see a rosy-faced child without
thinking what a delicious morsel his little rounded arm would be. When
I behold a sickly, pale baby, the idea at once occurs to me--Why let
it live? Would it not be better--"
He shuddered, and stood up. He hid his hands in his blouse, and after
a pause, went on--
"Tell me now, sir, is there any relief for what I suffer? Is there a
physician who can cure me, or a priest who will absolve me? I have
told my story to both priest and doctor, and one has enjoined me to
fast and to chastise myself, the other to drink no brandy and to have
myself bled. Neither of them is worth a straw, and such counsel only
makes the matter worse."
"I will advise you," said Ivan. "Marry."
Saffran looked with some surprise at his employer, and after a minute
a feeble smile stole over his face.
"I have thought of that. Perhaps if I had children of my own this
horror of them would disappear."
"Then why don't you marry?"
"Because I am such a poor devil. If two beggars come together, then
you have a couple of paupers instead of one. One must first have
something to live on."
"That is true; but you are an industrious fellow. I have long wanted
to have you as a first-class pitman, but I waited to advance you until
you got married. It is my rule to give all the best places to married
men. I have found by experience that the unmarried ones, when they get
higher pay, go straight to the bad. There is more dependence to be
placed in a married man; he won't leave his place for a mere nothing.
Therefore, consider the matter. After the first Saturday on which you
can tell me that you have been called in church with your intended,
you will receive the pay of a pitman, and I shall give you a
dwelling-house for yourself."
Peter's face was a study. He could not believe that what he heard was
real earnest. When this was made clear to him, he was ready to fall at
the feet of his benefactor; he almost sobbed as he stammered forth
some words of thanks.
"Now," cried Ivan, with friendly encouragement, "to-day is a Sunday.
Does nothing occur to you, my friend?"
The man sprang to his feet.
"Service has not yet begun," went on Ivan; "the congregation have not
all arrived at the church yet. I think there would be time for you to
catch up your bride and go with her to the clergyman."
Peter said no word to this proposal, but he began to run; his legs
were long, and he was soon out of sight. He was bareheaded; he had
forgotten his hat upon the seat. Ivan saw it, and took it into his
house to keep, but he stood looking after the fleet lover until he had
disappeared behind the stone wall at the turning. Then he went in,
with Saffran's hat in his hand.
"How happy he is!" he thought, and sighed.
When he was in his room he wrote in his day-book that from the
following day, Monday, he had engaged Peter Saffran as a first-class
pitman with the usual wages, and that in his place another day-laborer
should be taken on. When he had closed the book, his heart whispered--
"My cruel master, art thou content?"
But Ivan had his misgivings, and answered his heart thus--
"I don't believe in you, since I have seen how easy it was for you to
slip on the ice. I must for the future watch closely. I am not sure of
the purity of my own motives even now. God knows what lies under this
apparent abnegation. Perhaps you think as a young wife--But I shall
watch you closely, traitorous heart of mine; you shall lead me into no
more pitfalls."
Again he consulted his account-book, and found that the increase in
this year's income allowed him to take on an overseer at a very fair
salary. He wrote out the proper advertisement, and despatched it that
very evening to different papers for insertion. In this way he would
not be thrown into daily contact with his work-people.
CHAPTER IV
A MODERN ALCHEMIST
A fortnight had passed since Ivan sent his advertisement for
insertion, when, one morning, and again it was Saturday morning, Peter
Saffran came and told him that two gentlemen had just arrived, who
wished to see the mine.
"They must be foreigners," he added, "since they spoke French
together." Peter's life as a sailor had given him some knowledge of
the French tongue.
"I shall be with them immediately," returned Ivan, who was busy
pouring a green liquid through a pointed felt hat. "Let them meanwhile
get into the usual miner's dress."
"That is already done; they are all ready for you."
"Very good. I am going. And how are you getting on, Peter?"
"With the wedding? Everything is in order; to-morrow we shall be
called in church for the third time."
"And when shall you be betrothed?"
"It is just now Advent, and our priest will not marry us; but on the
first Sunday after the Three Kings we shall have the wedding. I am not
at all annoyed at the delay, for I have to get together a little
money. When a man marries he must have all sorts of things--furniture
and the like; and something for the cold winter into the bargain."
"And have you put by nothing out of your wages?"
"Yes, sir; I had over a hundred and fifty gulden laid by. I had spared
everything on myself--food and drink, and even the pipe--and I had got
together this sum. Then what should the devil do but bring the
recruiting commission down here, and I had to give all my money into
the greasy palm of the examining doctor, so that he might report me as
being unfit for service because I squinted. It's a trick I have. I can
squint for a quarter of an hour together, although my eyes are
straight; on this account I shall be let off by the doctor, but my
hundred and fifty gulden are gone. I shall have to squint at the
marriage ceremony, for the priest only marries me because I am unfit
for service."
"Well, Peter, you may count upon some help from me."
"Thank you, sir, but I don't like loans; that is like eating one's
supper at dinner."
By this time they had reached the place where the strangers were
waiting.
"Ah," cried Ivan, "so it is you, Felix!" and he held out his hand
cordially to the visitor.
The old acquaintance whom Ivan called Felix looked as if he belonged
to another generation. His soft complexion, carefully waxed mustache,
short imperial, his fine, dark-blue eyes, and particularly the shape
of his head, and the way it was placed on his shoulders, taken
together with his elegant dress, which the rough miner's blouse could
not quite conceal, betrayed the man of the world. When he spoke, his
voice was almost womanly; the tone was clear and high, like one of the
Pope's choir.
Felix hastened at once to put his friend's mind at ease upon a
necessary part of his visit.
"I hope you will forgive our putting up at the inn. I was sure you
would have made us welcome, but you are a busy man, and you would not
care to be at the bother of entertaining us; besides, like all men of
business, you are, I dare say, a little in the rough, and the inn is
really very comfortable. May I introduce you to my travelling
companion, Gustav Rauné? He is a mine-surveyor and engineer."
Ivan was well pleased at his friend's forethought in the matter of
hospitality; not that he would not have made him welcome so far as lay
in his power--and there were unoccupied rooms in the house which would
have accommodated the two men--but his manner of life would have been
disturbed. He had never for one moment thought of entertaining a
guest.
"My house," he said, frankly, "is not fitted to receive my friends,
and, indeed, none come; but the inn is also mine. I trust you will
consider yourselves my guests while you remain here."
"We accept your offer," returned the other; "the more readily, since
we have really come here on your business. Yesterday I read your
advertisement. You require an overseer?"
"I do." Ivan looked doubtfully at the two gentlemen.
"No, no; it is not for me," laughed Felix. "I understand nothing of
the business; but Rauné is inclined to join you, should he find that
there are capabilities here for real work. Rauné is an old friend of
mine. He has learned his business under Erenzoter. You know the firm
of Erenzoter? He is thoroughly up in the whole thing."
Rauné all this time said not a word, perhaps for the best of reasons,
that, being a Frenchman, he did not understand the language in which
the others spoke. He was a small man, slight, and well-made, with
penetrating eyes, a sharp-cut face, and very long mustache.
To this gentleman Ivan explained in fluent French that he would be
glad to show him all the properties of the Bondavara mine before going
closer into the matter of engaging him permanently.
After these courtesies they went down into the pit. Here the two men
were soon convinced that each was thoroughly conversant with the whole
machinery and working of a mine. Sometimes they held different
opinions upon certain systems, and in the dispute or argument which
would arise each disputant saw that the other had nothing to learn
from him.
Rauné displayed extraordinary quickness and knowledge in valuing the
coal stratum. Even without looking at the geometrical maps he was able
to decide upon the probable profit, as also upon the probable extent
of the layer or stratum beyond the actual ground covered by Ivan's
pit. His valuation agreed in almost every particular with that already
made by Ivan. By mid-day the inspection was over, and they went to the
inn for dinner, having first given some time to washing and general
purification. A visit to a pit is by no means a cleanly undertaking.
The afternoon was devoted to the inspection of the distilling-ovens,
and in the evening they went over the foundry. When they returned from
the foundry, Felix went in with Ivan to his house, while Rauné
returned to the inn.
Ivan led his old acquaintance into his workroom, where, in truth, a
wonderful disorder prevailed, cleared a chair, full of maps and books,
for him to sit upon, and told him to light his cigar at a chemical
lamp of a new construction. After a pause Felix began:
"You were always of an inquiring mind, Ivan. I remember well how at
college you distanced every one. As for me, I was a pygmy near a
giant. Now, tell me truly, have all your science, your industry, and
your physical exertions made you a rich man?"
Ivan laughed. "This mine gives me an annual income of ten thousand
gulden."
"In other words, it produces nothing, or, at least, next to nothing.
You are director, overseer, cashier, engineer, secretary, bookkeeper,
and conveyer of goods, and you receive, roughly calculated, just what
you would have to pay these employés if you had not united all their
different offices in yourself. In other words, your work, your talent,
your studies, your zeal, your expenditure of thought and strength upon
this mine of yours only bring you in the miserable return which any
proprietor would give to a man who filled only one of these offices.
As a fact, you don't get a farthing by it."
"The mine is not to blame, neither am I; it is the result of a small
consumption, and, in consequence of this, the production cannot be
increased."
"I will tell you in two words where the fault lies. In the present day
strength is alone to be found in co-operation. In the political world
the smaller states go to the wall; they are forced to tack themselves
on to larger ones, and so form a union. It is the same in the
commercial world; small tradesmen must give way to the larger
co-operative centres, and it is better for them to understand this,
and make part of a company."
"There is no danger of our foundry closing; our iron and our coal take
a first place, and could not be crushed out."
"An additional reason for developing my idea--an idea which, I may as
well tell you, was the factor that brought me here. You have already
guessed, I imagine, that I am not such a good fellow as to undertake
the journey solely on Rauné's account. He is not a chicken, and could
have introduced himself. I have a great plan in my head. I intend to
make you a wealthy man, and, naturally, I shall feather my own nest at
the same time."
"How so?"
"I do not know where I once read this short synopsis of how different
nations acquire money: 'The Hungarian seeks it, the German earns it,
the Frenchman wins it, and the American makes it.' It is a most
characteristic description. You have only to watch the Hungarian, how
he seeks in every hole and puddle for a piece of gold; the German will
work in the sweat of his brow till he gets his reward, a piece of
gold; the light-hearted Frenchman will win the last piece of gold his
victim has; but the Yankee sits in a corner, gnaws his finger-nails,
and makes his pile. Yes, gold lies in undiscovered millions, only
waiting to be 'made.'"
"Where does it lie?"
"In the capabilities of life, in bold undertakings, in the concealed
treasures of the earth, which require development, and in the outlay
of capital; in new discoveries, in the extension of the means of
communication, in the increase of luxury, in the follies of mankind,
in the exertions made by scientists; and especially in the money-box
where small capitalists keep their gold, which should circulate
through large channels to be of use. The number of small capitals
should be thrown into one large, commercial mart, and by means of this
credit every gulden would bring in three times its value. This is the
art of the American; this is how to make a pile of gold. It is a
splendid art, an honest art, and it seems to thrive with those who
adopt it."
When he had concluded this rather long-winded exordium, Felix threw
himself back in his chair with an air as who should say, "Are you not
dazzled with the brilliancy of my conception? Is not Felix Kaulmann
one of the greatest financiers of the day? Surely you are convinced
that he is."
So far as that went, the name had a fair reputation. The Kaulmanns had
always been in finance, and were well-known bankers. Of late, since
Felix had inherited the business from his father, the firm were more
before the public. Ivan knew his old schoolfellow well; he looked at
him now quietly.
"How do you propose to make a pile out of my pit?"
"I have a big scheme in my head."
"But the whole pit is anything but big."
"So it appears to you, because you don't view it from my standpoint.
You have sought for diamonds in the mine, but it has never occurred to
you that there may be iron ore. This pit produces, you tell me, a
profit of ten thousand gulden; that is the interest of two hundred
thousand florins. I can get you a company who will buy the whole place
out and out for two hundred thousand florins."
"But I would not part with my pit at any price. I am here in my
element, like the mud-worm in the mud."
"You need not leave it--certainly not; on the contrary, if you wished
to go, I would keep you chained, if necessary. The company will start
with a recognized capital of four millions; we will form a large
business, which on one side will ruin Prussian coal, on the other side
will drive the English iron out of market. You shall be the principal
director of the business, with a yearly salary of ten thousand
florins, and two shares in the business; besides which you will be
allowed to take, if you wish it, a portion of the purchase-money in
bonds at par, and these will bear interest at twenty per cent. You
will enjoy an income of thirty thousand florins, instead of your
beggarly ten thousand florins, which you now have, and, into the
bargain, hardly any work."
Ivan listened to this proposal without interrupting the speaker. When
Felix had finished, he said, in a calm voice--
"My dear Felix, if I were to propose to a company ready provided with
four millions the purchase of a business which up to the present had
only produced ten thousand guldens profit, and which profit could
never in the future realize more than eight hundred thousand gulden,
do you not think I would be a despicable villain? If, on the other
hand, I placed my own money in such a company, I should be equally a
perfect fool."
At this clear definition of his recent proposal Felix burst into a
peal of laughter. Then, passing his pliant little walking-stick behind
his back, he placed both his hands on the ends, and said with an air
of profound wisdom--
"You have not heard all my plan. It has not altogether to do with your
colony. You know well that your pit is only a small portion of the
monster coal stratum of the Bonda Valley, which stretches far away--as
far, indeed, as Muld Valley. I intend to buy this entire region; it
can be had now for a mere song, and when properly worked it will be
worth millions--millions earned by honest means. No stealing or taking
unfair advantage of any one. We only raise a treasure which lies at
our feet, so to speak, which is there ready for us, or for any one.
It needs only sufficient strength on the part of those who lift it."
"That is quite another thing. Now I can understand your scheme. I will
also not contradict your assertion that it is lawful and generous; but
it is just because it is so that it is full of holes. It is quite true
that the treasure which lies concealed in the Bonda Valley is
immense--it is possible that it represents millions; but this treasure
cannot be discovered, for the Bondavara property is not for sale."
"Really!"
"I will tell you why; because at this moment it belongs to Prince
Bondavary, who is one of the richest men in this country."
"I should imagine that no one knows better than I do how rich he is."
"In the next place, this man is one of the proudest of our
aristocrats, to whom I, for one, would not venture to make the
proposal to turn his old family property--the cradle, we might say, of
his race--into a mine to be worked by a company."
"Oh, so far as that goes, we have seen many an ancient race glad to do
a bit of commercial dirt. The King of Italy is a crowned king; and,
nevertheless, he has sold Savoy, the place from which his family took
their name and the right to have a cross on their shield."
"Well, suppose the old prince were inclined to sell this property, he
could not do so as long as his sister, the Countess Bondavary, is
alive. Her father left the castle and the property round about to his
daughter, who is now nearly fifty-eight, and may live yet another
thirty years. She has grown up in that castle; she has, to my
knowledge, never left it, not even for one day; she hates the world,
and no human power would induce her to part with her beloved
Bondavara to a coal company, not if the last remaining stratum were to
be found under the castle, and without this the world should perish
from want of fuel."
Felix laughed, then answered with an air of ineffable conceit--
"I have conquered greater difficulties than an old maid's fad, and for
the matter of that, women's hearts are not locked with a Bramah key."
"Well, let us suppose," said Ivan, good-humoredly, "that you have
overcome the prejudices of the prince and his sister, and that you
have actually started your monster company. Then begin all the
technical difficulties; for what is the first necessary to an
undertaking of the kind?"
"A sufficient supply of money."
"By no means. A sufficient supply of workmen."
"Wherever money is plentiful, human beings are pretty sure to flock."
"Between men and men there is a wonderful difference. This is an
article in which one is likely to be easily deceived. With us there is
a want of first-class workmen."
"We would get men from France and Belgium."
"But the men who would come from France and Belgium would not work for
the wages we give our men. They would ask double. In such a commercial
undertaking, the first false step would be to raise the wages to more
than the old system, for my conviction is that every industrial
enterprise to be safe must work upon its own internal capabilities. We
should measure our strength according to the circumstances in which we
find ourselves, and we should educate our own workmen; draw them to us
by learning together. The trade should extend slowly, but surely, by
small experiments."
"You are too cautious. I can convince you to the contrary. For
instance, a steam-engine of a hundred-horse power needs just the same
labor to work it as one of four-horse power; and a small business
requires as many account-books as a large one, and small undertakings
in like manner, even if they are in themselves lucrative, will
eventually be swamped by the larger ones on account of the want of the
proper activity, without which all trade dies of itself."
"Nevertheless, there is less danger of sudden collapse in a small
business," returned Ivan, reflectively. "I like a certainty."
"And what certainty have you? Suppose, just for the sake of argument,
that one bright morning the Austrian minister of trade listens to the
petition of the English iron masters, and that the free importation of
raw iron is allowed. Your neighbor over there will at once shut his
foundry, and you may go and sell your coal to the smithy, eh, Ivan?"
"I have gone into all that. Our raw iron can compete with the English,
and there would be--"
"Your ideas are _rococo_; they belong to the last century. If America
had worked on these lines she would not have overshadowed Europe."
"That may be. What I maintain is that foreign workmen are a bad
investment. Those who come to us are, for the most part, men who
cannot get on in their own country; restless fellows, ever wanting
change; members of secret societies, socialists, and atheists; and so
soon as they get among our men they begin disseminating their vicious
doctrines, and the next thing is a strike for higher wages."
"Have you ever had a strike here?"
"Never!"
"How do you prevent it?"
"That is my secret, which cannot be told in a few words. I am,
however, convinced of one thing: the first obstacle a company would
have to contend against would be the price of labor, and the second
difficulty would be to secure the services of a really capable
overseer; one who would understand the _technique_ of the business."
"We could easily get one from abroad."
"That might be; but I, as a private individual, could get one easily
if I had sufficient money to pay him, for I could choose the best for
my purpose, and could give him what I chose, as far as his merits
deserved."
Felix laughed at Ivan's description. "That is it exactly, as if you
read it out of a book; and just on this account I intend to give the
complete direction of the business to a man who understands it to a T,
and this man is you."
"That is a complete mistake. I do understand the working of my own
small business, but I am quite ignorant of the ways of a great
concern. Like many another small man, I should be a child in the hands
of big speculators, and I should probably wreck the whole concern."
"You are too modest. On the contrary, I think you would outwit the big
speculators."
"Well, suppose all went according to your wishes, or, rather, as it
presents itself to your imagination. The great business is in full
swing, delivers goods at moderate prices, and in sufficient quantity.
Now comes the real objection--the topographical impediment. The Bonda
coal-mine is twenty miles from the nearest railway, and twenty-five
miles from the nearest river. On your way here you must have noticed
the state of the roads. During four months of the year we can send no
freight to a distance, and at any time the cost of transporting our
coal and iron adds so much to the price that it is impossible for us
to compete with either Prussia or England."
"I know all that," said Felix, stroking his beard with the coral head
of his stick; "but a light railway would soon settle all this. We
could run it from Bonda Valley to the principal emporium." He spoke as
if running light railways were a mere trifle.
"A railway through the Bonda Valley!" returned Ivan, in a tone of
surprise. "And do you really believe that with a capital of four
millions you could construct a railway twenty miles long?"
"Certainly not. That would be quite a separate affair."
"And do you think you would find people ready to advance money for
such an uncertain return as mere luggage traffic would insure to the
shareholders in such a railway?"
Felix moved his stick from his beard to his mouth, and began to suck
the top.
"And why not," he said, at last, "when the state would guarantee a
certain rate of interest on the advance?"
Ivan opened his eyes still wider, and placed upon each word an
emphasis.
"The state will give to this railway a guarantee of interest! You will
excuse me, Kaulmann--that is not possible."
Felix answered, after some consideration, "There are certain keys by
which the bureaus of even ministers of state can be opened." After
this oracular speech he was silent, pressing the top of his stick upon
his lips, as if to restrain his words.
Ivan drew out the drawer of his writing-desk and took therefrom a
piece of black bread.
"Do you see this? People who eat such coarse stuff don't dance
attendance upon ministers."
Felix threw his head back with a scornful laugh and twisted his stick
impatiently between his fingers.
"_Allons, n'en parlons plus_," he said. "You have plenty of time to
make up your mind, for what I have once resolved to do, that I do. I
am quite ready to bet with you that I shall secure the Bonda Valley
property from under the nose of the old prince and the faddy countess,
and that the largest factory in the kingdom shall be established
_here_, and the trade carried on with the outside world. This will all
come to pass, as sure as my name is Felix Kaulmann."
"Well, I wish you every luck in your undertaking, but for my part I
will have none of it."
The arrival of Rauné interrupted the conversation. The Frenchman
explained that he had considered Ivan's offer, and was ready to agree
to his conditions and to enter on its office at once. Thereupon Ivan
gave him his hand as a sign that the agreement was concluded. Then he
handed him the books and the strong-box, the former with the complete
list of the pitmen, the laborers, the girls, and boys engaged in the
mine; the latter with the money which was paid to them for the week's
work, and he asked the new overseer to appoint a room in the inn,
where he was going to live, as the place where the miners should come
to be paid.
As it happened, this was a Saturday, and therefore on this evening
the overseer should enter on his new duties.
The inn was exactly opposite to Ivan's house. Groups of pitmen
collected on the vacant space between the two houses. Ivan went to the
window to see in what order the payments would be made by the new
director. Felix also amused himself by means of his pocket-glass,
staring at all the women.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, suddenly, "that little Cinderella over there in
the red skirt wouldn't be bad for the model of a bronze statuette. I
should like her to teach me how to say 'I love you' in the Slav
language."
"Take care," laughed Ivan; "she is betrothed, and her lover is called
a man-eater."
Just then Peter Saffran came out of the tavern. He had received
Evila's money with his own, and offered it to her. She, however,
refused to take it, and the pair went off together in good-humor with
one another. The young girl's hand was upon Peter's arm, and as she
passed the window they heard her singing.
"_Saperlot!_ What a voice!" exclaimed the banker. "Why, she beats
Thérèse. If she were in Paris--"
He didn't finish his sentence. Ivan lit a cigar, and sat smoking
silently.
CHAPTER V
THE DOCTOR
The next day was Sunday. Ivan took Felix and Rauné through the
workmen's colony to show them the dwelling-houses, which were
clustered together like a village. This village had been made by
Ivan's father. The district had been formerly occupied by the very
poorest, who eat nothing but potatoes; but now the miners who lived
here were well-fed and well-lodged. Each pitman had his own cottage
and fruit-garden.
When the three men came to the house in which Evila lived they stood
still and looked into the little yard beyond. They felt obliged to do
so, first, because the door stood open, and secondly, because in the
yard a scene was going on of which they were unseen spectators.
Peter Saffran was beating Evila. The lover held his betrothed by her
long black hair, which fell over her shoulders nearly to the ground.
He had the rich masses gathered up in his left hand and wound round
his wrist, while in his right hand he had a thick plaited cord with
which he struck the poor girl over the shoulders, neck, and back. As
he did so, his eyes expanded until nearly all the white was visible,
his eyebrows almost touched one another, his countenance grew white
with rage, and through his open lips his white teeth looked like those
of an infuriated tiger. At each blow of the rope he growled out--
"So you will have your own way, will you? You will defy me, will you?"
The girl made no protest against her lover's violence. She did not
cry, neither did she beg him to spare her. She pressed her apron to
her lips, and looked at her cruel persecutor with eyes full of the
most divine compassion.
"What a beast!" cried Felix. "And he is her lover!"
"Just so," replied Ivan, indifferently.
"But you should interfere; you should not allow that pretty child to
be ill-used by the savage."
Ivan shrugged his shoulders. "He has the right; she is his betrothed,
and if I were to interfere he would beat her more. Besides, don't you
see he has been at the brandy flask? There would be no use in
reasoning with him."
"Well, I shall reason with him to some purpose," returned Felix. "I am
not going to stand by and see that pretty creature beaten."
"You will do no good, I warn you. The underground laborer has no
respect for men in black coats."
"We shall soon see as to that. Do me the favor to call out 'doctor' as
soon as you see me take the fellow by his arm."
As he spoke, the elegantly attired Felix rushed across the narrow
passage which led to the yard, and confronted the infuriated savage.
"You brute!" he cried. "Let go that girl. Why do you beat her?"
Saffran answered phlegmatically, "What is that to you? She is my
betrothed." He smelled fearfully of brandy.
"Ah, so you are thinking of marrying, are you?" returned Felix,
looking at the Hercules, to whose shoulder he hardly reached. "And how
is it that you are not on military service, my friend?"
The cord slipped from Peter's hand. "I could not pass," he said, in a
low voice. "I have it in black and white. I am not fit."
"Could not pass--not fit--when you can use your arms so well? Who was
the upright doctor that gave you that certificate in black and white?
Such muscles--" He touched with the tips of his gray gloves the
starting muscles on the brawny arm.
"Doctor!" called out Ivan.
When Peter heard this exclamation, and felt the pressure of Felix's
fingers, he let go his hold of Evila's hair. She was free.
"You just wait till to-morrow, young man," continued Felix, shaking
his cane before Peter's nose--"till to-morrow, and you shall have a
second examination. I shall be curious to find out what is the secret
impediment which makes _you_ unfit to serve your country. That is my
business here."
Peter began suddenly to squint.
Felix burst out laughing. "Two can play that game, young man," and he,
too, fell to squinting. "I shall pay you a visit to-morrow."
At this Peter took to his heels, and making one rush of it, was soon
over the wall of the yard, and never ceased running until he reached
the wood.
Ivan was astonished at the result of Felix's interference. He, who was
twice as strong mentally and physically as this effeminate town-bred
man, would have been routed signally, and behold, the weak one in gray
gloves had chased the savage from the field, and was master of the
situation! He felt vexed, yet he wished to conceal his vexation. He
saw Felix calmly conversing with Evila, whose deliverer he had been.
Ivan was not going to stand open-mouthed looking at the hero.
"Let us go on," he said to Rauné. "Herr Kaulmann can follow us if he
wishes."
Herr Kaulmann was not inclined to continue his walk. A full hour
afterwards, when they were returning, he met them. He said he had been
looking everywhere for them without effect. He had done a good
morning's work in their absence. Finding himself alone in the yard
with the girl, he had spoken to her in a sympathizing tone.
"My poor child, what did you do to that brute, that he should ill-use
you so cruelly?"
The girl dried her eyes with the corner of her apron and made an
effort to smile. It was a piteous attempt, tragic in its effort to
hide her sufferings.
"Oh, sir, the whole thing was only a joke. He only pretended to strike
me."
"A nice joke! Look at the welts his blows have made."
He took from his pocket a little case, which held his pocket-comb, a
dandified affair with a small looking-glass, which he held before her
eyes.
Evila reddened over face and neck when she saw the disfiguring marks
of her lover's affection. She spoke with some anger in her voice--
"Sir, you have been very kind, and I will tell you all about it. I
have a little brother who is a cripple. As soon as father died mother
married again. Her husband was a drunkard, and when he was tipsy he
would beat us and tear my hair. Once he threw my brother, who was only
three years old, down a height, and since then he has been crippled.
His bones are bent and weak, and he has to go on crutches; his
breath, too, is affected; he can hardly breathe from asthma, and this
was stepfather's doing. But that did not soften him; on the contrary,
he persecuted the poor baby, and it was ten times worse after mother
died. How many blows I have had to bear, and glad I was to get them if
I could only spare the child! At last stepfather fell from the shaft;
he was drunk, and he broke his neck. A good thing it was, too; and
since then we have lived alone, and what I earn does for us both. But
now I am going to marry Peter, and Peter hates my poor crippled
brother. He says he must go out and beg; that an object like him on
crutches could stand at the church-door on Sundays, and in the market
on week-days, and get pence enough to support himself. Oh, it is
shameful of him! And to-day we had a quarrel about it. He came to take
me to church, where we were to be called for the third time. I was
nearly ready, but I said I should first give my little brother some
warm milk, and I went to fetch it. The boy was sitting on the doorstep
waiting for it.
"'Warm milk!' cried Peter, in a rage. 'I will give him what will make
him fat!' and then he struck the child and tore at his ear as if he
would tear it from his head. The child has a peculiarity--strange for
a child--he never cries, although you might beat him to death. He
opens his eyes and his mouth, but says nothing, and gives out no
sound. I implored Peter to let the poor thing alone, for I loved him.
This set him in a horrible rage.
"'Then let the dwarf go packing!' he screamed. 'Give him a beggar's
wallet, and let him beg from door to door; there never was a more
unsightly cripple than he is, so let him bring home something for his
keep, the scarecrow!'"
The tears ran down the girl's face as she told this.
"How can he help being so ugly and deformed?" she went on. "It was not
God who made him so, it was stepfather; and so I told Peter, and that
I would rather he would beat me than that he should touch the child.
"'And I will beat you,' he said, 'if you say another word'; and then
he seized hold of the child and kicked him. 'Get out of my sight, you
little monster of ugliness!' he said. 'Go to the church-door and beg,
or I will eat you.' And he made such a horrible face that my poor
little brother shrieked with fright. I could not stand seeing him
tortured in this way. I took him from him, and would have covered him
up in my arms, but he ran and hid himself in the chimney. I _was_ very
angry.
"'If you torment him like this,' I said, 'I shall break with you.'
"Then he seized me by my hair and fell to beating me, as you saw. Now
he will do it every day."
"No, no," returned Felix. "The fellow will have to serve his term; a
muscular giant like him cannot shirk military duty. If every one did
that, who the deuce would defend the country and the emperor? It
cannot be winked at--"
"Then are you really a doctor?" said Evila, doubting.
"Of course I am, when I say I am."
A faint reflection of pleasure crossed the girl's face.
"Then perhaps you can tell me if my little brother can ever be cured?"
she said, eagerly.
"I can tell you. Bring me the child."
Evila went into the kitchen, and after some trouble persuaded the
cripple to come out of his shelter in the chimney. This poor victim of
man's cruelty was a miserable object. He looked as if nature had
exhausted the stuff of which he was made; not one of his limbs fitted
the other, and his will seemed to have no power over his body.
Evila took the sick boy upon her knee, and kissing his cheek, withered
like a bit of dried parchment, told him not to be afraid, for that the
stranger was a kind gentleman.
Felix examined the limbs of the cripple with all the attention of an
experienced surgeon, and then with a professional air said--
"The injury can still be cured; it requires only time and care. There
is in Vienna an orthopedic institution expressly for such cases;
cripples are there treated, and grow up strong, healthy boys."
"Ah!" cried the girl, taking hold of Felix's hand. "Would they take
Janoska there? But it would cost money, which I haven't got. I might
get employment in this institution where cripples are made straight
again. I would serve them well if they would cure my little brother."
"I don't see any reason why he shouldn't be admitted," returned Felix,
gravely, "especially on my recommendation. I have great influence, and
a word from me--"
"You will say it, won't you, and God will forever bless you?" cried
the girl, throwing herself on her knees and covering the hands and
feet of the pretended doctor with kisses. "I will serve them; I will
work for them day and night. They need not keep a dog; I will be their
dog, and guard the house for them, if they will make Janoska straight,
so that he need not beg at the church-door. Is it far to Vienna?"
Felix laughed. "You don't think you could carry the boy to Vienna, do
you? I will manage the journey for you. When I have once promised, I
keep my word. I have my carriage here; I will, if you like, take you
both to Vienna."
"Oh, I will sit by the coachman, with Janoska on my lap!"
"Very well, my child," returned Felix, with the air of a patron. "I am
glad to help you; therefore, if you have resolved to take your brother
to Vienna to have him cured, I shall give you the opportunity. Be
ready to-morrow morning when you hear the post-horn sound. That rough
fellow who beat you just now will be taken by the pioneers corps, who
recruit next week, and he will have to serve his four years. Now, here
is some money for you, that you may buy some warm clothing for the
boy, for the nights are cold, and I travel day and night."
The sum of money he placed in the girl's hand took away her breath,
and left her no voice to thank him. Two bank-notes, ten pounds each--a
fortune to a poor girl. The gentleman was a great nobleman; he was a
prince. He was, however, already on his way before she could speak a
word, and it would not do to run through the street after him.
Evila then gave way to her joy like a child, as she was. She laughed,
ran about the room carrying the boy, set him on a seat, knelt before
him, kissed and hugged in her arms his emaciated body.
"We are going away, Janoska, my heart's darling, in a coach to Vienna.
Ho, ho, little horse, ho! In a coach with four gee-gees all hung with
little bells! And Janoska will sit in my lap. Janoska will have good
medicine and good food, and his feet and his hands, his back and his
chest will get straight. He will be a big fellow, like other boys.
Then we will come home, not in a coach, but on our feet. We go in a
coach, and we come back on two feet without a crutch!"
Then the poor little cripple began to laugh like her. Evila ran off to
the store, and bought for the child a warm winter jacket, a cap, and
boots; still, she could not, even with these stupendous purchases,
spend half of the money. What she had left she determined to return to
the gentleman.
Now it was full time to go to church. Her friends wondered to see her
come in alone. They asked her where was Peter? Evila answered she had
not seen him that day. It went against her conscience to tell a lie
before mass, but then, when one is placed in a situation that one must
lie, what can be done? A woman or a girl who has been beaten by her
betrothed or her husband must deny it. God pardons the lie, and
society demands it.
Peter Saffran was nowhere to be seen in the church. Evila felt
terribly ashamed when the clergyman from the pulpit gave out for the
third time the banns of her marriage. And there would be no marriage!
Tears came into her eyes and sorrow filled her heart at the thought
that she was leaving her home, her bridegroom, her friends, all the
places she knew, the things she was accustomed to, and was going out
into the world alone. These thoughts preyed upon her all day, until
she was obliged to go out and look for Peter Saffran. She suspected
where she would find him.
In the depths of the woods at the bottom of a mountain ravine lay a
cottage, or hut, where, at the time of the recruiting, the men and
boys who wanted to avoid the conscription would hide themselves for
weeks, until the officers would have gone on to another place. Not one
betrayed their hiding-place; and here, no doubt, Peter lay concealed.
Evila went blindly through the thicket. The night was dark, the wood
still darker. From the mountain came the growling of the hungry
wolves. The girl trembled with fear, but went her way, nevertheless,
resolved to find her betrothed, although she was sure he would again
beat her. On the path she picked up a stick, and as she went along she
beat the bushes, crying, "Go away, wolf!" But her heart beat wildly
when, with a rustling sound, some beast flew away through the
brushwood. She was getting deeper into the wood, and every moment it
was growing darker; still she kept on her way.
At last through the darkness she saw the glimmer of a light in a
window. This was the hut. Her breath came shorter as she drew near to
the house, from whence came the sound of bagpipes mixed with shouts.
They were very merry inside. She stole softly to the lighted window,
and peeped in. They were dancing. Evila knew the girls who were there;
they were none of her companions; she and her friends crossed the
street when they met these. The piper sat upon the pig-trough, and
when he blew his instrument grunted like so many pigs.
Among the men Evila saw Peter Saffran. He was in high spirits, leaping
so high as he danced that his fist struck the ceiling. He danced with
a girl whose cheeks had two spots of red paint. Peter had both his
arms round her waist; he threw her up and caught her again, kissing
her painted face.
Evila turned away in disgust and hastened back through the woods,
unmindful of the cries of the wolves and the howling of the wind. She
had not even her stick; that she had dropped, and she had no means of
beating the bushes.
* * * * *
That evening Felix Kaulmann came again to Ivan.
"I want to have your last word," he said. "Will you join my
speculation?"
"I don't change my mind so quickly," returned Ivan, coldly. "My answer
is the same as it was this morning--I will not."
"Very well. I have acted in a friendly manner in this matter, and now
I tell you frankly that, as you do not choose to join me, I shall
start the company alone, always leaving it open to you to rescind your
determination and to join me if you wish. I cannot say fairer than
this, and I trust we shall always be good friends. You will forgive me
if I try to pick up some of the diamonds which are scattered about."
"I leave you perfectly free to do what you can."
"I shall avail myself of your permission, and the day will come when I
shall remind you of your words."
Ivan's forehead contracted as he thought, "What does he mean? What can
he take from me? Not my coal-mine; that is mine by right of
possession, and the law protects me. The cut on the neighboring
mountain? So he may! What I have suffices for me."
"Good-luck to your company!" he said, aloud; "and many thanks to the
director."
So they parted. Early next morning Ivan was roused from his sleep. It
was the post-horn which sounded the note of Felix Kaulmann's
departure. Ivan wished him a happy journey, then fell asleep again.
Later, as he was leaving his house, he met Peter Saffran at the door.
The miner presented a sorry figure. His features bore the impression
of his night's dissipation; his eyes were bloodshot, his hair ragged,
his dress in disorder.
"Now, what is it?" asked Ivan, angrily.
"Sir," said the man, in a hoarse voice, "that doctor who was with you
yesterday--his name?"
"What do you want with him?"
"He has carried off Evila!" burst out Peter. In wild agitation he
snatched the hat off his head, tore his hair, and raised both his
hands to heaven.
In the first moment Ivan was conscious of feeling a cruel
satisfaction.
"It serves you right, you beast!" he said. "Serves you right! What
business had you to ill-use the girl--your promised wife--on the very
day that you were called for the third time?"
"Oh, sir," cried the miserable man, his teeth chattering, and beating
his head with his hands, "I was drunk! I did not know what I did; and,
after all, it was only a few blows with a light strap. What was that?
With us common people it is nothing. A woman likes a man the better
when he cudgels her. It is true; but to leave me for a gentleman--"
Ivan shrugged his shoulders and went on his way. The miner caught him
by the tail of his coat.
"Ah, sir, what shall I do? Tell me, what shall I do?"
Ivan, however, was in no mood for giving advice; he was angry. He
pushed Peter away, saying, sternly:
"Go to hell! Run to the tavern, drink brandy, then choose among the
girls whose company you frequent another bride, who will be only too
glad if you are drunk every day in the year."
Peter took up his hat, put it on his head, looked Ivan in the face,
and, in an altered voice, said:
"No, sir, I shall never drink brandy again; only once in my life shall
I taste the accursed thing--once. You will remember what I say, and
when I smell of it, when I am seen coming out of the public-house, or
when you hear that I have been there, then stay at home, for on that
day no one will know how or when he will die."
Ivan left the man standing, and going back into his house, shut the
door behind him. His first satisfaction at the news was passing away.
This miserable peasant, who had dared to be his successful rival, had
lost the treasure which he coveted. The fool had the pearl in his
keeping, but he didn't know how to value it, and he had let it fall.
That was good; but where had it fallen, this pearl so white and lovely
in its purity and innocence? His soul was full of sorrow as he thought
how in his eyes it had lost all its value. The girl who had seemed to
him so virtuous, who kept her troth so faithfully, whose simplicity
had been what he really loved--she had fallen at the first word from a
villain. She refused her master, who had honorably offered her his
name, his house, his all. But he had not the gifts of the other; he
was not a dressed-up fellow, with town manners and seductive ways; he
had not the tongue of a seducer, and had not promised her jewels and
fine clothes, balls and operas. It was the same story with all women,
and Mahomet was right when he gave them no souls, and no place either
on earth or in heaven.
CHAPTER VI
COUNTESS THEUDELINDE
The mistress of Bondavara was at this time fifty-eight years old. Ivan
had not overstated her age when he gave Felix the information.
Countess Theudelinde had long since given up the world. The
renunciation cost her very little; she had never been in touch with
it. Up to her fourteenth year she had grown up in the house of her
father, the prince; at that period her mother, the princess, died. The
governess of Theudelinde was beautiful, the prince was old. The
countess--only the first-born can have the princely title; the younger
children are all counts and countesses--could not, for various
reasons, remain under the paternal roof; she was sent out of the way
and to finish her education at a convent. Before she went, however,
she was betrothed to the Marquis Don Antonio de Padua, only son of the
Marquis de Colomorano, then eighteen years of age. It was settled
between the two fathers that when Antonio was twenty-four and
Theudelinde twenty, she should be fetched out of her convent, and both
should be united in wedlock by Holy Church. This arrangement was
carried out so far as Theudelinde spending six blameless years in a
most highly respectable convent. She was then brought home, and the
marriage bells were set ringing. But, horror of horrors, when the girl
saw her betrothed husband, she shrieked and ran away! This was not
the man she had promised to marry; this one had a mustache!
(Naturally, for he was an officer in the hussars.)
Theudelinde had never seen a man with a mustache. Six years before,
when she was at home, all the distinguished guests who came to her
father's house, the magnates, the ambassadors, were all smooth-shaved,
so were the man-servants, even the coachman. In the convent there was
only one man, the father confessor; his face was like a glass. And now
they proposed to marry her to a man all hair! Impossible! The saints
and the prophets of old wore beards, that was true; some of them had a
good deal of hair, but none had it only on the upper-lip. The only one
she could remember with this adornment was the servant of the
high-priest in the Stations of the Cross, which, to a pious mind like
Theudelinde's, was conclusive. She would hear no more of the marriage;
the betrothal rings were returned on both sides, and the alliance was
at an end.
After this the countess avoided all worldly amusements. Nothing would
induce her go to a ball, or to the theatre. Nevertheless, she did not
seem inclined to take the veil; she had strong leanings towards this
wicked world, only she wanted one of a different sort, without the
wickedness. She desired out of the general chaos to create an ideal,
and this ideal should be her husband. He should be tender, faithful,
no wine-drinker, no smoker; a man with a smooth face, a pure soul, a
sweet-sounding voice; a gifted, sympathetic, patient, amiable, soft,
romantic, domestic, pious man; prudent, scientific, literary,
distinguished, well-born, much respected, covered with orders, rich,
loyal, brave, and titled. Such a _rara avis_ was impossible to find.
Countess Theudelinde spent the best days of her life seeking a
portrait to fit the frame she had made, but she sought in vain; there
was no husband for her.
When the countess had reached thirty there was a halt. The ideal was
as far off as ever. She was anxious to come to terms with the world,
but the world would have none of her. Her day was past; she had no
right to any pretensions. She found herself in the position of having
to choose between utter renunciation or acceptance of the world, with
all its wickedness. At this critical juncture the old prince, her
father, died, leaving the countess the property of Bondavara, together
with the castle. Here Theudelinde retired to nurse her ideal, and
mourn over her shattered idols. Here she was absolute mistress, her
brother, to whom the property reverted, leaving her to her own
devices.
The countess carried out, therefore, her theories unmolested, and her
dislike to beards and mustaches had free play. The growers of these
enormities were banished from her presence, and, as was only a natural
consequence, as time went on her hatred of the male sex increased. No
man was allowed in the neighborhood of the countess. She only suffered
women about her--not alone in the house, but outside. The garden, the
conservatories, were attended to by women--unmarried women, all.
Matrimony was as a red rag to Theudelinde, and no one durst mention
the word in her presence. Any girl who showed any inclination to wear
the "matron's cap" was at once dismissed with contumely. Even the
"coachman" was a woman; and for the reason that it would not have been
fitting to sit upon a coach-box in woman's clothes, this female Jehu
was allowed to wear a long coachman's cloak, a man's coat, as also a
certain garment, at the bare mention of which an Englishwoman calls
out, "Oh, how shocking!" and straightway faints. Truly, at the time
this history was written, in our good land of Hungary, this very
garment played a serious part, since it was the shibboleth and visible
sign of fidelity to the governing powers, and of submission to the
mediators; in truth, ever since those days the "leg of the boot" has
been worn. So it came to pass that Mrs. Liese wore this thing, the
only one of the kind to be seen in the castle. Liese, also, was
allowed to drink wine, and to smoke tobacco, and, needless to say, she
did both.
Fraulein Emerenzia, the countess's companion, was, so to speak, the
exact counterpart of her noble mistress. The countess was tall and
slender; she had a white skin, her features were sharp, her nose
almost transparent, her lips, scarlet in color, were shaped like a
bow; her cadaverous form bent forward; her eyelids fell over her
lack-lustre eyes, her face appeared to have two sides which didn't
belong to one another, each half having a totally different
expression; even the wrinkles didn't correspond. She wore her hair as
it was worn in the days of her youth, as it was worn when Caroline Pia
was married, and as it is possible it will be worn again. Her hands
were fine, transparent; they were not strong enough to cut the leaves
of a book with a paper-knife. Her whole being was nerveless and
sensitive. At the slightest noise she would shriek, be seized with a
cramp, or go off in hysterics. She had certain antipathies to beasts,
flowers, air, food, motion, and emotion. At the sight of a cat she was
ready to faint; if she saw a flesh-colored flower her blood grew
excited. Silver gave everything an unpleasant taste, so her spoons
were all of gold. If any women crossed their legs she sent them out of
the room. If the spoons, knives, or forks were by accident laid
crosswise on the table, she would not sit down; and if she were to
see velvet on any of her attendants she was thrown into a nervous
attack, from the bare idea that perhaps her hand might come in contact
with this electric and antipathetic substance.
Fortunately for her household her nervous fears kept her quiet at
night. She locked and double-locked the door of her room, and never
opened it until the morning came--no, not if the house were burning
over her head.
Fraulein Emerenzia was, as we have before said, the counterpart of her
mistress, in so far that she affected a close imitation of her ways,
for in her appearance she was a direct contrast, Emerenzia being a
round, short, fat woman, with a full face, the skin of which was so
tightly stretched that it was almost as white as the countess's; she
had a snub nose, which in secret was addicted to the vice of
snuff-taking. Her dress and her manner of doing her hair were
identical with the countess's fashion in each, only that the stiff-set
clothes had on her small body a humorous expression. She affected to
be as nerveless as the countess; her hands were as weak--they could
not break a chicken bone. Her eyes were as sensitive to light, her
antipathies were as numerous, and she was as prone to faints and
hysterics as her patroness. In this direction, indeed, she went
further. So soon as she observed that there was any cause for
emotional display, she set up trembling and screaming, and so got the
start of the countess, and generally managed to sob for a minute
longer; and when Theudelinde fell fainting upon one sofa Emerenzia
dropped lifeless upon another; likewise, she took longer coming to
than did her mistress. At night Emerenzia slept profoundly. Her room
was only separated from that of the countess by an ante-chamber, but
Theudelinde might tear down all the bells in the castle without waking
her companion, who maintained that her sleep was a species of nervous
trance.
One man only was ever allowed entrance into the Castle of Bondavara.
What do we say?--no man, no _masculinum_. The language of dogma has
defined that the priest is _neutrius generis_, is more and less than a
being of the male sex; bodily he can be no man's father, spiritually
he is father of thousands. No one need think he will here read any
calumnies against the priesthood. The pastor Mahok was a brave, honest
man; he said mass devoutly, baptized, married, buried when called
upon, would get up in the middle of the night to attend the death-bed
of a parishioner, and would never grumble at the sacristan for waking
him out of his first sleep. The pastor wrote no articles in the
_Church News_, neither did he ever read one. If he wanted a newspaper
he borrowed from the steward the daily paper. When his clerk collected
Peter's pence, Pastor Mahok sent it with an additional gulden or two
to the office of the chief priest; but this did not prevent him
sitting down in the evening to play "tarok" with the Lutheran pastor
and the infidel steward. He held to having a good cellar; he had a
whole family of bees in his garden, and was a successful cultivator of
fruit. In politics he was a loyalist, and confessed he belonged to the
middle party, which in the country means just this, and no more, "We
vote for the tobacco monopoly, but we smoke virgin tobacco because it
is good and we have it."
From this account every one will understand that during the course of
this narrative this excellent gentleman will offend no one. We would,
in fact, have nothing to say to him were it not that he came every
day, punctually at eleven o'clock, to Bondavara Castle to hear the
countess's confession, and that done, he remained to dinner, and in
both directions he honestly earned his small honorarium. There was a
general air of satisfaction in his whole appearance, in his double
chin, in his fresh color, in his round, shining face.
To-day the excellent man was punctual. The countess, however, was not.
Just as eleven o'clock struck, the spiritual man knocked at the door
of the sitting-room. Only the voice of Emerenzia answered, "Come in!"
The smile of greeting on the countenance of the visitor was reflected
on that of the companion. It was the meeting of two full moons.
"The countess is still locked in her room," Emerenzia said in a
whisper, as if afraid that her voice could penetrate into the third
room.
The pastor expressed by a movement of his hand and an elevation of his
eyebrows that the sleep of the just was not to be disturbed. The good
man was not aware that it was the toilette of the just that was then
in progress. These mysteries were conducted by the countess in
private. No one, not even a faithful maid, was admitted until
Theudelinde was clothed, and for this reason her garments were made to
close in front.
The priest made use of this unexpected delay to search in the pocket
of his coat, and to draw from thence a mysterious something, which,
after first casting a look round the room, to make sure no one was
spying on him, he pressed into the fat hand of the countess's
companion, who hastily concealed this surreptitious something in the
depths of the pocket of her dress, expressing her gratitude by a
friendly nod, which the pastor returned by a courteous movement
which expressed, "No thanks are necessary for so small a service."
Whereupon Emerenzia, turning away, half-shyly drew the something
carefully out of her pocket, peered into the contents of the same,
held it close to her nose, drinking in the scent of the something,
turning her eyes up to heaven, and again to the pastor, who, on his
part, expressed by the motion of the thumb and forefinger of his
left hand, "Excellent--special brand!" Then, no longer able to
restrain her feelings, the companion took from the mysterious packet
between the thumb and forefinger of _her_ right hand something which
she placed in both nostrils, and sniffed up in silent ecstasy. It
was the pastor's pleasure to fill Emerenzia's snuff-box with the
very best mixture. This was the platonic bond which existed between
them--the mutual desire of two noses for one ideal.
Yellow snuff is not an unattainable ideal. In the ordinary way of
business a quarter of a pound can be procured for a few pence; but
common snuff was as different from the priest's mixture as cherry
brandy is from Chartreuse, or Veuve Cliquot from the vintage of
Presburg. This is easily understood by those who take snuff. How is it
that a clergyman always has the best tobacco? How does he prepare it?
Does he get it prepared? These are broad questions that a man of
liberal mind dare not ventilate. Even if he knew, it would not be
advisable to make use of his knowledge. One thing is certain, the best
tobacco is used by the Church. A bishop, who died not long since, left
behind him a hundredweight of the most heavenly stuff, two ounces of
which fetched a ducat.
The quiet _tête-à-tête_ between the two snuff-takers was disturbed by
the sound of a bell; then a metal slide in the door of the countess's
room opened, and a tray with an empty teacup was put through. This was
a sign that the countess had breakfasted.
Every door in the castle had sliding panels, some large, others
small. The slides were made of copper, the doors of strong wood,
with brass locks and fasteners. The door of the countess's bedroom
was all of iron, covered on the inside with a tapestry curtain.
Since no man was allowed in the house, it was necessary to have a
defence system against any possible attack. This system included
some cleverly-constructed machinery, by means of which the countess,
by pressing her foot, could raise up the flooring, and precipitate
any bold invader of the sacred precincts of her bedroom into a
cellar without light or exit. From the alcove of her bed an electric
telegraph connected with the fire-tower, so that by raising her
finger the alarm-bell could be set ringing, and in case of danger
the masculine inhabitants of the adjacent farm-houses and
hunting-lodges could be summoned without a moment's delay. In
Emerenzia's room there was likewise a communication with this
electric apparatus, and to the door were affixed the different signs
by which the countess expressed her wishes. The cup signified that
the waiting-maid was required, a book would have meant that the
companion was needed.
Emerenzia, therefore, sent the girl to her mistress. When her work was
finished the bell rang again, the book appeared, and the companion
went to the countess. After a short time she returned, and opened the
door for the pastor, while she whispered to him softly--
"She has seen the spirits again; she has much to tell you."
We will follow the pastor into his penitent's room; but no one need be
afraid that he or she is about to listen to the lady's confession.
When the pastor had closed the door behind him, he came to the
countess, who sat in a large armchair, looking pale and exhausted.
She signed to the priest to take his place in another armchair
opposite to her.
"Have you seen them again?" he asked.
"I have," said the countess, in an awed whisper. "All happened in the
same way as usual. So soon as the clock-tower had sounded midnight,
there rose from below, as if out of the vault, a fearful chorus of
voices intoning the _De Profundis_. It was a ghostly, terrible sound.
I could distinguish the solo of the celebrant, the antiphon, the
chorus; and between them loud laughter, diabolical words, the shrieks
of women, and the clatter of glasses. I heard comic songs accompanied
by wild howls; then, again, the soft, pious hymn succeeded by the wild
disorder. I pinched my arm to see did I dream. Here you can see the
mark. 'Twas not dreaming. I got up; I wished to convince myself that I
was awake. I took my pencil and note-paper, and when a distinct tune
reached my ear I wrote it down. Here is the paper. You understand
music."
The priest threw a hasty glance over the ghostly melody, and
recognized a well-known Hungarian volkslied--"Maiden with the black
eyes, let me taste thy lips." Undoubtedly an unclean song to issue
from the family vault at midnight!
"And, gracious countess, have you never heard the peasants singing
this in the fields?"
The countess drew herself up with dignity. "Do I frequent the places
where peasants sing?" she made answer; and then continued her story.
"These notes are sufficient proof that I was awake; my nerves were too
excited to allow me to sleep again. Moreover, I was drawn by an
invincible desire to go to the spot from whence the sound came. I
dressed myself. I am certain that I took out my grass-green skirt of
Gros de Naples, with a flounce of cashmere. I called none of my
servants; every one in the house was asleep. An extraordinary courage
awoke in me. Quite alone I descended the steps which lead to the
family vault. When I reached the door both sides opened of themselves;
I entered, and found myself in the presence of my departed ancestors.
The monuments were all removed, the niches empty; the occupiers of
both sat round the long table which stands in the vault, in the
identical dress in which they are painted in the portraits which hang
in the hall, and by which their calling in life is distinguishable. My
great-uncle, the archbishop, in full canonicals, celebrated mass
before the requiem altar; my grandfather, the chancellor, had large
parchment documents before him, upon which he affixed the state seal.
My great-uncle, the field-marshal, in armor, and with the marshal's
baton in his hand, gave orders. My ancestress Katherine, who was a
lady of the court, and of remarkable beauty, rolled her eyes about,
and in her whole face no feature moved but those glittering eyes; and
my aunt Clementina, the abbess of the Ursuline Convent, sang psalms
with my uncle, in which the others from time to time joined."
"But the laughter, the tumult, the comic songs?" asked the pastor.
"I am coming to that. At the other end of the table sat some of my
more distant relatives--my young cousin Clarissa, who danced herself
to death; and a cousin, who was a celebrated flute player; and my
great-uncle Otto, who was devoted to hazard, and now rattled dice into
a copper goblet, and cursed his bad-luck when he made a bad throw;
also another cousin, who died on the very night of her marriage, and
still wore a faded wedding wreath; finally, my uncle Ladislaus, who
was banished from the family circle early in the century, and whose
frame hangs in the picture-gallery empty, his portrait being removed."
"How did you know him, then?" By this question the pastor hoped to
check the flow of the countess's visions.
Theudelinde, however, answered that her uncle Ladislaus, being a rebel
and a heretic, had not alone been declared a traitor, but had incurred
the ban of excommunication. He was taken prisoner and beheaded. "And
therefore," she added, with an air of conviction, "it was easy to
recognize him by his death's-head. Likewise, during his lifetime he
ignored the king's express command, and was the first to introduce
tobacco-smoke into the country, and on this account, at his execution,
he received the punishment awarded to the smoker, of having a
pipe-handle run through his nose. Last night, as he sat at the table,
he held between the teeth of his monstrous death's-head a large
meerschaum pipe, and the whole vault smelled in the most fearful
manner of tobacco-smoke."
This remark convinced the priest that the countess had been dreaming.
"Between both my cousins," she went on, "the nun and the bride, there
was an empty chair. There I felt obliged to seat myself. The bride
wished to hear of the fashions; she praised the stuff of my Gros de
Naples dress, taking it between her fingers, which, when they touched
mine, were cold as death itself. The upper end of the table was
covered with green cloth, the lower end with a yellow silk
table-cloth, embroidered with many-colored flowers. At this end every
one laughed, talked, sang noisy songs; while at the top the psalms
were intoned and the antiphon was sung. Both sounded horrible in my
ears. The dishes contained cooked hazel-hens and roast pheasants, with
the feathers sticking in their heads; sparkling wine filled the cups.
I was pressed to eat and drink, but neither the food nor the liquor
had any taste. Once the bride, my cousin, as is the custom with very
young girls, offered me the spur of the pheasant's breast, saying,
jokingly, 'Break this spur with me, and we shall see which of us two
gets a husband first.' I seized hold of my end of the spur; I tugged
and tugged, and at last broke it. The largest half remained in my
hand. The bride laughed. 'Theudelinde shall be the first married!' she
cried. I blushed; it seemed to me something terrible that the spirits
of my dead ancestors should be so frivolous."
The worthy pastor said nothing. Nevertheless, he was minded to agree
with his penitent. He could not imagine why blessed souls, or even
condemned ones, should occupy themselves breaking pheasant bones with
an old maid, of all people in the world.
"What gave me most offence," continued Theudelinde, "was the
outrageous behavior of my uncle Ladislaus. One minute he shrieked,
then laughed loudly, sang horrid songs. Again he broke out into
fearful curses, scorned the saints, the pope, the sacraments, made
witticisms that brought a blush to the faces of the ladies, and blew
all his tobacco-smoke over me. I shook the skirt of my green silk to
prevent the horrid smell sticking to it, but I felt this precaution
was of little use. My uncle Ladislaus began then to tease me, and said
I had concealed the prophetic bone in the pocket of my green dress. My
face glowed with shame, for it was true. I denied it, however,
whereupon he began to swear in his heathenish way, and to thump with
his fists on the table until the vault resounded with his blows. My
cousins put their hands over his mouth. Then he spoke through his
empty eye-sockets. It was terrible! He cursed all the saints in the
calendar and the emperor. My great-uncle, the archbishop, stretched
out his hands and damned him; my grandfather, the chancellor, sealed
the sentence; and my great-uncle, the field-marshal, drew his sword
and cut off my uncle's death's-head. The head rolled over, and fell at
my feet, still holding the pipe between its teeth, and blew its filthy
breath over me. Then I arose and fled."
The pastor had now made up his mind that the whole story was nothing
but the dream of an hysterical woman. It was strange, however, that
the countess should have the same vision so often, and that it should
always begin in the same manner.
As she now concluded her recital with the words, "As I took off my
silk dress it smelled horribly of tobacco-smoke," a brilliant idea
came to Father Mahok.
"Will you excuse my asking you where your green dress is?" he asked,
gravely.
The countess betrayed some embarrassment.
"I do not know. My wardrobe is in the care of Fraulein Emerenzia--"
"Allow me to ask you the question, did you not take the dress off in
this apartment?"
"I no longer remember. Emerenzia has been here since; she may know."
"Will you grant me the favor, countess, to send for Fraulein
Emerenzia?"
"Certainly. She will be here in a minute."
The countess pressed her finger twice on the electric apparatus, and
the companion entered.
"Fraulein," said the countess, "you remember my green Gros de Naples
silk, bordered with a trimming of fur?"
"Yes; it is a pelisse of peculiar cut, with hanging sleeves, and
fastened by a silk band and buckle."
"That is the dress," returned the countess. "Where is it?"
"In the wardrobe. I hung it there myself, first putting camphor in the
sleeves, that the moths might not get at the fur."
"When did you do this?"
"Last summer."
The pastor laughed slyly to himself. "Now," thought he, "the countess
must be convinced that she dreamed the whole scene she has so
accurately described."
"Have I not worn it since last summer?" questioned Theudelinde.
"Not once. The open-hanging sleeves are only for the hottest weather."
"Impossible!"
"But, countess," put in the priest, "it is easy to convince yourself
of what ma'm'selle says. You have only to look into the wardrobe. Who
keeps the key?"
"Ma'm'selle Emerenzia."
"Do you command me to open the press?" asked the companion, with a
discomfited look.
"I do," answered the countess, nodding to the pastor to follow her
into the next room.
Emerenzia, her face puckered into an expression of annoyance, drew her
bunch of keys from her pocket, and placed one in the lock of an
antique and highly ornamented press, of which she threw the doors
open. At least fifty silk dresses hung there, side by side. The
countess never allowed any of her clothes to get into strange hands;
no man's eye should ever rest upon what she had worn. Through this
museum of old clothes Emerenzia's fingers went with unerring
certainty, and drew forth the oft-mentioned green silk dress with the
fur trimming.
"Here it is," she said, shortly.
The pastor was triumphant, but the countess, whose nerves were more
impressionable than those of ordinary mortals, grew suddenly pale and
began to shake all over.
"Take that dress down," she said, in a whisper. And Emerenzia, with a
jerk, tore it from its peg. What, in Heaven's name, had come to the
pastor and her mistress?
The countess took it from her hand, and held it, while she turned her
head the other way, across his nose.
"Do you smell it?" she said. "Is it tobacco-smoke?"
Father Mahok was astonished. This fine silk dress, straight from out
of a lady's wardrobe, smelled as strongly of the commonest tobacco as
the coat of a peasant who had passed his night in an ale-house. Before
he could answer Theudelinde's question she was ready with another.
From the pocket of the green Gros de Naples she now drew forth a
broken pheasant bone.
"And this?" she asked. But here her strength was exhausted. Without
waiting for a reply, she fell fainting on the sofa.
Emerenzia, sobbing loudly, fell helplessly into an arm-chair. The
clergyman was so upset by the whole thing that, in his embarrassment,
he opened the doors of three more wardrobes before finding the one
which communicated with the sitting-room. Then he summoned the
servants to attend to their mistress. _The evidence of witchcraft was
proved._
CHAPTER VII
THE COUNTESS'S ALBUM
The worthy Pastor Mahok was of opinion that the mystery of the
countess's dress smelling so strongly of tobacco-smoke could not be
accounted for by any law of Nature, and judged, therefore, by the
light of his priestly office, as well as from his worldly experience,
that these diabolical visions were matters worthy of deep
consideration on his part. They occupied his mind during dinner, which
he partook of in company with the countess's companion, but of the
subject of his thoughts he spoke no word to her. They were alone at
table. The countess remained in her room, as was her habit when she
suffered from what was called "cramps," and her only refreshment was
some light soup. After dinner she again sent for the pastor.
He found her lying on the sofa, pale and exhausted; her first words
had reference to the subject which filled both their minds.
"Are you now convinced," she said, "that what I told you was, indeed,
no dream?"
"Doubtless there has been some strange work going on."
"Is it the work, think you, of good or bad spirits?" asked the
countess, raising her eyes.
"That can only be ascertained by a trial."
"What sort of a trial, holy father?"
"An attempt to exorcise them. If these spirits who every night leave
their graves are good, they must, by the strength of the exorcism,
return to their resting-places, and remain there till summoned by the
angel's trumpet to arise on the last day."
"And in case they don't return?" inquired the countess, anxiously.
"Then they are bad spirits."
"That is to say, damned. How do you know that?"
For a minute there was a struggle in the pastor's mind; then he
answered, boldly:
"This night I shall keep watch in the castle."
"And if you hear the unearthly noises?"
"Then I shall descend into the vault, and scatter the ghosts with holy
water."
The countess's face glowed with fervor as she exclaimed:
"Holy father, I shall accompany you."
"No, countess; no one shall accompany me but my sacristan."
"The sacristan! A man! He shall not put his foot in this house!" cried
the countess, excitedly.
The pastor, in a soothing voice, explained to her that his sacristan
was almost as much a part of the Church as himself; moreover, that he
was absolutely necessary on this occasion for the performance of the
exorcism; in fact, without him the ceremony could not take place,
seeing that the sacred vessel containing the holy water, the
crucibulum and lanterns, should be carried before him to give all due
effect to the religious rite.
Under these circumstances Countess Theudelinde gave her consent, on
the condition that the obnoxious male intruder should not enter the
castle itself. Still more, the pastor promised to watch in the
greenhouse after the castle gates were locked.
According to these arrangements, when it began to get dark, Father
Mahok arrived, bringing with him his sacristan, a man of about forty,
with a closely shaved mustache and a very copper-colored face. The
pastor left him in the greenhouse, and proceeded himself to the
dining-room, where the countess was awaiting him for supper. No one
ate a morsel. The pastor had no appetite, neither had the countess,
nor her companion. The air was too full of the coming event to allow
of such a gross thing as eating.
After supper the countess withdrew to her room, and Herr Mahok went to
the greenhouse, where the sacristan had made himself comfortable with
wine and meat, and had kept up the fires in the oven. The servants had
been kept in ignorance of what was going on; they had never heard the
midnight mass, nor the wild shrieks and infamous songs of the
inhabitants of the vault, and the countess would not allow the ears of
her innocent handmaidens to be polluted with such horrors. Therefore,
every one in the castle slept. The pastor watched alone. At first Herr
Mahok tried to pass the long hours of the night in reading his
prayers, but as his habitual hour for sleep drew near he had to fight
a hard battle with his closing eyelids. He was afraid that if he
slumbered his imagination would reproduce the countess's dream, to
which, be it said, he did not give credence; at the same time, he did
not wholly doubt. Generally, he found that his breviary provoked
sleep, and now he thought it better to close the book, and try what
conversation with the sacristan would do as a means to keep awake.
The clerk's discourse naturally turned upon ghostly appearances; he
told stories of a monk without a head, of spirits that appeared on
certain nights in the year, of hobgoblins and witches, all of which he
had either seen with his own eyes or had heard of from persons whose
veracity was unimpeachable.
"Folly! lies!" said the excellent pastor; but he could not help a
creeping sensation coming over him. If he could even have smoked, it
would have strengthened his nerves; but smoking was forbidden in the
castle. The countess would have smelled it, as the giant in the old
fairy tale smelled human flesh.
When the sacristan found that all his wonderful tales of ghosts and
hobgoblins were considered lies, he thought it was no use tiring
himself talking, and as soon as he ceased sleep began to fall upon his
eyelids. Seated upon a stool, his head leaning against the wall, his
mouth open, he slept profoundly, to the envy, if not the admiration,
of the good pastor, who would willingly have followed his example.
Soon some very unmusical sounds made themselves heard. The sacristan
snored in all manner of keys, in all variations of nasal discord,
which so jarred on the pastor's nerves that he several times shook the
sleeper to awake him, with the result that he slept again in no time.
At last the clock on the castle tower chimed twelve. Herr Mahok struck
the sacristan a good blow on his shoulder.
"Get up!" he said. "I did not bring you here to sleep."
The clerk rubbed his eyes, already drunk with sleep. The pastor took
his snuff-box to brighten himself up with a pinch of snuff, when
suddenly both men were roused out of all the torpor of sleep by other
means. Just as the last beat of the clock had finished striking the
unearthly mass began to be intoned in the vault below. Through the
profound silence of the night was heard the voice of the priest
singing the Latin mass, with the responses of the choir, accompanied
by some instrument that sounded like an organ, but which had a
shriller tone, and seemed to be a parody of the same.
Over the whole body of Herr Mahok crept a ghostly shiver.
"Do you hear it?" he asked the sacristan, in a whisper.
"Hear it? Who could help hearing it? Mass is saying somewhere."
"Here, under us, in the vault."
"Who can it be?"
"The devil! All good spirits praise the Lord," stammered the worthy
pastor, making the sign of the cross three times.
"But it seems that the evil spirits praise the Lord as well as the
good ones," returned the clerk.
This assertion of his was, however, quickly contradicted, for in the
middle of the next psalm a diabolical chorus struck in wildly, and the
air resounded with--
"Come, dearest, come to me,
Come, I am at home;
Two gypsies play for me.
And here I dance alone."
Then followed shrieks of laughter, in which women's shrill cackle
mingled with the hoarse roar of men and the wildest discord, as if
hell itself were let loose.
The poor priest, who had trembled at the pious psalms, nearly fell to
the ground on hearing this pandemonium. A cold sweat broke out all
over him; he knew now that the countess was right, and that this was,
in truth, the work of the evil one.
"Michael," he said, his teeth chattering with fear, "have you heard--"
"I must be stone deaf if I didn't--such an infernal din!" replied the
other. "All the spirits of hell are holding a Sabbath--"
Just then there was the tinkle of a bell. The tumult subsided, and the
voice of the celebrant was once more heard intoning mass.
"What shall we do?" asked Herr Mahok.
"What shall we do? Descend into the vault and exorcise the evil
spirits."
"What!" cried the priest. "Alone?"
"Alone!" repeated Michael, with religious fervor. "Are we alone when
we come in the name of the Lord of armies? Besides, we are two. If I
were a priest, and if I were invested with the stole, had I the right
to wear the three-cornered hat, I should go into the vault, carrying
the holy water, and with the words, 'Apage Satanas,' I would drive
before me all the legions of hell itself."
The excellent pastor felt ashamed that his ignorant sacristan should
possess greater faith, and show more courage in this combat with the
powers of darkness, than himself; still, fear predominated over his
shame.
"I would willingly face these demons," he said, in a somewhat
hesitating manner, "were it not that the gout has suddenly seized my
right foot. I am not able to walk."
"But consider what a scandal it will be if we, who have heard the
spirits, have not pluck enough to send them packing."
"But my foot, Michael; I cannot move my foot."
"Well, then, I will carry you on my back. You can hold the holy water
and I will take the lantern."
There was no way out of this friendly offer. The pastor commended his
soul to God, and, taking heart, resolved to fight the demons below,
armed only with the holy insignia of his office. The good man,
however, did not mount, like Anchises on the back of Æneas, without
much inward misgiving.
"You will be careful, Michael; you will not let me fall?" he said, in
a somewhat quavering voice.
"Don't be afraid, pastor," returned the sacristan, as he stooped and
raised the pastor on his shoulders. "Now, forward!" he cried, taking
the lantern in his hands, while Herr Mahok carried the vessels
necessary for the exorcism.
A cold blast of air saluted them as they issued from the greenhouse
and crossed the large hall of the castle, which the glimmering light
from the small lantern only faintly illumined. Half of it remained in
darkness; but on the side of the wall where hung the portraits of the
armed knights an occasional gleam showed Herr Mahok the faces of the
countess's warlike ancestors, who had done in their day good service
against the Turks. They looked at him, he thought, somewhat
contemptuously, and seemed to say, "What sort of man is this, who goes
to fight pickaback?"
Michael stopped before a strong iron door in the centre of the hall.
This was the entrance to the subterranean vaults and cellars
underneath the castle. And now the pastor suddenly remembered he had
left the key of this gate in the greenhouse. There was nothing for it
but to retrace their steps. Just as they reached the threshold,
however, Michael suggested that something very hard was pressing
against his side. Could it be the key which was, after all, in his
reverence's pocket? This suggestion proved correct, and once more he
had to run the gantlet of the old crusaders and their contemptuous
superiority.
The key creaked as it turned in the lock, and a heavy, damp smell
struck upon them as they passed through the iron gate.
"Leave the door open," said the pastor, with an eye to securing a safe
retreat.
And now they began to descend the steps, Herr Mahok remarking that his
horse was not too sure-footed. He tottered in going down the steps so
much that the pastor, in his fright, caught him with his left hand
tightly by the collar, while he pressed the other more closely round
his throat, a proceeding which Michael resented by calling out, in a
strangled voice:
"Reverend sir, don't squeeze me so; I am suffocating!"
"What was that?"
A black object whizzed past them, circling round their heads. A bat,
the well-known attendant upon ghosts!
"We shall be there in a few minutes," said the clerk, to encourage his
rider, whose teeth chattered audibly.
While they were descending the steps the noise in the vault had been
less audible, but now, as they came into the passages which ran
underneath the hall, it broke out again in the most horrible discord.
The passage was long, and there were two wings; one led to the cellars
proper, the other to the vaults. Opposite to the steps there was a
cross passage, at the end of which, by ascending some seven or eight
steps and passing through a lattice door, you could get into the open
air. This lattice served likewise as a means of ventilating the
passages, and on this particular night there was such a strong current
of air that the light in the lantern was in danger every minute of
being blown out. It would have been well if that were all. The
sacristan hadn't taken three steps in the direction of the vault
before a terrible sight revealed itself to both men.
At the other end of the passage a blue flame burned; before the flame
there stood, or sat, or jumped, a dwarfish figure all in white. It was
not three feet in height, and, nevertheless, its head was of monstrous
size. As the sacristan, with the pastor, drew near this horrid
appearance, the blue flame suddenly flared up, throwing a bright,
whitish light all over the passage, and by this light the terrified
spectators beheld the dwarfish figure stretch itself out, and grow
taller and taller--six, eight, twelve feet--and still it grew and
grew. Its shadow danced in the light of the blue flame upon the marble
floor of the passage like a black serpent. Then the fearful appearance
raised its head, and the vaulted roof echoed with its howls and
shrieks.
Michael's courage flew out of the window. He turned, and, burdened as
he was with the weight of the pastor on his back, he ran back as fast
as he could. In the middle of the passage, however, he made a false
step and fell, with Herr Mahok, flat upon his face. In the fall he
broke the lantern, the light went out, and left them in the dark.
Groping along with outstretched hands, they missed the steps which led
up to the iron gate, but after some time found themselves in the cross
passage, and saw the soft light of the moon shining through the
lattice window. They made at once for the door. At first there was
some difficulty in opening it, but Michael managed to force it, and,
to their great joy, they were once more in the open air. Over the
stubble, through the thorn-bushes they flew, never pausing to look
back. Singularly enough, the gout in the pastor's foot in no way
affected his speed. He ran quite as fast as Michael, and in less than
a quarter of an hour was in his bed. So, too, the sacristan, whose
fright produced an attack of fever, which kept him a prisoner there
for three days.
The next morning Herr Mahok, with many inward qualms, went up to the
castle. His was an honest, simple mind; he preferred rather to believe
in the wiles of the devil than in the wickedness of human nature; he
credited what he had seen with his own eyes, and never sought to
penetrate the dark veil which shrouds many supernatural mysteries. He
believed firmly that he had now to do with damned spirits, who at
their midnight orgies cracked pheasant bones to see who should first
be married.
He found the countess in good humor; she was friendly, lively, and
received her visitor with a smiling countenance. This change did not
surprise Herr Mahok. He was by this time accustomed to the caprices of
Countess Theudelinde. One day she was out of humor, the next all
serenity.
The pastor went straight to the kernel he had to crack.
"I watched last night," he said.
"Oh, father, thanks, ten thousand thanks! Your mere presence has been
sufficient to banish the evil spirits which have haunted the castle
for so long. Last night all was peace; not a sound did I hear."
"Not a sound!" cried the pastor, rising from his chair in his
astonishment at such a statement. "Countess, is it possible that you
did not hear the noise?"
"Profound repose, Arcadian peace, reigned in the house, both up-stairs
and below."
"But I was there, and awake. I did not dream it. And, moreover, I can
show you the bruises and abrasions on my elbow; they witness to the
fall we had, to say nothing of Michael, the sacristan, who is this
moment in a high fever in consequence. No, never did any one hear so
demoniacal, so terrible a noise as echoed through the vault last
night. I was there myself, countess, in my own person. I was ready to
encounter the wicked spirits; I would have met them armed with all the
terrors of Mother Church, but the courage of my weak-kneed sacristan
failed. I have now come to tell you that my knowledge is at an end.
This castle is bewitched, and, countess, my advice to you is to leave
it without delay, and to take up your residence in a city, where your
family ghost cannot follow you."
The countess placed the middle finger of her left hand upon her
breast, and spoke with haughty dignity:
"I leave this castle because the spirits of my ancestors dwell here!
Your advice, reverend father, shows how little you know me. To my
mind, it is a powerful reason for remaining. Here the spirits of my
forefathers, the ghosts of ancestors, surround me. They know me, they
claim me as theirs; they honor me with their visits, with their
invitations, and you counsel me to abandon them. Never! Bondavara is
dearer to me than ever; the presence of my ancestors has doubled its
value a hundredfold."
It was on the tip of Herr Mahok's tongue to answer, "Well, then,
remain here by all means, but for my part I give my resignation;
provide yourself with another confessor." He restrained himself,
however, and said, quietly:
"Will you tell me, countess, how it happens that, if you have these
close relations with your ancestors' spirits, you heard nothing of
the witch's Sabbath they kept last night?"
At this bold question the countess's pale cheeks were suddenly
decorated by two carnation spots; her eyes fell before the sharp look
of her father confessor, and, striking her breast with her hand, she
sank slowly on her knees, whispering, in great agitation:
"Pater, peccavi. There is something which I have never confessed to
you, and which lies heavy on my conscience."
"What is it?"
"Oh, I fear to tell you!"
"Daughter, fear nothing," said the priest, soothingly. "God is
merciful to human weakness."
"I believe that; but I am more afraid that you will laugh at me."
"Ah!" And the pastor, at this strange speech, fell back in his chair,
smiling to himself.
The countess rose from her kneeling position and went to her
writing-table; she opened a secret drawer, and took from thence an
album. It was a splendid book with an ivory cover, chasings of gilt
enamel, and clasp of the same.
"Will you look through this album, father?"
The priest opened the clasp, took off the cover, and saw a collection
of cabinet photographs, such as are generally to be found on drawing
room tables. There were portraits of eminent statesmen, poets, actors,
with whose likenesses all the world is familiar. Two points were
remarkable in this gallery--one, that no one was included who had any
scandal connected with his name; secondly, it was only clean-shaved
men who had a place in the volume. Herr Mahok recognized many whom he
knew either by sight or personally--Liszt, Reményi, the actors
Lendvay, Szerdahelyi, and others, together with many foreign
celebrities, who wore neither beard nor mustache. Another peculiarity
struck the pastor. Several of the leaves, instead of portraits, had
pieces of black crape inserted into the frames. This circumstance made
him reflective.
"It is a very interesting volume," he said, closing the book' "but
what has it to do with the present circumstances?"
"I confess to you," said the countess, in a low voice, "that this book
is a memorial of my folly and weakness. A picture-dealer in Vienna has
for many years had an order from me; he sends me every photograph that
comes out of clean-shaved men, and I seek among them for my ideal. I
have been seeking many years. Sometimes I imagine I have found it;
some one of the portraits takes my fancy. I call the man whom it
represents my betrothed. I place the photograph before me; I dream for
hours looking at it; I almost fancy that it speaks to me. We say to
one another all manner of things--sweet nothings, but they fill my
mind with a sort of ecstasy. It is silly, I know, and something tells
me that it is worse than silly, that it is sinful. I have been for a
long time wondering whether I should confess this as a sin, or keep
silence about such foolish nonsense. What is your opinion, father?"
Herr Mahok, in truth, did not know what to say. It was true that in
the Scripture some words were said about sinning with the eyes, but
photographs were not named. He answered, vaguely--
"Anything further, my daughter?"
"After I had for some time been silly over one of the portraits, I saw
in a dream the man it represented. He appeared to me as a beautiful
apparition, we walked together through fields and meadows,
arm-in-arm; a sort of heavenly halo surrounded us, flowers sprang up
under our feet. We were young, and we loved one another." The poor
lady wept bitterly as she related her dream, and she sobbed as she
said, "Is not this a sin, father?"
Herr Mahok had no hesitation in answering. He had found the name of
the sin--it was witchcraft; but the form the penance should take
puzzled him. The countess, however, helped him to a decision.
"Ah," she said, sadly, "I thought it was some demoniac possession; and
for these visions, sweet as they were, I must now do penance. Is it
not so, father? Will it satisfy for my fault if I burn in the fire the
portrait of the man who appeared to me in my dream, and fill the empty
space in my book with black crape?"
This remark explained the many frames filled with crape. The pastor
thought that the penance was well chosen. Nothing could be better than
a burnt-offering.
Theudelinde continued, "During these visions I lie in a profound
slumber. My soul is no longer on the earth; I am in the paradise of
lovers. No earthly feeling chains me here below; I am a clear spirit,
consequently no sound reaches me. I am as deaf to this world as if I
were already dead."
"Therefore the ghostly tumult never reached you last night; you were
wandering in your dream world."
"I confess it was so," whispered the countess, covering her face with
her hands.
"Now, here is a nice state of things!" thought the pastor. "The dead
ancestors play all manner of pranks in the family vault, while their
descendant projects herself out of her human body to make love in some
other region. They are, indeed, an extraordinary race. A poor man
daren't even think of such extravagances, and how can I, a poor
parish priest, deal with such queer goings-on? I only know how to
settle with the every-day penitent, who commits the usual sins."
This complication, in truth, of the ghosts below and the bewitched
countess above, was too much for a man of his calibre to deal with. It
required a superior genius to exorcise the spirits and to calm the
hysterical mind of Theudelinde. In the difficulty it appeared to him
better to temporize.
"My daughter, the penance you have imposed upon yourself is well
thought of. Have you already committed to the flames the portrait of
the last demoniacal appearance?"
"No," answered the countess, with all the hesitation a young girl
would have in speaking of her lover's picture.
"And why not?" questioned the priest, almost sternly. He was glad to
find some tangible fault.
"It would be wrong, I think, to throw this particular portrait into
the fire."
"And wherefore should it be wrong?"
Before she replied the countess opened a concealed pocket of the album
and drew forth what it contained.
"Ah!" cried the pastor as he took the photograph, which he at once
recognized as the Abbé Samuel, the head of an influential order which
possessed many different branches.
"The photographer in Vienna had my directions to send me the
photograph of every clean-shaven celebrity. He, therefore, has
committed the sin of sending me the portrait of an eminent priest. The
fault is mine, not his."
"And in your dreams have you wandered arm-in-arm with the original of
this?" asked Herr Mahok, still holding in his hand the photograph.
"I am guilty!" stammered the countess, laying her hands upon her
breast.
"Then," said the pastor, "Heaven inspired you not to throw this
portrait, like that of the others, into the fire, for in this man you
will find a physician able to cure your sick soul. It is really
providential that this portrait should be in your hands, for the
others were idle, foolish dreams. Here you have found your ideal,
under whose guidance you may hope to find health and salvation. He
will lead you, not in a dream, but in reality, to the blessed regions
of peace and true piety, where alone, my daughter, real happiness is
to be found. This man possesses strength of mind and elevation of
character sufficient to exorcise all the spirits which haunt your
castle, and to banish from your mind those temptations which spring
from the same source as the more visible demons which we call
ghosts."
CHAPTER VIII
THE EXORCIST
Acting upon the advice of Herr Mahok, the countess resolved to lay all
her troubles before a new physician for her soul. That very day the
pastor wrote to Abbé Samuel, who was then in Pesth, inviting him to
come to Bondavara Castle.
The abbé was a man of high calling; one of those priests who are more
or less independent in their ideas. He had friendly relations with
certain personages, and the initiated knew that certain articles with
the signature "S," which appeared in the opposition paper, were from
his pen. In society he was agreeable and polished, and his presence
never hindered rational enjoyment. In intellectual circles he shone;
his lectures, which were prepared with great care, were attended by
the _élite_ of society, and, as a natural consequence, the
ultramontane papers were much against him. Once, even, the police had
paid him a domiciliary visit, although they themselves did not know
wherein he had given cause for suspicion. All these circumstances had
raised his reputation, which had lately been increased by the
appearance of his picture in a first-rate illustrated journal. This
won for him the general public. So stately was his air, his high,
broad forehead, manly, expressive features, well-marked eyebrows, and
frank, fearless look, with nothing sinister or cunning in it. For the
rest, there was little of the priest about him; his well-knit,
robust, muscular form was rather that of a gladiator. Through the
whole country he was well-known as the independent priest, who
ventured to tell the government what he thought.
For this reason the excellent Herr Mahok had for him the greatest
respect. He, as an insignificant parish priest, could do nothing for
his fatherland. It was true that, many years ago, he had fought more
than twenty battles with the Honvéd Battalion; he had preached to his
men how they should love their country, and for this he had been
sentenced to death, which sentence had been commuted to ten years'
imprisonment; he had passed five of those years in chains, and his
feet still bore the marks of the wounds made by the heavy irons. But
what were these trifles, of which Herr Mahok thought little, in
comparison to the bold deeds of the Abbé Samuel, who dared to write
independent articles in the papers, and to sign them with the initial
of his name. To have fought with Haynau against the Russians under
fire of heavy cannon, to have been in the galleys, that was a mere
joke. To have the fearful police upon your track, that was serious.
Herr Mahok thought most highly of the abbé's capabilities, measuring
them by the loss of his own physical and mental energy--for after
fifteen years, five of which had been spent in heavy iron chains, a
man is not what he was.
After some days the invited guest arrived at the parsonage of Herr
Mahok. The pastor related to him, circumstantially, all that had
reference to the countess, with the exception, of course, of such
matters as were under the sacred seal of confession. He told him about
the ghosts, and his own experience under that head.
Herr Samuel received the narration with fits of laughter.
"You may laugh here as much as you like, but I beg of you not to do so
before the countess; she holds to her ghosts," remarked the pastor,
with an air of one who knew what he was saying.
The abbé then asked for information concerning the disposition of the
rooms in the castle, how they were situated in regard to one another.
He made the pastor describe minutely every particular of what he had
himself been witness to, also how he and his sacristan had made good
their escape through the lattice door.
The equipage of the countess came at the usual hour to fetch both the
guests to the castle, which lay at some little distance from the
village.
It was only natural, all things taken into account, that the countess
on her first introduction to the abbé should lose all control of her
nerves, and that she should give way to several hysterical symptoms,
which could only be calmed by the abbé laying his hand in paternal
benediction upon her forehead. Fraulein Emerenzia's nerves, in
accordance with the sympathy which existed between her and her
mistress, became at once similarly affected, and required a similar
imposition of hands; but neither of the priests troubled themselves
about her, and when the countess recovered from her attack, the
companion did likewise.
During dinner, which was served with great elegance, the abbé
discoursed upon every possible subject, and made inquiries as to the
prospects of the country, the occupations of the people, the age of
the servants, and so forth. He addressed a great deal of his
conversation to Fraulein Emerenzia, attended to her wants; when he
offered her wine she covered her glass with her hand, and declared
she never tasted anything but water, which seemed infinitely to
surprise him; also, when he wished to know whether the ring on her
finger was one of betrothal, Emerenzia tried to blush, and gave him to
understand that, from her own choice, she meant to live and die a
maid.
After dinner was over, Herr Mahok remained in the dining-room to
entertain the Fraulein--that is to say, he seated himself in an
armchair, folded his hands upon his rotund stomach, closed his eyes,
and during a sweet doze heard the clatter of Emerenzia's sharp voice.
The abbé went with the countess into her private sitting-room. She sat
upon the sofa, her eyes on the ground, waiting with much inward
trepidation to hear what sentence so exalted a personage would
pronounce upon the demoniacal possession. As he did not speak, she in
a timid voice began--
"Has my confessor told you the terrible secret of the castle?"
"He has told me all that he knows."
"And what view would the authorities of the Church take, do you
think?"
"My individual opinion, countess, is that the whole thing is a
conspiracy of the living."
"Of the living!" repented the countess. "And my visions?"
"Those can be explained by psychological means. You are of a
susceptible, nervous temperament; your senses are made acquainted with
the first portion of the history, your imagination works out the
remainder. Your dreams, countess, are hallucinations, nothing else.
Visible ghosts do not exist; those who are dead cannot live and move,
for the reason that their organic powers are at an end."
The countess shook her head incredulously. To say the truth, she was
ill-pleased. She had expected from so high and intellectual an
ecclesiastic a very different explanation. If he could only tell us
this, it was, indeed, lost trouble to send so far for him.
Herr Samuel was quick enough to read in her face what was passing in
her mind, and hastened to apply a radical cure.
"Countess, I know you doubt what I say, because you have firm faith in
what your eyes have seen, your ears have heard. You are quite
convinced that you yourself have been many times in the haunted vault,
and have there seen the spirits of your departed ancestors."
"Only last night," whispered the countess, in an awed voice, "the
tumult was fearful. They told me they would come again to-night, that
they would expect me."
"And have you promised to go to them?"
"When day comes I shudder from the idea, but at night some strange,
mysterious power draws me to the vault; I know all fear will vanish,
and I shall not be able to stay away."
"Very good. Then to-night I shall go with you to the vault of your
ancestors."
At these words a sudden flush covered the pale face of the countess.
The living portrait! She should go with him--where? Perhaps into hell.
She trembled at the thought; then with a violent effort recovered her
composure, and said, in a hesitating manner--
"I do not know. I do not think it would be possible. I should have to
let my household into the secret."
The abbé understood the nature of the question, and all the
consequences it involved.
"That would not be necessary. On the contrary, your household must
know nothing of my visit."
The countess looked at him. She was puzzled, agitated. What could he
mean? He could not imagine for a moment that he was to spend the night
with her--alone?
The abbé read her thought and answered quietly--
"I shall go away now with Pastor Mahok. I shall return about midnight,
and will knock at your door to announce my arrival."
Theudelinde shook her head. "That is impossible. In winter every door
in my house is locked by seven o'clock. To reach my suite of rooms,
you should pass through no less than seven doors. First the castle
door. This is watched by my portress, an old woman who never sleeps;
besides, two monstrous bloodhounds keep guard there. They are chained
to the door with long chains; they would eat you if you tried to pass.
Then comes the door of the corridor, to which there are two locks; my
companion keeps the key of one, my housekeeper the key of the other,
and to open it you must awake both. The third is the door to the
staircase; the cook has the key under her pillow, and she sleeps so
soundly, and the whole house is astir before she moves. The fourth is
the entrance to the secret lattice passage; this is in the keeping of
the housemaid, a nervous girl, who, when it grows dark, would not go
into the next room. The fifth door leads to the chamber of my own
maid, a very modest young person, who would not open the door to a man
were he prophet or saint. The sixth door is that of Fraulein
Emerenzia, my companion; she falls into violent hysterics if at night
any one turns the handle of her door. The seventh and last door is
that of my dressing-room, which is fitted with a peculiar self-acting
lock, a new invention. I ask your reverence if, under such conditions,
you could make your way here at midnight?"
"Permit me, in my turn, to put a question to you. You have given me to
understand that you descend constantly to the vault of your ancestors.
How does it happen that you pass through all these well-guarded
doors?"
Over the countenance of the countess a triumphant smile passed. The
superstitious woman could repel the attack of the scientist.
"Oh, I do not pass through any of them! From my bedroom a secret
staircase leads to the chapel vault. I go down this staircase."
It would have been only natural that the abbé on hearing this should
have proposed to conceal himself in the library, and there await the
countess. But he read the character of his hostess and knew that such
a proposal would have shocked her prudish mind and have offended her
so deeply that, in all probability, she would have refused to listen
any further. She required the most delicate management; this the
quick-seeing abbé recognized perfectly.
"I am still of the same mind," he said, calmly. "I shall knock at your
door this night at twelve o'clock."
At these words the countess was seized with a nervous shudder, but the
abbé went on without taking any notice--
"If you believe that there are unearthly beings who are possessed of
mysterious powers by which they pass through locked doors and make
themselves visible to some human beings, invisible to others, then why
should I not have this power also? But you imagine that because I am
only a man born of dust I cannot infringe the laws of nature. Let me
remind you that there is a natural explanation for all that may seem
to you incomprehensible. Witchcraft is now no longer a mystery. We do
not now burn Boscos and Galuches upon funeral piles. Do not for a
moment think that I am a Bosco or a Paracelsus. I repeat that what I
promise I will perform; at the same hour at which the ghosts begin
their orgies will I knock at your door with the words, _In nomine
Domini aperientur portæ fidelium_--'In the name of the Lord may the
doors of the faithful be opened.' Remember, no one but us two is to
know anything of my coming to-night. Till then may the blessing of God
be with you."
Theudelinde was much impressed by her strange visitor. His confidence
infused courage into her weak mind, while his masterful ways
influenced her like a spell. He addressed her from such a superior
height that she felt it would be almost desecration not to place the
utmost faith in his promises, and, nevertheless, he had promised to
perform an impossible thing. How could she reconcile the two, unless,
indeed, she had to do with a being of another world? She saw from the
window the carriage drive away with the two clergymen. She watched
them get in; she remained at her post until the carriage returned
empty.
The female Jehu showed to the other servants the _pourboire_ she had
received; it was a new silver piece. It passed from hand to hand. What
a miracle! Of the fifteen million inhabitants of Hungary, fourteen
million five hundred thousand had never seen such a thing as a silver
piece of money. There was a clergyman for you, of a very different
pattern from that other, who gave, every Sunday, a fourpenny piece
wrapped carefully in a piece of paper, to be _divided_ among the
waitresses!
The time passed slowly to the countess; the clock seemed to go with
leaden weights. She wandered through all the rooms, her mind
revolving in what possible manner, by what possible entrance a man
could find his way into the castle. When it had struck seven o'clock
she saw herself that every door which communicated with her wing was
carefully locked; then she sat herself down in her own room. She took
out the plan of the castle, which had been prepared by the Florentine
artist who had built it. It was not the first time she had studied it;
when she had received the castle as a present from her father, she had
made herself mistress of every particular concerning it. The building
was three times larger than her income could afford to maintain. She
had, therefore, to choose which wing she would occupy. In the centre
there were fine reception-rooms, a banqueting-hall, an armory, and a
museum for pictures and curiosities. This portion was out of the
question. Also, from this portion of the castle a concealed staircase
led to a subterranean passage. This could be used as a means of
escape, and had no doubt served such a purpose when the old castle had
been besieged by the Turks. The grandfather of the countess had walled
up these steps, and no one could now get into the secret passage. The
left wing, which was similarly constructed to the one which the
countess inhabited, had served as a sort of pleasure residence to her
pleasure-loving ancestors. There were all manner of secret holes and
corners in it, communications of all kinds connecting the rooms, doors
behind pictures, concealed alcoves, and the like. The architect's plan
showed these without any reticence. Theudelinde naturally turned away
in horror from the idea of inhabiting this tainted wing, so full of
sinful associations; she set up her Lares and Penates in the less
handsome, but more homely, right wing, where were a few good rooms
fitted for domestic life, an excellent library, and the family vault
below. It contained no other secret staircase than the one which led
to the tombs of the departed members of the family. For the rest,
Countess Theudelinde had taken care to wall up all the passages which
led to either the centre or left wing of the castle, and there was no
means of communication between them and her apartments. All the
chimneys had iron gates to shut off any possible entrance that way;
every window was provided with strong iron bars. It would have been
impossible for even a cat to effect an entrance into this enchanted
castle.
The countess, meditating on all these precautions, came to the
conclusion that there was only one way by which the Abbé Samuel could
introduce himself into the house, and that was by a secret
understanding with some one of her household. But again, setting
altogether aside the high character borne by the priest, which would
render such an act upon his part improbable, the very nature of the
circumstances attending his visit made it impossible. He had never
been absent from the countess for a minute, except during his short
walk to the carriage, and then Herr Mahok had been his companion.
Theudelinde, therefore, dismissed the idea from her mind. She sent her
household early to bed; she complained to Fraulein Emerenzia of
suffering from pains on one side of her head. Immediately that
sympathetic companion complained of pains on the other side of her
head. When the countess thought she would try to sleep, Emerenzia felt
the like desire; she wrapped her whole head up in warm cotton wool,
and snored without mercy.
Theudelinde shut herself up in her bedroom and counted the minutes.
She tried to play Patience, but the cards would not come right; her
mind was too much disturbed. She took out her Bible, splendidly
illustrated by Doré. She looked at all the pictures; she counted the
figures of the different men and women upon those two hundred and
thirty large plates; then the horses and the camels, till she came to
the scenes of murders. Then she tried to pass the time by reading the
text. She counted which letter of the alphabet was repeated the most
frequently upon one side of the page. For the greater part the letter
_a_ was the favorite, _e_ came next, then _o_, also _u_; _i_ was the
worst represented. This was in the French print. In the Hungarian text
_e_ had the majority, then _a_, _o_, and _i_, and, last of all, _b_
and _u_. But of this she also wearied. Then she sat down to the piano,
and tried to calm her agitation by playing dreamy fantasias; neither
did this succeed. Her hands trembled, and she could not sustain
herself at the instrument, she was so wearied; and as the fatal hour
of midnight drew nearer she gave up making efforts to distract her
mind, and abandoned herself to thoughts of the impending ghostly
tumult. She found herself altogether under the influence of her
ancestral spectres, for she was always consumed with _ennui_ until the
noise began. Then a sort of fever would come to her; she would undress
herself, crawl into bed, draw the coverings over her head until she
broke into a perspiration, and then fall into a deep sleep. The next
morning, when she awoke, she really believed that she had witnessed
the scenes of which she had only dreamed.
This night she drew forth her talisman, the photograph of the abbé,
and tried to find some strength by considering it. She placed it
before her on the reading-desk and sat gazing at it. Was he really a
superior being, at whose command the doors of the castle would fly
open, spectres would vanish, and the gates of hell would close upon
them? It could not be that such things would happen. The more the
night advanced the greater grew her nervous fears. Her heart beat
loudly. It was not so much the nightly ghosts that she dreaded, but
this new and equally unearthly visitor. What was he? A wizard, an
enchanter like Merlin of old, or a saint come to exorcise and banish
her tormentors?
The weary lagging hours went by, until at last the pendulum of the old
clock began to vibrate, and its iron tongue gave out midnight. The
countess counted every stroke. Its vibration had hardly ceased when,
punctual to its usual time, the infernal noise began; from the vault
below the tones of the mass reached Theudelinde's ears. She was,
however, listening for another sound, listening with feverish anxiety
to catch a stealthy footfall in the adjoining room, to hear the rattle
of a key surreptitiously moving in the lock. Nothing! She came to the
door, and, putting her head to the keyhole, strained her ears in vain.
All was still. It was now a quarter past midnight; the tumult in the
vault below was in full swing--the witches' Sabbath, as it might be
called, with its yells, shouts, songs, prayers; it was as if all the
devils of hell had given one another rendezvous in the company of the
countess's ancestors.
"He will not come," she thought, and trembled in every limb of her
fever-stricken body. It was folly to expect it. How could a man
accomplish what is only permitted to spirits?
She retired to the alcove and prepared to lie down. At this moment she
heard a tap at the door of her sitting-room, and, after a moment, a
low voice spoke in firm tones--
"In nomine Domini aperientur portæ fidelium."
It was the signal given by the abbé. Theudelinde gave a shriek; she
nearly lost her senses from fright, but gathered herself together with
a supreme effort. It was real; no hallucination, no dream! He was at
the door, her deliverer. Forward!
The countess ran to the door and opened it. The crisis gave her
unusual strength. This might be a trap, and instead of a deliverer she
might find herself opposite to a robber or murderer. Under the carpet
lay concealed the trap-door; the midnight visitor stood on the very
spot. One pressure of the secret spring and down he went into the
abyss below. Theudelinde had her foot on the spring as she undid the
door.
There stood the abbé before her. No appearance of his clerical calling
was to be seen. He wore a long coat, which reached to his feet, and
carried neither bell, book, nor candle, wherewith to exorcise the
spirits. In his right hand he held a thick stick made of rhinoceros'
skin, and in the left a dark lantern.
"Remain where you are," said the countess, in a commanding voice.
"Before you set foot in this room you shall tell me how you got here.
Was it with the help of God, of man, or of the devil?"
"Countess," returned the abbé, "look about you. Do you not see that
every door in your castle stands open? Through these open doors I have
passed easily. How I passed through the court is another thing. I will
tell you that later."
"And my household, who sleep in those rooms?" said the countess, in an
incredulous voice.
"The curtains hang round every bed; I have not raised them. If your
household be asleep, they will no doubt sleep as the just do, without
waking."
The countess listened, only half believing what she heard; she was
growing nerveless again. She led the abbé into the sitting-room, and
sank exhausted upon the sofa.
The tumult in the vault was indescribable.
"Do you hear _it_?" she said, in a whisper.
"I do hear, and I know whence it comes. I am here to face those who
cause this unseemly riot."
"Have you the weapons that Holy Church has provided for such a task?"
asked Theudelinde, anxiously.
The priest for all answer held towards her the strong staff he
carried.
"I have this good stick, countess."
"Do you hear above all the tumult that strident voice? It is my uncle
Ladislaus," cried the countess, grasping the abbé's arm with both her
hands. "Do you hear that horrible laugh? It is my uncle's laugh."
"We will soon learn the author of that unpleasant cachinnation,"
remarked the priest, quietly.
"Why, what do you propose to do?"
"I shall go down and join the worshipful society below."
"You will descend into the vault? What to do?"
"To pass judgment upon that unruly gang, countess. You promised to
accompany me."
"I promised!" and Theudelinde retreated from him, her eyes staring
wildly, her hands pressed to her breast.
"It was your own wish."
"True, true! I am so confused; my thoughts are all astray. I cannot
recollect them. You here, and that fearful noise below! I am terribly
afraid."
"How? You who had the courage to go among the ghosts by yourself, are
you afraid now that _I_ am with you? Give me your hand."
The countess placed her trembling fingers in the abbé's hand, and as
she felt the firm, manly clasp, an unusual sense of strength and
protection possessed her; she ceased to shake and shiver, her eyes no
longer saw shapes and fantasies moving before them; her heart began to
beat steadily. The bare touch of this man's hand gave her new life.
"Come with me," he said, in a decided voice, while he stuck his whip
under his left arm, and with the right drew the countess after him.
"Where are the keys of the secret staircase, and of the room through
which we must pass?"
Theudelinde felt that she could not let go his hand for one minute.
She was for the moment, so to speak, mesmerized by his superior mind.
She crawled after him submissively; she should follow him, were it to
the very gates of hell itself. Without a word she pointed to the key
cabinet, an antique piece of furniture which would have made the joy
of a bric-à-brac collector, and in which there was a drawer full of
keys.
Without a moment's hesitation the priest put his hand on the ones that
were wanted. It was no miracle that he should do so, although to the
weakened mind of his companion it appeared to be miraculous; on one of
the keys there was the well-known sign of a vault key, the crucifix.
The abbé now drew aside the curtain which concealed the secret passage
to the library, and here, at the first step, he was met by a certain
proof, if such were wanting, to show him the credit to be given to the
countess's statements that she was in the habit of descending to the
vault: as he opened the door a mass of cobwebs blew into his face. The
countess, however, was firm in her hallucination. It is a phase of
such nervous disorders as hers to believe that what they have dreamed
is actual fact; they can even supply small details.
As the countess went up the steps she whispered to her companion--
"A window is broken here, and the wind whistles through it." And as
they turned the angle of the steps there was a narrow slip-window
which in the daytime gave light to the staircase, the panes of which
were actually broken. She had never seen this. When they came to the
door of the library she confided to the abbé that she was always
frightened to pass the threshold.
"It is such a ghostly place!" she said. "When the moon shines through
the shutter of the upper window it throws white specks upon the mosaic
pattern of the marble floor, which makes it look like some mysterious
writing. In one of the corners between two presses there is a glass
case with a skeleton in it; in another case the wax impression, taken
after death, of Ignatius Loyola."
Everything was precisely as the countess related. The moon shone
through the upper panes of glass, the skeleton stood in his glass
case, the waxen head of the dead saint lay in the other, but the
countess had never crossed the threshold. In her childhood her nurse
had told her these tales of the Bondavara Castle, and when she had
become its mistress her first care had been to lock these rooms. Ten
years' dust lay on the carpets, on the chairs and tables; cobwebs hung
from the ceilings, mice played games in the deep wainscots, for no one
ever came here.
At the moment in which the countess and her companion entered the
library a certain peace reigned in the vault below. The tumult seemed
lulled; there were neither shrieks nor demoniacal songs to be heard.
From the mortuary chapel, however, the notes of the organ reached the
ears of the two listeners. It sounded like the prelude which is played
in church before mass begins, only the chords of the prelude were all
discords; it was as if the organ were played by a condemned spirit.
The countess stood before the chapel door, her breast heaving with
emotion. She caught hold of the abbé's hand with a strong grasp, and
kept him from turning the key in the lock. She trembled in every limb.
"What are those fearful tones?"
Then came a confused sound, as of many voices intoning the vespers.
One voice, which imitated the monotonous delivery of the celebrant,
began to sing in Latin the words of a hymn--
"Bacchus, prepare the libation."
Another voice answered in the same tone--
"And hasten, brethren, to drink!"
Then a third took up the text in a parody of the _Gloria_--
"Gloria Baccho, et filiæ ejus Cerevisiæ et Spiritui vini, sicut erat
in Baccho natus, et nunc, et semper, et per omnia pocula poculorum.
Stramen."
The countess felt her whole body turning into ice; fear mingled with
horror. She understood the impious parody.
Now the organ accompanied the antiphon.
"Date nobis de cerevisia vestra; quia sitiunt guttura nostra"--"Give
us of your beer; our throats are dry."
Then followed the psalm--
"Brother to brother spoke these words: shall two goblets of beer
quench man's thirst?"
"Two, three, five, six are not enough for man's satiety."
"Blessed be Bacchus, who gave us beer."
Then followed the Capitulum.
"Brethren, attend, and do as I command ye. Before ye leave the
ale-house for your own homes empty all the pots, leave not a drop
therein, but tilt them and drain every drop of wine. This do from
goblet to goblet. Stramen."
The countess felt, as she listened to this profanity, what a damned
soul must experience when for the first time it consorts with devils.
But now a hellish chorus broke forth of men's and women's voices,
yelling out a parody of a hymn--
"Bacchus, who gave us drink,
Art thou not called the god of liquor?
Grant us all the holy grace,
Strength to drink in every place,
So that, drinking everywhere,
We for glory may prepare
In thy everlasting wine-cellar."
This was followed by the ringing of the bell, and the priest's voice
intoned the blessing.
"Bacchus be with you."
The chorus answered, "And with thy pint-pots."
Then came the Oratio--
"Let us eat. O all-powerful Bacchus, since thou hast created this
society of ours for thine own honor, grant to us its continuance, and
give to us a constant supply of brave topers, who never may cease
drinking from goblet to goblet."
And the chorus answered, "Stramen."
The countess was not able any longer to hold herself up. She sank upon
her knees, and looked up at the priest in mute horror. Hardly knowing
what she did, she gazed in utter despair at the tall figure lit up as
it was by the rays of the moon, which played round his head like a
halo.
The abbé put the key into the lock of the chapel door. The countess
caught his hand; her fright amounted to agony.
"Do not--do not open it!" she cried. "Inside is hell let loose."
With an elevation of his head, the abbé answered proudly--
"Nec portæ inferi--the gates of hell shall not prevail"; and then he
turned the key, and the heavy iron door swung open, and disclosed the
actors in the strange drama.
On the altar all the candles were lighted, and their light showed with
distinctness every incident of the performance, every feature in the
faces of the performers.
What a scene!
On one side of the vault ran a long table, round which was seated,
eating and drinking, not the countess's ancestors and ancestresses,
but all the servants of her household. The maids, who were so strictly
guarded, were here in the company of the men who were so rigorously
excluded. The countess could, therefore, see that these were
flesh-and-blood ghosts which had so long haunted her ancient castle.
Each of her handmaidens had a lover in either the steward, bailiff,
gamekeeper, or clerk in the neighborhood. The nervous housemaid, who
at night was afraid of her own shadow, was now drinking out of the
glass of the innkeeper; the virtuous maid was embraced by the mayor's
footman; the portress, an elderly virgin, held a jug in her hand,
while she executed a clog-dance upon the table. All the rest clapped
hands, shrieked, sang at the top of their voices, and beat the table
as if it were a big drum. The shepherd, who represented the countess's
grandfather, sat upon the monument of the chancellor, his legs round
the cross, and played the bagpipes. It was this instrument which at
the burlesque of vespers imitated the harmonium. Upon the gravestone
of the first archbishop the beer-barrel was set up. The maids were all
dressed in the countess's silk dresses, with the exception of the
female coachman, who, as usual, wore man's clothes, but by way of
symmetry her lover, the coachman of the neighboring brewery, was
dressed in woman's clothes. The countess recognized on the head of
this bearded fellow her nightcap, and round his body her cloak,
trimmed with her best lace. Worst of all, at the top of the table sat
Fraulein Emerenzia, on very intimate terms with her neighbor, a young
lawyer. She wore the skirt of a favorite dress of Theudelinde's, a
flame-colored brocade; the body could not fit her corpulent form, so
she had her mistress's best lace shawl wrapped round her. Her face was
red; she had a large tumbler of wine before her, and she smoked a
pipe. The modest Emerenzia!
The men were all drunk and noisy, the women screamed in an unearthly
manner; the bagpipes squealed; the table resounded with thumps and the
clatter of the portress's clogs. From the altar came the voice of the
mock priest, his arms outstretched in blessing. Through the din the
words "Bacchus vobiscum" were heard, and the tinkle of the bell. This
mock priest was no other than Michael the sacristan, who brought all
the church ornaments confided to his care. He wore the pastor's
vestments, and on his head an improvised skull-cap. The acolyte was
the parish bell-ringer.
The countess was cut to the heart. The terrible ingratitude,
especially of these girls, to whom she had been as a mother--more
anxious indeed than their own mothers to keep them pure and
innocent--wounded the poor lady who had taught them to sing hymns on
Sunday, had fed them from her own table, and had never allowed them to
read a novel or hear a bad word. And this was the outcome of her
efforts. They insulted the graves of her ancestors, played upon her
nervous fears, destroyed her rest, nearly drove her mad with their
ghostly noises, wore her clothes at their orgies, and, worse insult of
all, she, a high-born lady and a pure woman, had the degradation of
wearing these same garments, defiled as they were with the smell of
wine and stale tobacco.
Bitter as such ingratitude was, it counted as nothing in comparison
with the profanation of using the holiest things of religion, the
sacred ornaments of the Church, to carry out these impious rites. "Woe
to them from whom scandal cometh," says the Scripture, and this woe
means pain and suffering that no soothing balsam can alleviate.
A mortal terror still filled the countess's heart. She was in the
presence of those who had no control over their already besotted
senses. If these drunken savages, these unsexed women, found their
revels were discovered, what was to hinder them tearing her to pieces?
There was only one man between her and them. Theudelinde looked at her
solitary protector. His eyes gleamed with such apostolic anger that
her timid soul grew fearful of the consequences, both to him and to
herself, of his just wrath. She seized both his hands, to hold him
from venturing among such demons. The abbé easily freed himself from
the clasp of her weak fingers. In one bound he sprang down the steps,
fell upon the false priest as he was in the act of pronouncing his
final stramen; with the butt-end of his rhinoceros whip he gave him
two blows.
What the countess now witnessed was truly no vision. She saw how one
man, armed with no more formidable weapon than a horsewhip, ventured
into the midst of the hellish assembly, with one hand seized the table
and overturned it and all that was on it of dishes, glasses, and
wine-cups, with the other cracked his whip in the faces of the guests,
who sprang to their feet in all the terror of detection, like to the
profaners of the Temple. They were driven towards the door of the
vault, the abbé's whip descending on their shoulders with impartial
justice. They went tumbling over one another, howling and screaming,
pressing onwards and pursued by the flagellation of the abbé. The
bagpipe player in his haste missed his footing, those behind stumbled
over him, and so lay all in a heap together. Not one went without
carrying a remembrance of the abbé's strong arm, for he spared no one.
No effort was made at reprisals; the criminal who is caught seldom
shows fight. These last were, moreover, taken by surprise, and the
clergyman was possessed of extraordinary strength; one man who tried
to drag the horsewhip from his hand was dealt such a blow in his face
that he was glad to relinquish his hold and take to his heels without
loss of time.
"Give it to them! give it to them!" cried the countess, who had no
pity for her former servants, who had to pass her as they made their
way pell-mell to the door. Emerenzia covered her head, not from shame,
but fearing her face might get a blow. Almost the last was the
sacristan, whose clerical dress hindered his speed, and whose back was
so battered by the abbé that the vestment he wore hung in ribbons.
After the last guest had departed, the abbé closed the heavy door of
the vault and returned to where the countess was standing. His face
wore an almost glorified expression; it was the consciousness of
having asserted his strength. As he approached the countess fell on
her knees, and made as if she would kiss his feet, but the abbé raised
her.
"Compose yourself, countess. Your present situation needs all your
strength. Do you know that at this moment there are only two persons
in this castle, for I have locked the door which leads to the
court-yard. This folly is played out. You see now that no wicked
spirit had any part in it. It was no ghost, only human beings who have
had to do with this miserable business."
"What shall I do?" asked the countess, constraining herself to speak
calmly.
"Take my lantern. I am going to lock the lattice door, so as to stop
any entrance from this side. But you can return by the way we came,
back to your own apartment, where I advise you to make yourself some
tea; you are freezing with cold."
"Must I go back all that way alone?"
"Remember the words, 'If God is with me, who is against me,' and you
can never be alone. To see ghosts is an illness; the method of curing
it must be heroic."
And as he saw that the countess, in spite of her efforts, could not
subdue her nervous tremor, he took her by the hand, and, returning
with her to the library, led her to the glass case which enclosed the
skeleton, and opened the door.
"Were you afraid of this? Why, it is nothing to fear. It is a standing
proof of the wisdom of God. Every limb of this wonderful collection of
bones tells us the Almighty created man to be ruler of the earth. Look
at the skull; upon this arched forehead is written the birthright of
humanity, in every corner and line of the face the superiority of the
white race over all others. This skull teaches us how deep should be
our gratitude to an all-seeing Providence who has created us the
superior over all other beings on the earth. The sight of a skull
should cause no shudder in the breast of man; it should give rise to
feelings of thankfulness and reverence, for it is the symbol of the
great love which our Heavenly Maker has for the creature He has made
and chosen from all eternity."
As he spoke the priest laid Theudelinde's cold hand upon the skull of
the skeleton. The countess trembled no more. New life and strength
born of the words of this singular man seemed to infuse themselves
into her veins. She looked another being.
"Now go to your room," said the abbé. "I shall soon follow, but I must
first put out the torches on the altar. We must not have a
conflagration on our hands."
"I am quite ready to go alone," returned the countess. "My foolish
fears are cured, but I am now concerned for you. Perhaps those
wretched servants of mine are still about, and if you venture into the
vault in the dark they may fall upon you and take their revenge for
being discovered."
"Oh, I am provided with what would soon scatter such cowards as they
are," said the abbé, drawing a revolver from a secret pocket. "I had
resolved to use stringent measures with them if necessary. Now, in
God's name, retire to your room, countess."
Theudelinde, without another word, took the lantern and went through
the long library. The priest watched her until she had crossed the
passage, and had opened the door of her own apartment. He then
hastened back to the vault. In the passage he saw a blue flame
burning on a tin dish.
"Alcohol and ammonia mixed together," murmured the priest. "This is
what frightened Herr Mahok." Close to it lay the winding-sheet and
mask. The abbé pushed the vessel with the flame into the corner, for
he knew that in an encounter with an adversary it would be little
profit to have an illumination, and then he went down the dark passage
carefully. No one was there; they had all run away, and were probably
running still. The lattice door stood open; he drew it to, and barred
it carefully; then he returned into the vault and locked it also,
having first extinguished the lights, with the exception of one, which
he took to light him back to the countess's room.
He found her sitting composedly before the tea equipage. She had
obeyed him. As he entered the room she rose, and, folding her hands
upon her breast, cried:
"Most holy saint and apostle!"
"You must not give me such exalted titles," said the abbé, smiling.
"What I have done does not merit such high-sounding terms. I have
accomplished no miracle, for I had to do with mortals only. One
circumstance which appears to you in a miraculous light is easily
explained. I allude to my entering a house wherein all the doors were
locked. But first, will you pour out the tea?--and if you will give me
a cup I shall be grateful, for the occurrences of the last hour have
somewhat excited me. Then we will talk the whole affair over."
The countess gave her guest his tea, then sank back in her arm-chair,
and wrapped herself in her cloak; she was still shivering.
"That the supposed ghostly appearances and noises were in no sense
supernatural was borne in on me," continued the abbé, as he sipped
his tea, "from the first moment Herr Mahok took me into his
confidence. I was convinced that the nocturnal disturbance was the
work of your own household, and it served their purpose to make it as
ghost-like as possible. The situation had been created by your
over-caution, countess. Your women servants were not allowed to hold
communication with the opposite sex; they, therefore, found other
means to meet, and to give a cover to these illicit meetings they set
up an atmosphere of ghostly mystery, by which their goings-on were
well concealed. The conspiracy was perfectly carried out. If they had
conducted their sinful intercourse on any other lines you would have
long since discovered them. When the pastor told me that he and his
sacristan had escaped through the lattice door, I suspected that it
was through this door the men found their way into the vault, and that
the sacristan must be a participator in the plot, whatever it was.
Moreover, I calculated that the women must, of necessity, find their
way through the cellar passage, and that, therefore, they would
naturally leave every door in the house _open_, so that their return
might be conducted without any danger of awaking you by noise, such as
unlocking doors. The countenance, the coloring, the eyes of your
companion betray her; it is easy to see what she has been, and that,
moreover, she drinks. I knew to-day at dinner that she was a
hypocrite. She held forth against all alcoholic drinks; that settled
her with me. I had no doubt that I should find all the doors open, and
I did. In order to make no noise I came on foot to the garden door.
Countless footsteps in the fresh snow showed me that the company had
already assembled. From the open garden door the foot-prints led to
the lattice door, and thence to the vault. This door was put to. I
pushed it open and was in the passage. I went to the left, up the
steps to the cellar passage; the door was open. I could not count upon
finding every door open; it was exactly as I imagined. The only
difficulty lay in passing through your wardrobe-room, which has no
key, but a peculiarly constructed spring-lock. I felt certain that
your maids would borrow some of their mistress's silk dresses, and
therefore the spring-lock would be arranged so as not to betray by its
loud snap the return of the stolen garments to their proper place. On
looking closely I found this to be the case; the lock was kept in its
place by the insertion of a penknife, which could be easily withdrawn.
Therefore, countess, you have, night after night, slept in this castle
with every door open--in real danger--at the mercy of robbers, or even
murderers; all the time frightened to death with ghostly noises, which
kept you a prisoner to your room, not venturing to call your
treacherous servants. Countess, you have been terribly punished."
"Punished!" stammered the countess, her face growing even paler.
"Yes, punished; for you have richly deserved to suffer."
Theudelinde fixed a horrified look on the abbé.
"Countess, at your door," said the priest, sternly, "lies the heaviest
portion of the sins into which your servants have fallen. You have, in
fact, driven them into vice. Your eccentric rules, bizarre and
ridiculous ideas, made your women servants liars and induced their
irregularities. Nature punishes those who revolt against her, and the
long years during which you have isolated yourself from the world and
from society have been flat rebellion, which has brought its own
punishment. You now stand before two judges, Heaven and the World;
Heaven is ready to punish you, the world to laugh at you; and the
wrath of Heaven and the ridicule of the world is equally hard to bear.
How do you mean to protect yourself against both?"
The
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