Part I._Dr. Dumany's Wife

THE DUMB CHILD.

It was about the close of the year 1876 when, on my road to Paris, I

boarded the St. Gothard railway-train. Travellers coming from Italy had

already taken possession of the sleeping-car compartments, and I owed it

solely to the virtue of an extraordinarily large tip that I was at last

able to stretch my weary limbs upon the little sofa of a half-coupé. It

was not a very comfortable resting-place, inasmuch as this carriage was

the very last in an immensely long train, and one must be indeed fond of

rocking to enjoy the incessant shaking, jostling, and rattling in this

portion of the train. But still it was much preferable to the crowded

carriages, peopled with old women carrying babies, giggling maidens,

snoring or smoking men, and hilarious children; so I made the best of

it, and prepared for a doze.

The guard came in to look at my ticket, and, pitying my lonely

condition, he opened a conversation. He told me that the son of an

immensely wealthy American nabob, with an escort well-nigh princely,

was travelling on the same train to Paris. He had with him an attendant

physician, a nursery governess, a little playfellow, a travelling

courier, and a huge negro servant to prepare his baths, besides several

inferior servants. These all occupied the parlour-car and the sleeping

compartments; but the little fellow had a parlour, a bedroom, and a

dressing-room all to himself.

I did not pay much attention to the talk of the gossiping guard, and so

he departed, and at last I could sleep. On the road I am like a miller

in his mill. So long as the wheel turns, I sleep on; but the moment it

is stopped, I start up and am instantly wide awake. We had reached a

smaller station where the train usually stops for a few minutes only,

when, to my surprise, there was a great deal of pushing and sliding of

the cars backward and forward, and we halted for an extraordinarily long

time. I was just getting up to learn what was going on, when the guard

entered, lantern in hand.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but there is something amiss. The

linch-pin of the parlour-car has become over-heated, and we had to

uncouple the car and leave it behind. Now we are obliged to find a

convenient place for the little American, until we reach some main

station, where another parlour-car can be attached to the train. I am

really sorry for you, sir, but this is the only suitable place we have,

and the little fellow and his governess must be your travelling

companions for a while."

"Well, when a thing can't be helped, grumbling is unreasonable, so

good-bye sleep and quiet, and let us prepare to pay homage to the

illustrious youth and his lady attendant," said I, smiling at the

guard's earnestness. But still he hesitated.

"And pray, sir, what is your religion?" stammered he; "I have to tell

the governess."

"Indeed!" My good-humour was rising still, and I continued smiling.

"Tell the lady that I am a Swiss Protestant, and I hope she will not

object, as I shall not try to convert her or her charge if they are of a

different creed. Is there anything else you want to inquire into?"

"Yes, sir. The little gentleman's physician would also like to accompany

his charge, and stay at his side."

"But there is only room for three."

"I know; but, sir, the doctor is a very liberal gentleman, and he told

me that if anybody would be willing to exchange places with him, he

would gladly repay his whole travelling expenses."

"That's liberal, certainly, and I have no doubt the fireman of the

engine will thankfully accept his offer. You can tell him as much. And

now go!"

The man went out, but right after him came the doctor--a very pleasant

and distinguished-looking young man. He apologised for the guard's

bluntness and his misinterpretation of his message. He had not meant to

offend a gentleman, and so forth. He introduced himself as Dr. Mayer,

family physician at the house of the so-called "Silver King," Mr.

Dumany, the father of the little "Silver Prince." After learning that I

did not smoke, and had no objection to children, he inquired my

nationality. My astrachan fur cap and coat-collar made him take me for a

Russian, but, thanking him for his good opinion, I stated that as yet I

was merely a Hungarian. He did not object; but asked if we were free

from small-pox, diphtheritis, croup, measles, scarlet-fever,

whooping-cough, and such like maladies in our country at present. After

I had satisfied him that even the foot-and-mouth disease had by this

time ceased, he finally quitted me, but immediately returned, assisting

a lady with both hands full of travelling necessaries to climb up into

the carriage. After the lady came a grand stately-looking negro servant,

with gold-braided cap and overcoat of white bear's fur, and on his arm,

bundled up in rich velvet and costly fur, he carried a beautiful

five-year-old boy, who looked like some waxen image or big doll.

The lady seemed very lively and talkative, and had a host of languages

at command. With the doctor she conversed in German; to the guide she

spoke French; the negro she questioned in English, and to a maid who

brought in some rugs and air-pillows she spoke Italian. All these

languages she spoke excellently, and I am certain that if a dozen

persons of different nationalities had been present she could have

talked to them in their various dialects with the same ease and fluency.

Of her beauty I could not judge, for she wore a bonnet with a thick

veil, which covered her face to the chin.

Taking her seat at the opposite window, she placed the child between

us. He was a pale, quiet little boy, with very red, thin,

tightly-compressed lips, and great, melancholy dark-blue eyes. As long

as the negro was occupied in arranging the rugs and pillows, he looked

wholly unconcerned, and the smiles from the great black shining face did

not impress him at all; but when the swarthy giant caught the two fair

little hands in his own great black palm and wanted to kiss them, the

boy withdrew his hands with a quick gesture and struck the ebony

forehead with his tiny fist.

At last we were seated. The negro was gone, the guide went out and

locked the door after him. Seeing that the open window was disagreeable

to the lady, I volunteered to close it. She accepted gratefully, and at

the same time expressed her regrets that, in consequence of the accident

to the parlour-car, she had been compelled to disturb me. Of course, I

hastened to say that I was not in the least incommoded, and only

regretted that it was not in my power to make her more comfortable. She

then told me that she was an American, and pretty well used to railroad

accidents of a more or less serious character. Three times she had been

saved by a miracle in railway collisions at home, and she assured me

that in America about 30,000 persons were every year injured in railway

accidents, while some 4,000 were killed outright.

We conversed in German, and, as the lady became more and more

communicative, talk turned upon the subject of the child between us.

She told me that Master James was deaf and dumb, and could not

understand a word of our conversation; hence restraint was unnecessary.

I asked her if he was born with this defect, and she said, "No; until

the age of three he could speak very nicely, but at that age he was

thrown out of his little goat-carriage, and in consequence of the shock

and concussion lost his power of speech."

"Then he will possibly recover it," I said. "I knew a young man who lost

his speech in the same manner at the age of five, and could not speak up

to his tenth year; then he recovered, and now he has graduated from

college as senior wrangler."

"Yes," she said. "But Mr. Dumany is impatient, and he has sent the boy

to all the deaf-and-dumb boarding-schools in Europe. Even now we are

coming from such an institution in Italy; but none of all these

different masters has been able to teach more than sign-talk, and that

is insufficient. Mr. Dumany wants to give the German Heinicke method a

trial. That professes to teach real conversation, based on the

observations of the movements of the lips and tongue."

Of this method I also knew examples of success. I was acquainted with a

deaf and dumb type-setter, who had learned to talk intelligibly and

fluently, could read aloud, and take part in conversation, but in a

piping voice like that of a bird.

"Even that would be a great success," she said. "At any rate, little

James will be taken to the Zürich Institute, and remain there until he

acquires his speech."

During this whole conversation the little fellow had sat between us,

mute, and, to all appearance, wholly indifferent. His little pale face

was dull, and his great eyes half closed. I felt sorry for him, and with

a sigh of real compassion I muttered in my own native Hungarian tongue,

"Szegény fincska!" ("Poor little boy!") At this I saw a thrill of

surprise run through the child's little frame; the great blue eyes

opened wide in wonder and delight, and the closed cherry lips opened in

a smile of joy.

I was struck with surprise, and did not believe my own eyes. The lady

had not noticed anything, since she still kept her bonnet on and the

thick veil tightly drawn over her face.

I took pity on her, and offered to go out into the corridor to smoke a

cigarette, so that she might make herself a little more comfortable

until we arrived at some large station, where she would enter another

parlour-car.

She accepted thankfully, and, to my utter astonishment, the little boy

raised his tiny hand, and caressingly stroked the fur collar of my coat.

I bent down to kiss him, and he smiled sweetly on me; and when I got up

and signed to him that he could now occupy both seats and stretch

himself upon the little sofa, he shook his head, and crept into the

corner which I had quitted. And there, as often as in my walk up and

down the corridor I threw a glance into his corner, I could see the

child's large dark-blue eyes following all my movements with an eager

curiosity; the white little face pressed to the window-pane and the tiny

hand never losing hold of the edge of the curtain, which he had

purposely lifted, for the governess had pulled the curtain down the

moment I left, possibly to take off her bonnet.

Mine was not a very pleasant situation in that corridor. I watched the

rising and sinking of the moon, which phenomenon repeated itself about

twice every hour, according to the serpentine windings of the road. I

looked at the milky mist which surrounded the icy pinnacles of the great

mountains, and grumbled over the intense darkness in the many tunnels,

in which the roar and noise of the train is tremendously increased,

thundering as if Titans were breaking out of their prisons below Mount

Pelion.

As if they had not broken through long, long ago! What if the old

Grecian gods should come to life? should leave their marble temples, and

gaze about on the world as it is at present? If Pallas Athene were told

of America? If Helios Apollo could listen to Wagner's operas, and Zeus

Jupiter might look into the great tube of the London Observatory,

wondering what had become of that milky way which had been formed out of

the milk spilled by Amalthea? If we could show him that we had caught

and harnessed his heavenly lightning to draw our vehicles and carry our

messages, and that, with the help of fire-eyed leviathans, we break

through the rocky womb of his great mountains? And yet, how easy it

would be for them, with a simple sneeze of their most illustrious and

omnipotent noses, to raise such a tempest that earth and sea would rise

and destroy man and his pigmy works at one fell stroke! I wonder if they

never awake? I rather think they sometimes get up and shake their mighty

fists at us. These cyclones look very suspicious to me!

The huge iron leviathan turns and twists itself like a Gordian knot;

disappears and reappears, almost on the same spot, but higher up on the

mountain, and then glides rapidly on along the brinks of fearful

abysses, over long iron bridges looking like some fanciful filigree

work, some giant spider's web, extending across great valleys, chasms,

and precipices, over which great mountain rivers splash down, roaring

and foaming in gigantic falls. What giant power has cleft the way for

these waters--Vulcan or Neptune? Or was it laid down in Euclid's

adventurous age, when the Titans went into bankruptcy?

The train increases its speed to regain the time lost in uncoupling the

disabled parlour-car, and this increased speed is chiefly felt at the

tail of the great iron dragon. I have to cling tightly to the brass rod

in front of the windows. We pass the central station without stopping,

the locomotive whistles, the lamps of the little watch-houses fly past

like so many jack-o'-lanterns, and all at once we are enveloped by a

thick fog rising from beneath, where it had rested above the sea, and

when the train has twice completed the circle around the valley, the

noxious, dangerous mist surrounds us entirely.

But once more the creation of human hands conquers the spectre, and,

puffing and whistling, the locomotive breaks through the dark haze. Once

again the iron serpent disappears into the bowels of the rock, and as it

emerges it crosses another valley and is greeted by a clear heaven and a

multitude of brightly-glistening stars.

We are on the Rossberg. A devastated tract of the globe it seems. Our

eyes rest on barren soil devoid of vegetation. Beneath a large field of

huge boulders, imbedded in snow and ice, the Alpine vegetation thrives.

The whole valley is one immense graveyard, and the great rocks are giant

tombstones, encircled by wreaths of white flowers meet for adorning

graves. At the beginning of the present century one of the ridges of the

Rossberg gave way, and in the landslide four villages were buried. This

happened at night, when the villagers were all asleep, and not a single

man, women, or child escaped. This valley is their resting-place. Was I

not right to call it a graveyard?

Above this valley of destruction the train glides on. Upon the side of

the mountain is a little watch-house, built into the rock; a narrow

flight of steps hewn in the stone leads up to it like a ladder. The

moon, which had lately seemed fixed to the crest of the mountain, now

plays hide-and-seek among the peaks. A high barricade on the side of the

Rossberg serves to protect the railroad track against another landslide.

On the high ridges of the mountain goats were pasturing, and not far

from them a shepherd's fire was blazing, and the shepherd himself sat

beside it. I remember all these accessories as well as if they were

still before my eyes. I can see the white goats climbing up and pulling

at the broom-plants. I can see the shepherd's black form, encircled by

the light of the fire, and the white watch-house with its black leaden

roof, the high signal-pole in front of it, above which all at once a

great flaming star arises.

II.

THE DARK GOD.

I was gazing at that shining red light, when all at once I felt a

concussion, as if the train had met with some impediment. I heard the

jolting of the foremost cars, and had time to prepare for the shock

which was sure to follow; but when it did come, it was so great that it

threw me to the opposite wall of the corridor.

Yet the train moved on as before, so that it could not have been

disabled, as I at first thought. I heard the guards run from carriage to

carriage, opening the doors, and I could see great clouds of steam arise

from the puffing and blowing engines. The friction of the wheels made a

grating noise, and I leaned out of the window to ascertain the nature of

the danger. Was another train approaching, and a collision inevitable? I

could see nothing, but suddenly I beheld the figure of the shepherd, and

saw him raise his staff aloft. I followed the motion of his hand, and

with a thrill of horror I saw a great ledge of rock sliding downward

with threatening speed, while at the same time a shower of small stones

crashed on the roof of the cars.

I did not wait for the guards to open my door. I had it open in an

instant. From the other carriages passengers were jumping out at the

risk of life and limb, for the train was running at full speed.

I hastily ran into the coupé to awaken my travelling companions, but

found them up. "Madam," I said, "I am afraid that we are in danger of a

serious accident. Pray come out quickly!"

"Save the child!" she answered; and I caught the little boy, took him in

my arms, and ran out.

The train was gliding perpetually on, and I bethought myself of the

recommendation of one who is jumping from a running vehicle, to leap

forward, because in jumping sideways or backward he invariably falls

under the wheels. So I followed the recommendation and leaped.

Fortunately, I reached the ground, although my knees doubled up under

me, and I struck the knuckles of my right hand a hard blow. The child

had fainted in my arms, but only from fright; otherwise he had received

no harm. I laid him on the ground in a safe place, and ran with all my

might after the train to help the lady out. She was standing on the

steps, already prepared for the jump. I extended my hand to her,

impatiently crying "Quick!" But instead of taking my proffered hand she

exclaimed, "Oh! I have forgotten my bonnet and veil," and back she ran

into the coupé, never again to come forth.

At that moment I felt a tremendous shock, as if the earth had quaked and

opened beneath me, and this was followed by a deafening uproar, the

clashing of stones, the cracking of wood and glass, the grating and

crushing of iron, and the pitiful cries of men, women, and children.

The great mass of rock broke through the protecting barricade and rushed

right upon the engine. The huge, steam-vomiting leviathan was crushed in

an instant, and the copper and steel fragments scattered everywhere.

Three of the wheels were shattered, and with that the iron colossus came

to a dead stop, the suddenness of which threw the carriages crashing on

top of each other. This fearful havoc was not all. Through the breach

which the great rock had made in the barricade, an incessant avalanche

of stones, from the size of a cannon-ball to that of a wheelbarrow,

descended upon the train, crushing everything beneath into fragments,

pushing the unhappy train into the chasm below, into the valley of death

and destruction. Like a huge serpent it slid down, the great glowing

furnace with its feeding coals undermost, and then the whole wrecked

mass of carriages tumbled after, atop of each other, while cries of

despair were heard on every side. Then I saw the rear car--that in which

I had been sitting--stand up erect on top of the others, while on its

roof fell, with thunderous violence, the awful shower of stones. Mutely

I gazed on, until a large stone struck the barricade just where I stood,

and then I realised that the danger was not over, and ran for shelter.

The stones were falling fast to left and to right, and I hastened to

gain the steps which led to the little watch-house. Then I bethought me

of the boy. I found him still insensible, but otherwise unharmed, and I

took him up, covering him with a furred coat. I ran up the steps with

him, so fast that not a thought of my asthma and heart disease

slackened my speed.

There was nobody in the house but a woman milking a goat. In one corner

of the room stood a bed, in the middle was a table, and on one of the

walls hung a burning coal-oil lamp.

As I opened the door the woman looked up, and said in a dull piteous

moaning--

"It is none of Jörge's fault. Jörge had shown the red light in good

season, and yesterday he specially warned the gentlemen, and told them

that a ridge of the Gnippe was crumbling, and would soon break down; but

they did not listen to him, and now that the accident has come, they

will surely visit their own carelessness upon him. It is always the poor

dependent that is made to suffer for the fault of his superiors. But I

will not stand it; and if Jörge is discharged and loses his bread,

then--"

"All right, madam!" I said, "I saw the red light in time, and I shall

testify for Jörge in case of need. Only keep quiet now, and come here.

You must try to restore this child. He has fainted. Give him water or

something; you will know best what to do."

In recalling these words to my memory and writing them down, I am not

quite certain that I really spoke them; I am not certain of a single

word or action of mine on that fearful night. But I think that I said

the words I am relating, although I was so confused that it is possible

I did not utter a word. I had come out of the house again, and saw a man

running up and down on the narrow rocky plateau, like one crazy. It was

Jörge the watchman; he was looking for the signal-post, and could not

find it.

"Here it is, look!" I said, turning his face toward the high pole right

in front of him. He gazed up wistfully, and then all at once he

blubbered out--

"See! See, the red light! I gave the warning. They cannot blame me; they

dare not punish me for it. It is not my fault!"

Of course, he thought of nothing but himself, and the misfortune of the

others touched him only in so far as he was concerned.

"Don't blubber now!" I said. "There will be time enough to think of

ourselves. Now let us learn what has happened to the others. The whole

train has been swept down into the abyss below. What has become of the

people in it?"

"God Almighty have mercy on their souls!"

"Yet perhaps we could save some of them. Come along!"

"I can't go. I dare not leave my post, else they will turn against me."

"Well then, I shall go alone," said I, and hastened down the steps.

I heard no screams, no cries, not a sound of human voices. The poor

victims of the catastrophe were exhausted or frightened out of their

wits, and gave no utterance to the pain they felt. Only the

never-ceasing clatter of the falling stones was heard, nothing else.

Awful is the voice of the elements, and dreadful their revenge on their

human antagonists! The thundering heavens, the roaring sea, are awful

to behold and to listen to; but most fearful of all is the voice of the

earth, when, quivering in wrath, she opens her fiery mouth or hurls her

rocky missiles at pigmy men.

From the wrecked train a great many travellers had jumped like myself;

but not all with the same happy result. They had mostly reached the

ground more or less bruised, but at the moment of escape from the clutch

of death we do not much feel our hurts. These unhappy victims,

frightened as they were, had managed to creep and hide behind the

untouched portion of the bulwark, and happy to have escaped from

immediate death, sheltered from the tremendous cataract of stones, they

remained quiet, trembling, awaiting the end of the catastrophe and the

ultimate rescue. But what had meanwhile become of those who had stayed

in the falling carriages?

There came a terrible answer to that question, and out of the old horror

arose a new and still more terrible spectre. A demon with a cloudy head,

rising from the darkness below, and with a swift and fearful growth,

mounting up to the sky--a demon with a thousand glistening, sparkling

eyes and tongues, a smoke-fiend!

The great boiler of the locomotive had gone down first. There it fell,

not on the ground, but on a large fragment of rock, which pierced it

completely, so that the air had free access to the fire. Upon the top of

both boiler and tender, the coal-van had been turned upside down, and

these had pulled all the carriages one on top of the other in the same

way, so that the whole train stood upright, like some huge steeple. This

dreadful structure had become a great funeral pile, the altar of a black

pagan idol whose fiery tongues were greedily thrusting upward to devour

their prey.

Then, as the smoke became blacker and blacker, a heart-rending, almost

maddening sound of shrieking and crying rang out from that devilish

wreck, so loud and piercing that it drowned the clatter of stones, the

crackling of the fast-kindling coals, and the crushing noise of the

metals. At the cry for aid of the doomed victims, all who had escaped

and hidden behind the bulwark came forth, creeping or running, shrieking

and gesticulating, forgetful of their own danger and pitiful condition,

thinking only of those dear lost ones there in that abode of hell, and

maddened at the impossibility of rescuing them. It was a wild

hurly-burly of voices and of tongues, of despairing yells, hysterical

sobs, heart-rending prayers; and as I stumbled over the twisted and

broken rails, that stood upright like bent wires, and stooped over the

bulwark, I beheld a spectacle so terrible that every nerve of my body,

every heart-string, revolted at it. Even now they quiver at the ghastly

recollection.

As the fire lighted up the horrible pile I could see that the first

carriage atop of the coals was a shattered mass, the second crushed

flat, while the third stood with wheels uppermost, and so forth to the

top, and out of all of them human heads, limbs, faces, bodies, were

thrust forward. Two small gloved female hands, locked as in prayer, were

stretched out of a window, and above them two strong, muscular,

masculine arms tried with superhuman force to lift the iron weight

above, to break a way at the top, until the blood flowed from the nails,

and even these strong arms dropped down exhausted. Half-seen forms,

mutilated, bleeding, were tearing with teeth and nails at their dreadful

prison. Then for a while the smoky cloud involved everything in

darkness. A moment after, the red fiery tongues came lapping upward, and

a red, glowing halo encircles the fatal wreck. The first and second

carriages were already burned. How long would it take the flames to

reach the top? How many of the sufferers were yet alive? What power in

heaven or earth could save them, and how?

The hollow into which the train had fallen was so deep that, in spite of

the erect position of the ill-fated pile, the topmost car--that

containing the poor foolish American governess, who had lost her life in

running back for her bonnet--was ten mètres below us, and we had not

even a single rope or cord with which to hazard the experiment of

descending. A young man, one of those few who had come forth unharmed,

ran up and down the embankment, shouting madly for a rope, offering a

fortune for belts, shawls, and cords. His newly-married bride was in one

of those carriages, and hers were the tiny gloved hands that were

stretched out of the window. "A rope!" cried he; "give me anything to

make a rope!" But who heeded him?

A young mother sat on the tracks, fondly hugging a plaid shawl in her

arms. Her babe was there in that burning pyre, but horror had

overpowered her reason. There she sat, caressing the woollen bundle, and

in a low voice singing her "Eia Popeia" to the child of her fantasy.

An aged Polish Jew lay across the barricade wall. His two hands were

stretched downward, and there he muttered the prayers and invocations of

his ancient liturgy, which no one there understood but himself and his

God. The ritual prayer-bands were upon his thumbs and wrists, and

encircling his forehead. His forked beard and greasy side-locks dangled

as he chanted his hymns, while his eyes, starting almost out of their

sockets, were fixed upon one of the carriages. What did that car

contain? His wife? His children? Or his worldly goods, the fortune

hoarded up through a life-time of cunning and privation? Who knows?

Forth he chants his prayers, loudly yelling, or muttering low, as the

ghastly scene before him vanishes in smoke and darkness, or glows out

again in fearful distinctness.

Every one shrieks, cries, prays, swears, raves.

No; not every one! There, on the barricade, his logs doubled up

Turk-fashion, sits a young painter with Mephisto beard and grey eyes.

His sketch-book is open, and he is making a vivid sketch of the

sensational scene. The illustrated papers are grateful customers, and

will rejoice at receiving the sketch.

But this young draughtsman is not the only sensible person in the

place. There is another, a long-legged Englishman, standing with watch

in hand, reckoning up the time lost by the accident, and eyeing the

scene complacently.

Some noisy dispute attracts my attention, and, turning, I behold a man,

trying with all his might to overcome a woman, who attacks him with

teeth and nails, biting his hands and tearing at his flesh, as he drags

her close to him. At last he succeeds in joining both of her hands

behind her back, she foaming, writhing, and cursing. I ask indignantly,

"What do you want with the woman? Let her alone!"

"Oh, sir!" he said, showing me a sorrowful and tear-stained face, "for

Heaven's sake, help me! I cannot bear with her any more. She wants to

leap down and kill herself. Pray help me to tie her hands, and carry her

off from here!"

By his speech I knew him for a Pole, and the woman's exclamations were

also uttered in the Polish language. She was his wife; her children were

there in that infernal pile, and she wanted to die with them.

"Quick! quick!" gasped the man. "Take my necktie and fasten her hands

behind her." I obeyed; and as I wound the silken strip tight around the

unhappy woman's wrist, her despairing gaze fixed itself in deadly hate

upon my face, and her foaming lips cursed me for keeping her away from

her children. As her husband carried her away, her curses pierced the

air; and although I could not understand the words, I understood that

she spoke of the "Czrny Bog," or, as the Russians say, "Cserny Boh," the

"Black God" of the Slavs--Death.

By this time the horrible tower was burning brightly, and the night was

all aglow with the glaring light, and still those terrible shrieks from

human voices resounded to and fro.

The young artist had a picturesque scene for his pencil, and kept making

sketch after sketch. The burning wreck, the flying cinders, the red mist

around the black pine woods on the rocky wall of the mountain, and that

small span of star-lit heaven above; all those frightened, maddened,

running, crouching, creeping men and women around, with the chanting

Jew, in his long silken _caftan_ and dangling locks, in the midst of

them, made a picture of terrible sublimity.

But still the god of destruction was unsatisfied, and his fiery maw

opened for more victims. The unhappy young husband had succeeded in

tearing up his clothes and knotting the strips together. A compassionate

woman had given him a shawl, which he fastened to the bushes. On this he

descended into that mouth of hell. The perilous attempt succeeded so far

that, with one mad leap, he landed on the top of the uppermost car with

its pile of stones, and then, with cat-like dexterity and desperate

daring, he scrambled downward to the third carriage. Quickly he reached

the spot, and the poor little gloved hands of his darling were thrown in

ecstasy around his neck. Someone had drawn up the cord on which he had

let himself down, fastened a stout iron rod to it, and suspended it

carefully. Happily it reached him, and with its aid he made a good-sized

breach, widening the opening of the window; he worked with desperate

strength, and we gazed breathlessly on. Now we saw him drop the rod

again. The tender arms of his bride were around his neck, a fair head

was thrust out, the whole form was emerging, when with a tremendous

crash, and a hissing, spluttering, crackling noise, the whole fabric

shook and trembled, and husband and wife were united in death.

The great boiler had burst; the explosion had changed the scene again,

and the young painter might draw still another sketch.

III.

THE ENGLISHMAN.

That long-legged son of Albion whom I had previously observed, strolled

up to my side and asked--

"Do you understand German, sir?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Then call for that shepherd. I want him."

I obeyed, and the shepherd, who had complacently eyed the scene as

something that was of no consequence to him, came slowly and wonderingly

up.

He was in no hurry, and my coaxing "Dear friend" and "Good friend" did

not impress him at all; but when the Englishman showed him a handful of

gold coins he came on quickly enough.

"Tell him," said the Englishman, "to run to the next railway station,

give notice of the accident, and return with a relief train for succour.

Tell him to be quick, and when he returns I will give him two hundred

francs."

"Yes," said the man; "but who will take care of my goats meanwhile?"

"How many goats have you?"

"Six."

"And what is the average price of a goat?"

"Fifteen francs."

"Well, here is the price of your goats in cash. I give you one hundred

francs--ten more than your goats are worth. Now run! How far is it?"

"A good running distance, not very far." The man pocketed his money and

turned, when an idea struck him. "Could you not take care of my goats

anyhow, till I return?" he asked.

Smart fellow! He kept the money for his goats, and tried to keep the

goats into the bargain.

"All right," said the Englishman, "I will take care of them. Never fear.

Go!"

"But you must take my stick and my horn; the goats will get astray when

they do not hear the horn."

"Then give it to me, and I will blow it," said the Englishman, with

admirable patience, and, taking the shepherd's crook and horn, he gave

the man his red shawl to use as a signal-flag.

As the shepherd at length trotted on and disappeared, that unique,

long-legged example of phlegm and good sense sat down by the shepherd's

fire, on exactly the same spot where the shepherd had sat, and began

watching the goats.

I returned to the mournful scene which I had quitted when the Englishman

came up to me. It was a terrible one, and no marvel that even the

painter had closed his sketch-book to gaze upon it in silent awe. The

entire valley below showed like a giant furnace, or some flaming ocean

of hell. Huge fiery serpents came hissing and snarling up to the

barricade, and great flakes of fire were flying about everywhere,

scorching and kindling as they fell. The chill, keen, mountain air had

become heavy and warm in spite of the winter, and a loathsome,

penetrating odour arose and drove us away from the horrible place. No

one remained but the Polish Jew. He did not move away. He had risen to

his knees on the barricade wall, and his hands, with their prayer-bands,

were uplifted to heaven. Louder and louder he chanted his hymns, raising

his voice above the thundering roar of the crackling fire, the rolling

stones, and the last despairing cries of the doomed ones. The fur on his

cap, his forked beard and dangling locks were singed by the falling

cinders, and his skin scorched and blistered, yet still he chanted on.

But when at last he saw that his prayer was in vain, all at once he

sprang up, and seemed to strike at the flames with both palms; then,

spitting into the fire "pchi!" he fell down senseless.

By this time the heat was so oppressive that it was dangerous to stand

anywhere near the barricade, and even for the sake of saving a man's

life from such a horrid fate, it was impossible to venture among the

falling cinders and rolling stones. All that the few of us who had

escaped with sound limbs and bodies could do was to carry our less

fortunate, wounded or maimed fellow-travellers up into the little

watch-house.

This we did, and then came those seemingly endless minutes in which we

waited for the relief train. Once the Englishman blew the horn for the

goats, and we thought it was the whistling of the expected train. How

terribly that disappointment was felt! and what sinful, subtle, and

sophistical thoughts crowded into our heads, burdened our hearts, and

oppressed our spirits in those awful minutes!

What terrible thing had these poor victims done to deserve such fearful

punishment? What heinous crime had they committed to be sentenced to

death and destruction by such a painful, torturing process? Whose sin

was visited on the guileless heads of little infants and innocent

children who had perished in those flames? Could not they have been

spared? or that loving and beautiful young couple, just on the brink of

life and happiness, and now sent to eternity together by such a fearful

road, into the mouth of hell when they had thought themselves before the

open gate of Paradise? What had that unhappy mother done? or all these

old and young men and women, in full health and spirits, enjoying life

and happiness, surrounded by happy relatives, full of happy plans and

hopes? What had they done to deserve this fate, those poor servants of

the public convenience, the guards, the engineer, and the other

officials, who could have saved their own lives easily, and in good

time, if they had abandoned their fatal posts, and had not preferred to

die in doing their duty? Why had not these been saved for the sake of

their wives and children, now widows and orphans, abandoned to the

charities of a merciless world? Who and where is that awful Deity into

whose altar-fire that conjuring Jew had spat, because He would not

listen to his invocations? What dreadful Power is it which has pushed

down that rock-colossus to destroy so many human lives? Is it the Czrny

Bog of the Samaritans, the Lord of Darkness and Doer of Mischief, whose

might is great in harm, whose joy is human despair, and who is adored

with oaths and curses?

But if such a power exists--if there is a Czrny Bog, indeed--then his

deeds are befitting his name--dark and black. But why should I, who am

human myself, and have a heart for my brethren and a sense of their

wrongs, why should I in this fatal instant, although full of pity and

commiseration, yet inwardly rejoice that this misfortune has fallen upon

others and not upon me? Why should I feel that although others have

perished, all is well as long as I am safe?

Is this not shameful? Is it not an everlasting stain and disgrace upon

my inner self? What right have I to think myself the chosen ward of some

guardian angel or tutelary spirit? In what am I different from those

lost ones? In what better, worthier than they? And if not, why had I

been saved and not they? Here! Here was the Czrny Bog, the dark god, in

my own breast.

At last day was dawning, and, in the grey morning light, the horrible

picture looked ghastlier still, when, to our intense relief, the

long-expected train came, and physicians with their assistants, firemen

with their manifold implements, police, and all kinds of labourers,

arrived upon it. The train stopped at a safe distance, and then the work

of rescue began. Wounds were dressed, the insensible restored, watchmen

and travellers were interrogated by officials. Ropes and rope-ladders

were fastened and suspended, and brave men, magnanimously forgetful of

the threatening danger, went down into the flames, although the hope of

success was small. True, the two or three uppermost cars had not as yet

caught fire; but who could breathe amid that suffocating smoke, that

lurid loathsome atmosphere, and yet live?

The labourers set to work at the breaches of the barricade and the line

of rails. The engineers discussed the best way in which a protecting

barrier ought to be built so as to shut out every possibility of such an

accident; and from the plateau before the watch-house some men were

incessantly calling for a "Monsieur d'Astrachan."

At last one of the labourers called my attention to these repeated

shouts, and, turning in their direction, I observed that this title was

intended for me. The watchman's wife, not knowing my name, had described

me as wearing an astrachan cap and coat-collar, and accordingly I was

called "Monsieur d'Astrachan." Now for the first time I remembered the

child I had carried thither. I had completely forgotten it, and the

occurrence seemed such an age away that I should not have been surprised

to hear that the boy had grown to be a man.

I hastened up the steps, and observed that some official personage in

showy uniform was expecting me quite impatiently. "Come up, sir," he

said; "we cannot converse with your little boy."

"To be sure you can't!" said I, smiling, in spite of the dreadful

situation. "Neither can I, for the boy is deaf and dumb; but I have to

correct you, sir. The boy is not my own, although I took him out of the

carriage."

"That boy deaf and dumb? About as much as we are, I judge. Why, he is

talking incessantly, only we can't make anything out of his prattle, as

we do not understand the language," said the officer.

"Well, that's certainly a miracle!" I exclaimed, "and it bears witness

to the truth of the old proverb, 'It is an ill wind that blows nobody

any good.' Assuredly, the shock of the accident restored his power of

speech. What is he saying?"

"I told you we can't make it out. It's a language that none of us

understand."

"Then I hardly suppose that I shall be cleverer than all of you."

"Whose child is it, if not yours?"

"Some rich nabob's. I can't at the moment recall his name, although the

governess told me, poor soul! We were thrown together by chance, and the

poor woman perished in the flames. Has no one of his many attendants and

servants escaped?"

"It seems not. But pray come in and listen to him; perhaps you will

understand him."

I went in, and found my practical Englishman beside the child, but

incapable of arriving at a mutual understanding. The injured travellers

and the hysterical women passengers were already snugly stowed away in

the ambulance carriages and well taken care of. The goats were again

under the protection of their legitimate shepherd, and that temporary

official, the long-legged son of Albion, was addressing all kinds of

questions in English to an obstinate little boy.

As I entered, and the child caught sight of me, the little face lit up

at once. He extended both his little arms in joy. "Please come," he

said; "I will be a good boy. I will speak!"

It is marvellous enough when a dumb child speaks; but what was my

surprise when I recognised these words, uttered in my own native

Hungarian tongue! Just imagine the five-year-old son of a wealthy

American, whose entire _cortège_ had been German, French, Italian, and

English, speaking Hungarian!

I took the little fellow up in my arms, and he put both his little arms

around my neck, and, leaning his soft cheek on my bearded face, he said

again, "I will be good, very good; but please take me to my papa. I am

afraid!"

"Who is your father, my child?" I asked. "What is his name?"

As I uttered these questions in Hungarian, he clapped his hands in

gladness, and then, after a little meditation, he answered--

"My father is called the 'Silver King,' and his name is Mr. Dumany. Do

you know him?"

"Oh!" said the Englishman, as he heard the name, "Mr. Kornel Dumany, the

Silver King; I know him very well. He is an American, and very rich. He

lives mostly in Paris. If it is more convenient for you to get rid of

the child, I can take care of him and bring him to his father."

"No, no!" protested the little one, clinging tightly to me. "Please, do

not give me to him! I want to stay with you; I want to go with you to my

papa!"

So he knew English well enough, since he understood every word of the

Englishman's. In this case he could not have been deaf at all, but

obstinate, hearing and refusing to talk. Was not such unheard-of

obstinacy in a child of such tender age some malady of the mind or soul?

"I wonder how this child comes to speak Hungarian?" said I, turning to

the Englishman. "Ours is not a language generally spoken by foreigners,

least of all by the young children of American nabobs."

"I never wonder at anything," said he, coolly. "At any rate, I should

advise you at the first station to telegraph to Mr. Dumany; I will give

you his address. So you will be expected when you arrive in Paris, and

have no further trouble. Since you are the only person able to talk to

the boy, it will be certainly the best thing for him to remain with you.

Now I think it is time for us to take our seats in the carriage, or else

the train will start and leave us behind. Come on, gentlemen!"

IV.

THE NABOB.

The train from Zürich arrived at the Eastern Railway Station at seven

o'clock in the morning. In Paris the day has at that early hour not yet

begun, and but very few persons, mostly travelling foreigners and

labourers, are seen on the streets. Since it has become the fashion to

use the moving train for suicidal purposes, the perron is locked, and

only those travellers admitted whose luggage is undergoing examination

by the customs officials.

I was lucky enough to have sent my luggage one day ahead of me to Paris,

and so it had not been lost in the accident. I had nothing with me but a

small satchel, which I had saved, but which contained nothing to

interest the custom-house officers, and so, taking my little charge in

hand, I stepped out into the hall. I had hardly gone two paces, when the

child dropped my hand, and crying, "Papa! dear, darling papa!" ran to a

gentleman who, with a lady at his side, stood by the turnstile.

I had never before seen the lady, yet I recognised her at once as the

mother of my little charge, so striking was the resemblance between

them. She had the same large, dark-blue eyes, the same dimpled chin,

aquiline nose, and pretty, shell-shaped, little mouth as he, and she

could hardly have been more than four-and-twenty, so young and girlish

did she look. The husband was a large-made, well-shaped, and

distinguished-looking gentleman. His bronze complexion had a healthy

flush, and he wore side whiskers, but no moustache. His head was covered

with a round soft beaver, and a long, rich fur coat was thrown lightly

over his shoulder. In his scarf I saw a large solitaire. The lady at his

side was very plainly attired in black, and wore no jewellery at all.

The age of the gentleman was, according to my judgment, about forty.

As the child ran toward him, with both his little arms stretched out,

and crying, in Hungarian, "Apám! Drágo édes apám!" ("Papa! dear darling

papa!") the gentleman hastened to meet him, caught the boy up in his

arms, and covered the little face, hands, eyes, and hair with a shower

of kisses. The father sobbed in his joy, while the child laughed,

caressed his father's cheeks, and called him "Édes jo apám!" ("My good,

sweet father!") in Hungarian, and the father called him, crying and

laughing, "My dear little fool"--in English.

Then I saw the father whisper something to the child, and in an instant

the whole little face became rigid and dull, all child-like mirth and

sweetness had vanished. He looked around, and then clung tightly to his

father, as if in dread of something, and I saw his lips move in appeal.

The father kissed him again and carried him to the lady, who all the

while had given no sign of animation or interest, but had looked on,

cool and indifferent.

"Look, my pet, here is your mama!" said the gentleman to the boy,

approaching the lady and holding the boy toward her. Now, according to

the law of nature, according to all human sentiment and experience, we

should expect a mother who receives back her own offspring, saved from a

fate too horrible even to contemplate, her own child who had gone from

her mute and comes back to her speaking, I say we should think it

natural in such a mother to seize this child, and, in the ecstasy of her

love and joy, half suffocate it with her kisses and caresses. Not so

here. I could see no glad tear in the lady's eye, no smile of welcome on

her face. Her hands were snugly stowed away in a costly little muff, and

she did not think it necessary to extend them to her child. She breathed

a cold, lifeless kiss upon the boy's pale forehead, and the tiny hand of

the child caressed the fur trimming on her jacket, just as he had done

with the astrachan lapel of my coat. What a strange behaviour in mother

and child after such a reunion!

I had watched this family scene out of a strange curiosity, which was

wholly involuntary. Presently I recollected the situation, and turned to

leave the perron. Perhaps, if I had saved some honest cockney's son from

a like danger, I should not have avoided him, but, with a friendly

pressure of the hand, expressed my pleasure at having been able to be of

service to him. Then we should have parted good friends. But to

introduce myself to an American nabob as the rescuer of his child was

impossible! Why, the man was capable of offering me a remuneration!

No, I would have nothing to do with aristocrats like these. They have

their child; it is safe; and so good-bye to them!

However, as I turned to leave, I was surprised to hear some one

pronounce my name, and, to my astonishment, I found that it was Mr.

Dumany. He still held the child on his arm, and, coming toward me, he

said in French, "Oh, sir! you do not mean to run away from us, surely?"

"Indeed I must!" said I, bowing. "But, pray, how is it that you know my

name? You cannot know me personally?"

"Well, that is a question which must remain to be answered later on. At

present it is sufficient to tell you that the telegraph service has been

very full and exact, even in personal description. However, I beg you to

revoke that 'I must,' for indeed I cannot allow you to depart. To the

great favour you have done me, you must add the additional favour of

being my guest for the time of your sojourn in Paris. Promise me to

accept of my hospitality--nay, to regard my house as your own. I shall

be ever so happy! Come, pray, do not hesitate, and give me leave to

introduce you to my wife!"

With that he took my arm, and holding it tight, as if in fear I might

break loose and run off, he led me to the turnstile, where the lady was

standing as quiet and composed as before. He introduced me to her by my

proper name and title, naming even the district which I represented in

the Hungarian Parliament; and all these he pronounced perfectly and

correctly, as I never heard them pronounced by a foreigner before. How

could he know all that? True, I had shown my passport to the frontier

officials; but were these also subject to the Silver King?

The lady bowed politely as her husband said, "This gentleman has saved

our little James from being consumed by the flames at the Rossberg

catastrophe"; and for a moment I felt the slight pressure of a little

gloved hand in mine. It was a very slight pressure, the faintest

possible acknowledgment of a duty, and if I had saved her little pet

monkey or dog, instead of her child, she might well have afforded me a

warmer recognition. Indeed, I had seen women go into raptures on account

of such animals before this, but never before had I seen a mother value

the life of her own child so cheap. She did not hold it worthy of a

single expression of gratitude; she had not a word to spare for him or

me. Was this woman a human monstrosity and void of all natural feeling?

or else was it part of the American etiquette to suppress all outward

signs of emotion?

What puzzled me most was the boy. He was so different from the happy,

talkative little fellow he had been with me and with his father some

minutes ago, and he looked just as dull and inanimate as when I had seen

him first on the railway. Was it because he could only speak Hungarian?

But then, how could he speak to his father? Who had taught the boy to

speak that peculiar language, dear to me and my compatriots, but wholly

unintelligible and of very little use or advantage to the world at

large?

I observed that Mr. Dumany held a short conversation with a tall

liveried footman behind him, and I understood that he ordered him to

take out my luggage. I protested and tried to escape. I like hospitality

at home; but when I come into a foreign country, I prefer the simplest

inn or the obscurest hotel to the most magnificent apartments of a

palace of a prince of the Bourse, because independence goes with the

former, and of all slavery I fear that of etiquette the worst.

But Mr. Dumany did not mean to give way to my polite protestations.

"Just surrender nicely, pray!" he said, smilingly. "It saves you

trouble. Look! If you insist upon going to some hotel, I promise you

that all the reporters of every paper we have, daily and weekly, will be

sure to pester you day and night with interviews, besides the reporters

of foreign papers here, of which we also have an abundance. Every word

you speak will by each reporter be turned into a different meaning, and

by to-morrow the papers will be full of your intimations, although you

do not say anything at all. And then the photographers: how will you

escape them? Don't you know that every penny paper will appear with your

picture in front to-morrow, and, wherever you go, it will be thrust

before your eyes? You will hear your name pronounced in all languages,

and in every way, and you will not know how to escape this unsought-for

and unwelcome notoriety. But if you accept my invitation, nobody will be

able to stare at you or interrogate you, and you shall live as quietly

and peacefully as if you were in some herdsman's hovel in Hortobágy at

home."

I stared at him quite stunned. How, in the name of all that was

wonderful, could he have learned of the existence of a herdsman's hovel

in Hortobágy? How could he know that it was my favourite spot? And how

he pronounced that Hortobágy! Just as I myself! He smiled at my

astonishment, but offered no explanation. But now he had caught me in my

weak point--a writer's curiosity--and I gave in, willingly enough.

Mr. Dumany ordered the carriages. In one magnificent landau Mrs. Dumany

was to go with little James, in the other Mr. Dumany and myself. But the

child obstinately refused to leave his father's arms, and clung to him

more tightly than ever. So the lady was obliged to go alone, and we two

men took the boy with us.

I confess that the gentleman puzzled and interested me very much. Not

because people had given him the name of "Silver King." I do not covet,

and I do not admire wealth alone, pure and simple. I know how to

describe a vine-embowered cottage, or even a thatch-roofed hut, with a

garland of gourd blossoms around its small windows, and I can appreciate

the beauties of a picturesque church or castle. But all my descriptive

faculties desert me before the marble and gold luxury of a modern

palace, and its gorgeous splendour has no charm for me. The interest I

felt was due to the man himself, and, most of all, to the connection

existing between him and my own home. How came this American Croesus to

be acquainted with the nomenclature, customs, and topography of my own

country and language? How came the latter upon the lips of his

five-year-old boy? In my childhood I had known a five-year-old boy, the

son of a count, who could speak only Latin, and not a word except Latin.

But, then, Latin is taught throughout the world, and no education is

considered as finished without a more or less perfect knowledge of

Latin. But where in a foreign country is the professor who teaches the

Ugro-Finnish tongue, even if there were some whimsical parent who wished

that his son should learn to speak it?

During the drive Mr. Dumany acquainted me with some particulars

regarding the customs of his house. He told me that the hour for

breakfast was nine, and that for lunch one o'clock. Dinner was

invariably served at six, and I was entirely at liberty to put in my

appearance or stay away. They would not wait for me, but my place at the

table would be kept reserved; and if I was late, I should be served

afresh. The cook should be entirely at my disposal. If the excitement

and fatigue of the journey should make me wish for a day's rest, I was

free to retire to my rooms at once, and should not be disturbed by

anybody.

In answer to all this I said that I had no habits whatever; that I was

able to eat, drink, and sleep at will; was never fatigued, and would

with pleasure put in my appearance at his breakfast-table that very

morning.

"That will be nice, indeed!" he said. "But I must beg your pardon in

advance for my wife. On ordinary days she is up and presides at

breakfast; but to-day she bade me apologise. She has been up all night

from excitement, and now I have told her to lie down and rest a few

hours. After that she usually spends some time in the nursery,

superintending the children's ablutions, prayers, and breakfast, and

only when all these matters are accomplished is she ready for her duties

as hostess and mistress of the household."

"So little James is not your only child?" I ventured to ask.

"Not by many; we have two more boys and two beautiful little

girls--quite a houseful."

"But the lady looks almost too young to be the mother of so many

children. Little James is the eldest, of course?"

"Yes, he is her first-born, and she is not yet twenty-four. We have been

married six years, so christening has been an annual event with us."

Well, I was more puzzled than ever. I had met with a good many English

and American gentlemen before, but all had been rather reserved in

speech and manner, quite different from this Croesus; and, regarding the

lady, I was altogether at a loss, as all my conjectures were entirely at

fault. She was not without feeling; she was apparently a good mother,

and little James was her own child and not a stepson, as I had guessed.

Her behaviour at the station was still an enigma to me.

At last we arrived at the Silver King's residence--a large, well-built,

and rather comfortable than brilliant mansion, filled with a host of

servants, of whom each knew and fulfilled his particular duty. A _valet

de chambre_ showed me into a very splendid and comfortable suite of

rooms, consisting of a reception-room, sitting-room, work-room, bed-,

dressing-, and bathroom, all furnished in the choicest and most

practical way, and I was delighted to see that, although all was rich

and costly, none of the offensive and pretentious pomp of the ordinary

millionaire's house met my eye.

The valet, an Alsacian, who talked to me in German--perhaps with the

notion of paying me a compliment--informed me that he was entirely at my

own service. He showed me a beautiful escritoire in the work-room, with

everything ready for writing purposes, and told me that, in the

reading-room attached, I should find an assortment of newspapers. He

then quickly and skilfully prepared me a bath, unpacked and arranged my

things, and helped me to dress. He was altogether a wonderfully nice

fellow.

When the valet left me, I went into the reading-room, and looked at the

newspapers. I found quite a number of them--French, English, Italian,

and one German; but still I was a little disappointed. I had half

expected to find a Hungarian paper, and there was none.

The library contained a choice collection of books; works of science,

philosophy, history, poetry, and fiction--of the latter, only a small

and select number. Here also was no Hungarian author to be found; not

even the translation of a Hungarian book could I detect, although I

looked into every one--French, German, English, and Italian, and even

some Spanish and Danish ones.

From the reading-room opened the billiard-room, a handsome apartment.

Its walls were covered with beautiful frescoes, betraying the French

school of art in the delicate colours, and in the Norman, Basque,

Breton, and Kabyle scenes and types represented. Of Hungary I could see

nothing. The Hortobágy herdsman's hovel, of which my host had spoken,

was not to be found.

In another room I found a sort of ethnographical museum, full of relics

and rarities from all countries except Hungary; and yet, if that man had

ever been in my country, he would certainly have brought some token of

remembrance with him. Hungary is more rich in curiosities than a good

many of the countries represented here.

Mr. Dumany came in to see if I was ready for breakfast, and I followed

him into the tea-room, passing a little, semi-circular, ship-cabin-like

apartment, with small, round windows, between which, in

beautifully-sculptured, round frames, of the size of the windows, hung

very handsome landscapes, apparently American.

In the breakfast-room I recognised a tiny Meissonier, in a gold frame of

twice its size, and an Alma Tadema. Mr. Dumany, observing my interest in

the pictures, informed me that these two were there only temporarily,

pending their shipment to New York. There, in Mr. Dumany's real home,

was his picture gallery, containing works of art of the highest

standard.

I ventured to observe that we Scythians, barbarians as we were held to

be, had also some painters worthy the interest of a Mæcenas, and not

without fame, too.

"I should think so," he said, smiling. "And in my New York gallery you

will find Munkácsy _genres_, Zichy _aquarelles_, a Benczur, and some

other equally fine Hungarian pictures. Here I keep only French and

German pictures of lesser value."

Our conversation turned to art in general, and Mr. Dumany surprised me

again by an allusion to the Hungarian witticism that when we speak of

Hungarian art we cannot omit Liszt (for the name of the great musician

is also the Hungarian word for _flour_); and Mr. Dumany remarked that

Americans travelling abroad have learned to appreciate both the

Hungarian specialties. The great artist, and the product of the soil and

mill converted into fine cake, are equally esteemed by them.

We talked about commerce and exports, and he observed that although

American wheat was sure to inundate the European market, yet Hungarian

flour was unrivalled in quality, and would increase in consumption

throughout the world. Then we spoke of financial matters, and here Mr.

Dumany was completely at home. The Hungarian rente had at that time just

been introduced into the market, and Mr. Dumany predicted for it a fair

success. He prophesied the rente conversion scheme and the four per

cent. bonds, and from this topic we diverged to politics. He was a very

fair politician, and I was pleasantly impressed by the apparent interest

which he took in Hungary. He admired Andrássy, and spoke well of his

Bosnian policy. Of Tisza he entertained great hopes, and he felt sorry

for Apponyi, because he had allied his great talents with the

Opposition. He spoke of Kossuth, and said it was a pity to see the grand

old man's name misused by the extreme faction. I tried to turn the

conversation to Hungarian literature, but on this point I met with but

little interest. Still, I noticed that he knew more about us than

foreigners in general do. He did not think the Gypsies the ruling race

in Hungary, and he did not believe us to be a sort of chivalrous

brigands, as some foreigners consider us; but he did not show any

particular sympathy with either the country or the people, and certainly

used no flattery on the subject of our special virtues.

Our conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Dumany's valet,

who handed his master two letters. "Will you give me leave to read them

at once?" he asked, turning to me. "They are of some importance, being

answers to two dinner invitations I sent out this morning."

"Certainly," I answered; "pray do as you wish."

He opened and read the letters, and, replacing them again on the silver

salver upon which the servant had brought them, he ordered him to hand

them over to the chambermaid so that Mrs. Dumany might receive and read

them.

After the valet had left, Mr. Dumany said to me--

"I have invited these two gentlemen to meet you at dinner. One of them

is secretary of the Department of the Interior, the other an old

Catholic priest, the parson of St. Germain l'Auxerrois. It is very nice

and pleasant that both of them accepted, and so I hope you will not

object to make the acquaintance of two whole-souled and intelligent

gentlemen."

"Quite the contrary," I hastened to say; "I shall be very happy to meet

them."

Just then the valet returned, and, deferentially bowing, he said to me--

"Madame la Comtesse begs to inform monsieur that she would be grateful

if monsieur would be kind enough to see madame in her apartments."

A REPUBLICAN COUNTESS.

"Madame la Comtesse!" A Peruvian or Argentine countess? Or have these

plutocrats of the great republic some special distinguishing titles,

such as "Silver King," "Railway Prince," etc., and was this exotic

countess the daughter of some such lord of the money market? At any

rate, I had to obey her polite commands, so, throwing away my cigar, I

bowed to Mr. Dumany and followed the lead of the valet.

In crossing a long suite of tastefully-furnished rooms, I noticed the

entire absence of family pictures. They had no ancestors, or did not

boast of them. No farthingaled, white-wigged ladies in hooped skirts and

trailing brocade robes; no mail-clad, chivalrous-looking gentlemen, with

marshals' staffs, keys, and like emblems of rank and high station; or

else these, too, had gone over to New York to subdue with their haughty

grandeur the eyes of less high-born mortals.

There was something else I missed in these beautiful chambers--the usual

obtrusive, caressed and pampered pet animal of a great lady. No

paroquet, no monkey, no little, silken-haired lap-dog, no St. Bernard or

Newfoundland dog, no cat, not even a little canary bird, was to be met

with; and not a single flower, real or artificial, greeted the eye.

At last we came to a room with beautiful heavy brocaded draperies,

evidently veiling the entrance into some other apartment. As the servant

stepped up and drew the hanging aside, I could not suppress an

exclamation of admiration and surprise; and for a moment I stood

transfixed at the lovely and exquisite scene, deeming that fairyland had

opened to me, and that Queen Mab was expecting me in her own enchanting

bower.

The room which I now entered resembled to some extent the Blue Grotto of

Capri. It was flooded with a magic blue light. Just opposite to the

entrance was some kind of bower, with honeysuckle, woodbine, and other

blooming and fragrant vines intertwined. This bower was prolonged in the

rear into a spacious and seemingly endless tropical garden, with

wonderful blooming exotic plants and trees; and in this East Indian

paradise, gaily-plumed, sweet-voiced birds of different size and colour

were chirping, hopping, and hovering above their nests, among evergreen

bushes and glorious flowers. The whole winter-garden received its light

from above, and this light, falling through large panes of blue glass,

threw that peculiar, fairy, grotto-like hue over the little boudoir in

front.

To prevent the luscious odour of the winter-garden from pervading the

air of the boudoir and becoming oppressive, a fine, translucent film

separated the bower from the garden. But this film was not of glass or

any other transparent but solid substance; it consisted of a beautiful,

clear waterfall, transparent as a veil, and noiseless as a fine summer

rain. At the touch of a spring, this softly-pouring waterfall might be

shut off and the entrance into the winter-garden thrown wide.

In the little boudoir, at the opening of the bower, stood a couch, and

opposite this a little settee and two small gilded and embroidered

chairs; while two large sculptured frames, one containing a splendid

mirror, the other a life-size portrait of Mr. Dumany, completed the

appointments.

Mrs. Dumany, or, as she was called, the countess, wore a loose

morning-dress of raw silk, with rich embroidery. Her rich, dark hair was

uncovered and wound around her head in three thick coils, like a tiara.

Her graceful figure was as slender as that of a girl, and she looked so

young and childlike that no living man would have supposed her to be the

mother of five children.

In the peculiar blue light of the boudoir her naturally fair face

appeared so white that I was almost startled. It was just as though some

marble or alabaster statue had moved, looked at me with those large

dark-blue eyes, spoken to me with those finely-chiselled, ruby-coloured

lips.

"Pray pardon me for troubling you to call on me," she said, in fluent

and precise French, although with a somewhat foreign accent and manner

of speech; "I should not have done it were you not the only trustworthy

person from whom I can learn the necessary particulars of the terrible

Rossberg accident. My husband, as perhaps you already know, has invited

two gentlemen to dine with us. One is a government officer of high rank,

the other a kind and benevolent priest. My husband's intention is to

spend a considerable sum of money for distribution among those who were

injured in the Rossberg catastrophe, or their destitute relatives. They

shall at least not suffer actual want, and although I daresay that money

is a poor compensation for a lost or crippled husband and father, or son

and brother, still it is the only possible consolation we can offer

them, and in providing for their own future and that of their

dependents, we at least relieve their hearts of one burden. Of this my

husband wants to talk to the government official. The priest was invited

by me, and I want him to hold a requiem for the souls of those who

perished, and to superintend the erection of a memorial chapel at the

place of the terrible accident. Mr. Dumany is ungrudging in his charity,

and ready for any sacrifice of money; but, you see, we know really

nothing about the particulars. How many were lost, and how many died

afterward in consequence of their injuries? Who were they? Of what

nation, faith, quality, and circumstances? How many were saved, and in

what condition? Have they somebody to attend to them, to support them in

case of need? And then those belonging to ourselves, our dutiful

servants, I might call them our true and faithful friends, has not one

of them escaped? Have they all perished together? You can tell me best,

and therefore I made bold to call you to me. Do not hesitate, pray, but

tell me all that happened, and in what manner it happened, from the

dreadful beginning to the pitiful end--the whole catastrophe, with all

the particulars you can recall to memory."

"Madam," said I, "pray do not wish that. These particulars are much too

dreadful to relate--much too horrible for the ear of a lady. It requires

strong nerves and an iron heart to listen to such a tale as that."

"And what that?" she replied. "True, my nerves are not a bit less

sensitive than those of any other woman, but I have learned to suppress

them--to hold them down. Never fear me! Never spare me! If the scourge

hurts me, I shall think it a penance. Go on! You hold the

scourge--strike! Go on, I say!"

There was an impatient, almost fierce resolution in her voice, and I

obeyed.

If this woman regarded the act of listening to the dreadful tale I had

to tell as a penance, then, indeed, she allowed it to become a torture.

I was obliged to recount the smallest incident of the ghastly event, and

she drank in every word, shuddering as at some deadly poison. Again and

again she questioned me with the skill and zeal of a professional

cross-examiner. Nor would she let me omit a syllable. And when at the

most fearful and heartrending point, her soft, dimpled chin sunk down on

her breast, and her fair, babyish hand knocked at the tender bosom "_Mea

culpa_! Oh, _mea culpa_!"

When she heard that the uncoupling of the parlour car had caused a

delay, she groaned. "Then all this terrible mishap is due to our own

vanity?" she cried. "A consequence of our own presumptuous pride! If our

dependents had sat with the boy in a common carriage with other decent

travellers, the train would have passed the fatal spot long before the

landslide was in motion! But, of course, the Silver King's son is far

too precious a creature to breathe the same air with other creatures of

God's making. He must needs have a separate parlour to himself! And this

sinful, detestable vanity of ours must cost the lives of so many good,

brave, happy, and useful persons. Oh, hell itself must mock at our

folly!"

Now this commination, unexpected as it was from a lady of wealth and

position, was not altogether unwarranted, and so I went on.

As I drew near to the catastrophe I could hear the beating of her heart,

and her breath came short and gasping. When I related how I had caught

hold of the governess's hand, she was trembling, and an almost deadly

pallor overspread her white face. "Alice! oh, Alice!" she cried; and

when I told her how the lady ran back to the coupé for her bonnet, just

at the last moment for escaping, she broke out into a painful hysterical

laugh. "Just like her! Her bonnet! Yes; ha! ha! She would have come down

to dinner in her bonnet, the foolish pride! She was so afraid to show

her bare ears to a man! Oh! oh! Alice!"

At last the tears came to her relief, and she sobbed pitifully. "If you

had only known her goodness," she cried, "her self-sacrificing devotion,

her pure, kind heart! She was the best friend I ever had, and how she

loved that unhappy boy! She was more his mother than I, for she gave him

all a mother's love and all a mother's care and attention. Why did I let

her go with him? Why did I not keep her back from him?"

I told her how the poor woman's first thought had been the safety of the

child.

"And you have not seen her again? You do not know what has become of

her?"

I denied having seen her again. I could not describe to her the horrid

spectacle of the poor woman as I had seen her last, when taken by the

brave firemen from that infernal pile; for, strong as she forced herself

to appear, this would have been more than she could bear; so I told her

that the relief train started with the rescued before we could learn

anything of the rest; but of the certainty of their death there could

not be the slightest doubt.

"What a misfortune!" she sighed, wringing her hands. "Why, that boy had

an escort with him like a prince royal! The honest Dr. Mayer, such a

refined, generous young man; and Tom, the negro, my best servant, and

the truest! He saved me from an alligator once, and killed him with an

iron bar. He was severely wounded by the ferocious reptile, yet he

laughed at his pains."

I remembered the grin on his broad black face in the moment of death,

as I had seen him at the carriage window. He had laughed then also.

"And poor little Georgie?" she asked again, "James's playfellow and

foster-brother? Georgie's mother was James's nurse. How she begged of me

to take care of her darling, to bring him up well, to make a priest of

him! And how well I have kept that promise! I have made more of him than

a priest: he is a saint, and a martyr. Oh, _mea culpa_! _mea culpa_!"

When I had explained to her the circumstances which had made all

attempts at rescue impossible for us, and afterward futile, she nodded.

"I know it," she said. "On that evening I had not said my prayers. We

dined out late, and spent the evening there. I could not come home to

pray with my children, and I could not say my prayers there. I felt the

heavy load on my heart, and once for a moment, when I was not observed

by anybody, I heaved a sigh and said, 'God bless us!' It must have been

at the moment of the catastrophe, for my heart ached with some vague and

gloomy presentiment. Oh, me! our neglected prayer, and such a fearful

chastisement! Tell me! Who is that terrible being that watches us so

relentlessly, and if he catches us napping but once, hurls down those we

love into death and destruction?"

Her marble-white face, her large wide-open eyes, gave her the look of a

spirit.

"Perhaps," said I, "the single blessing you asked saved the life of

your dear child. Let this thought comfort you."

"James?" she said. "This child of sin and misfortune? Why, it was

because he was on that train that all those pure and good people had to

die! Oh, accursed was the hour of his birth! No, no; he is not accursed.

I--I, his mother, that gave birth to him, I am guilty! He is innocent;

he could not help it. Oh, _mea culpa_! _mea culpa_!"

She was beating her breast, and rocking herself to and fro, uttering her

incessant "_Mea culpa_!" "Tell me more," she said again, presently;

"show me more dreadful sights, that I may suffer more. I yearn for it;

it will do my soul good--it is like purgatory. Go on!"

I took good care not to feed this religious frenzy further. On the

contrary, I spoke of the practical Englishman and his performances, and

of the artist who had sat there among all the terrible havoc and had

drawn sketch after sketch.

"That picture we must secure, at whatever cost," she said, eagerly. "It

shall be the altar-piece of the chapel which we are about to raise in

memory of the tragic event and of the souls of the slain."

I had formed my own opinion of Mrs Dumany's state of mind. No doubt she

was mentally deranged, and her special craze was religious monomania.

From this arose the deep melancholy which held her own innocent babe

responsible for the misfortune of others. This made the child repugnant

to the mother, and, no doubt, this was at the bottom of that remarkable

mutual estrangement between mother and child.

I tried to quiet her. I told her that in a very short period a great

many serious catastrophes, such as frequent earthquakes, great

inundations, and similar unfortunate and most terrible events, had

shocked the world and buried whole cities, destroyed the lives and

fortunes of thousands upon thousands of happy and innocent persons. Even

this Rossberg catastrophe had been preceded by another at the same spot,

about the beginning of the present century. Such catastrophes were by no

means to be considered as a punishment from God Almighty, Who is far too

magnanimous to visit the sins of the guilty upon the heads of the

innocent, but simply as the outcome of geological and meteorological

phases of our globe, depending upon natural laws. If anybody was really

to be blamed for the present misfortune, it must be the engineer who had

planned and erected that insufficient barrier instead of a strong

bastion.

Mr. Dumany's entrance interrupted our painful conversation. He came on

the pretence that letters and newspapers had arrived for me, and with

that he handed me a copy of the _Hon_.

"But I had them addressed to the Hôtel d'Espagne," I said.

"They have been already informed that you are here," he answered; and

then, turning to his wife, he said--

"Have you drunk deep enough of the bitter cup? or do you thirst for