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 countess sank back annihilated. Only just recovered from the
anxieties, horrors, and dangers of this dreadful night, she was not
able to face the denunciations of the priest, which were, in fact,
only the echo of her own conscience. The torture was greater than all
she had undergone. There was silence in the room, during which the
words rang in Theudelinde's ears like the tolling of a bell.
"How shall you face the anger of Heaven and the ridicule of the
world?"
At last she thought of a way out of the difficulty, and, raising her
head, she said, in a low voice:
"I will hide my miserable head in a convent. _There_ the ridicule of
the world will not reach me; there, kneeling before the altar, I will
day and night pray to God to pardon my fault. You, oh most reverend
father, will perhaps use your influence with the abbess of some
convent--I should prefer the very strictest order--and get me
admitted. There I shall find a living grave, and no one will ever hear
my name. I shall leave this castle, and all my fortune, together with
my savings of the last few years, to your order, with only one
condition, that every night at twelve o'clock vespers shall be sung in
the family vault, which has been desecrated by such abominations as
have been practised there."
The countess's voice, which was low and broken in the beginning,
gathered strength as she made this renunciation of her worldly goods.
The abbé rose up as she finished, and took her trembling hand in his,
while, with a haughty elevation of his head, he answered:
"That everything may be quite clear, I beg you will understand,
countess, that neither I nor my order need, nor would accept, the
donation of your castle, your property, or your money. It is not our
custom to take advantage of weak-minded persons in a moment of
contrition, and to extort from them compensation for their sins in the
shape of their worldly goods. We have no desire to acquire property in
so sneaking and contemptible a manner, and therefore, countess, in the
name of my order, I decline to spend the night singing vespers in your
family vault, or the day in living on your fortune. This idea you may
dismiss altogether from your mind."
These words filled the countess with admiration. She had already felt
herself singularly attracted by this man. This proof of his
disinterestedness and indifference to worldly considerations completed
his dominion over her mind, and subjugated her to his authority. She
listened submissively while he continued his admonitions.
"For the rest," he said, "I should recommend you to abandon all ideas
of conventual life, which is quite unsuited to a person of your
nervous, excitable nature. You would find neither peace nor happiness;
on the contrary, you would be a prey to all manner of scruples and
disquieting thoughts. There are those who find a refuge and salvation
in a cloister; for you it would be a foretaste of damnation, and in
all probability you would end like the hermit who fled from the world
to pray to God, and instead of praying, cursed Him."
The eyes of the countess glared at this awful prospect, but she
murmured to herself, "True, quite true!"
"The recollection of your faults has banished you from the Church and
has robbed you of all power to pray," continued the priest, in a harsh
voice.
"True, quite true!" sobbed the countess, and beat her breast. "I can
never again enter a church, and I dare not pray." Then with a cry of
despair she threw herself at the feet of the abbé, and with feverish
strength clasped both his hands, while she screamed out, "Where shall
I go, if not to the Church of God? Who shall help me, if I cannot pray
to Him?"
The clergyman saw it was necessary to soothe her terrible excitement.
"Your proper refuge is in your own heart," he said, gently, "and your
good deeds shall plead for you."
Theudelinde pressed the priest's hand to her burning forehead. Then
she rose from her kneeling position and stretched out her arms.
"Command me. Advise me. What shall I do?"
"Return to society, and take the place your rank and wealth entitle
you to hold."
The countess fell back a step, and stared at the abbé, her face all
astonishment.
"Return to the world! _I_ who left it five-and-twenty years ago! I
should be the laughing-stock of every one were I to seek, at my age,
pleasures which I long ago renounced."
"Countess, you have voluntarily thrown away that portion of your life
to which the world offers its best gifts; but there still remains to
you that other half, wherein you can acquire the esteem of the
world--that is, if you avail yourself of the means necessary for
success."
"My father, remember that in that circle which you wish me to enter I
shall meet nothing but contempt and humiliations. The present
generation don't know my name, my contemporaries despise me."
"But there is a magic circle in which every one is recognized and no
one is despised. Would you wish to enter this circle?"
"Place me in this circle, father. Where is it to be found?"
"I will tell you, countess. Your nation is passing through a crisis;
it may be called the battle for intellectual freedom. All are striving
to place themselves on a footing with the intellectuality of other
nations--philosophers, poets, industrials; men, women, boys,
gray-beards, magnates, and peasants. If they all knew how to strive
together they might attain their purpose, but all are divided; each
works for himself and by himself. Individual effort is doomed to
failure, but united, certain of success."
The countess listened in breathless astonishment. She did not
understand where the abbé was leading her.
"What is wanting in this tremendous struggle is a centre. The country
has no centre. Debreczyn is thoroughly Hungarian, but its religious
exclusiveness has narrowed its sphere of influence. Szegedin is well
suited, but it is far too democratic. Klausenburg is indeed a
Hungarian town. The aristocracy are to be found there, and a certain
amount of culture, but it lies beyond the Kiralyhago, and the days of
the Bethlens and the Bocskais are over. Pesth would be the proper
centre; it has every qualification. I have been through the five
quarters of the globe, and nowhere have I found such a place. In Pesth
no man troubles himself about his neighbor, and each man believes that
the world is made for him alone. The first look of the city takes one
by surprise; the fine embankment along the broad Danube River, the
beautiful squares and streets, with the six-story tin houses, each in
a different style of architecture. Side by side are palaces built in
the Roman, Moorish, Spanish, or Renaissance style, with, perhaps, the
occasional introduction of a quaint Dutch mansion or Gothic structure.
Opposite to the great edifice of the chain bridge rises a large stone
bandbox with four towers; this is called the Basilica, but it looks
more like a giant scaffold than anything else. On all sides rage
monster factory chimneys, which vomit forth volumes of poisonous smoke
upon the town. Factories, docks, academical palaces, redoubts, tin
card-houses, art conservatories, are crowded one over the other. The
academy interferes with the business of the docks, and the noise of
the shipping-trade disturbs the academicians. The smoke of the
steam-engines suffocates every one; while the town-hall, with all its
ornamented peaks and minarets, says to the stranger, 'Come nearer,
friend; this is Constantinople.'"
The countess could not help smiling over this graphic description.
"The inner town," continued the abbé, "is a labyrinth of narrow,
irregular streets, which were built when the site of the present
town-hall was only a marsh for the pigs to wallow in. In spite of the
narrow proportions, these streets contain some of the finest shops in
Europe. The contrasts are something wonderful; the finest equipages
jammed against the overladen wagons conveying merchandise; the most
elegantly dressed women jostling against beggars in rags. The
prettiest women are to be seen in this quarter, and this in face of a
wind that drives all the dust into the eyes. In the suburbs houses are
rising on all sides with marvellous rapidity, little and big, in every
style and variety, giving more dust for the wind to play tricks with.
The whole place is a stony wilderness, with here and there a small
green oasis not bigger than a private garden. Round about the city
lies a Sahara, the earth of which is constantly dug up, so that the
sirocco is never in want of dust. This is the exterior appearance of
Pesth, which in itself presents the different features of a
manufacturing town, an emporium for trade, and a city of arts and
science, as well as those of the capital of an empire and of an
American colony, where men of all classes assemble to make their pile
of gold, but when this is secured hurry away to spend their winnings
in other places.
"So far as social conditions are concerned, and these, after all,
concern us most," said the abbé, with a quick look at his listener,
"they are as complicated as the commercial interests of Pesth. Each
class is surrounded, so to speak, with a Chinese wall. Trade and the
stock-exchange are altogether in the hands of Jews and Germans. This
would not be so much an evil were it not that a great amount of
fraudulent speculation goes on, and at every turn of the money market
in Vienna the funds go down. The Hungarian element is made up of
tobacco-merchants and hand-workers; there are, besides these, about
twenty thousand Slavonians from the hills, who are day-laborers. Pesth
is, or should be, the headquarters of national education. It is,
however, not the fashion to support it. It should be also the centre
of science and literature; it is not, however, considered good 'ton'
to cultivate anything but foreign literature. Pesth can boast of very
distinguished _savants_, and of a very haughty aristocracy; but no one
is allowed to enter this magic circle but those who belong to the
upper ten. The whole society is on a wrong footing; each one fights
his own battle, bears his own burden; the finest ideas are lost
because no one understands the other. A common standpoint is wanting.
All healthy life is dying out, full freedom of thought and action
being strangled by the iron laws of the short-sighted government,
which forbids discussion of any kind.
"The Reichstag and the Comitatshaus are both closed. The only free
ground left is that of general society; but here class prejudices step
in. A certain portion of our aristocracy are too indifferent to
trouble themselves to do anything for the general good; the rest are
too fond of their own ease and amusement; they acknowledge no other
aim in life but their own pleasure. There are some, however, who do
know what their duty is, and who would willingly make sacrifices to
fulfil it, but during the last ten years they have suffered such a
loss of income that they are no longer in a position to bear the
expense which would be entailed by opening their houses. There are
others, those most fitted by intellect as well as by position to be
leaders. Alas! they will never return to Pesth; it is to them full of
tragic memories, which haunt the houses where they once lived, and
which have banished forever the laugh and jest from those walls.
Therefore it is that we have arrived at this position, that there is
not a single centre where the clever, the good, the nobleman, and the
gentleman can meet on equal terms; and without this no real good can
be done."
"Then let me create this centre!" cried the countess, rising to her
feet and addressing the abbé with an inspired look. Her whole being
seemed changed by this new thought, which had been skilfully suggested
by the words of the clergyman, who seemed well pleased at the effect
he had produced.
"Then you understood," he said; "and for you the advantages will be
incalculable. Here is the shelter you require. If you come to Pesth,
if you live there as befits your rank and your fortune, you can
assemble round you the very cream of society. To your _salon_ will
come every one, distinguished not alone by birth, but by
talent--politicians, artists, poets, magnates, priests, prelates, and
laymen, the aristocracy of the land and the aristocracy of intellect
shall be alike represented. Your mission will be to further by this
means the apostolate of truth, of culture; and, by so doing, to assist
the progress and development of your own nation, and for the rest your
own position will be most honorable. As hostess and mistress of such
you will be respected and admired."
The countess seized the clergyman's hand in both hers, and covered it
with kisses, while in her excitement she sobbed:
"I thank you, I thank you, I thank you!"
"Do you not see, countess, that there is a vocation for you besides
that of conventual life?"
"You are a prophet."
"In the meantime, may I ask you a practical question? For the task
which you have undertaken with such praiseworthy zeal there are
certain material qualifications absolutely necessary, the first being
a sufficient income. May I ask you to give me your confidence on this
delicate subject?"
"I am rich," answered Theudelinde. "I have my capital at good
interest. Likewise, out of my savings I have bought a fine mansion
situated in the best part of Pesth; it is at present let."
"You will now take it into your own hands," said the abbé, "and have
it properly appointed, suitable to your rank. So far as your
securities go, it may be better to invest your capital differently.
We shall see. How much does your yearly income from the Bondavara
estate amount to?"
"About twenty thousand florins."
"How large is the estate?"
"From about nine to ten thousand acres."
"Then the return is far too small. The agent is to blame for this;
this income would be too little to support the position you now intend
to hold. Twenty thousand florins would not be nearly enough to keep up
an establishment on a proper footing in Pesth."
The countess was surprised. She said, humbly, "I imagined it was a
great deal of money."
"So it is for living in the country; but Pesth is as dear, if not
dearer, than Paris. To keep a proper establishment going, and take the
position of a leader of society, such as it is your ambition to be,
you must at least command a yearly income of forty thousand florins."
"But I cannot do that. What shall I do?" Theudelinde said, in great
distress.
The abbé's lips parted in a smile. "Oh, we will manage it for you! For
the rest it will not be difficult. The rental of the estate must be
overhauled; you must get a better agent, a more enterprising steward.
I myself do not understand finance, but I have friends in the inner
circle of the stock-exchange, and one or other of these will undertake
to advise you as to your affairs when you are settled in Pesth. In any
case, I am quite certain that your land is let too low, it should
bring in double the interest you get from it. I know so much of
political economy."
The countess was delighted at these words. What a friend to have! Her
income to be doubled! Truly this abbé was sent to her from heaven.
"Do as you think best," she said. "I give you full power to act for
me."
"Then, if you will allow me, I shall have your property revalued, and
fresh leases made. This will double your income, and it will only cost
you a trifle--a factor's fee, in fact."
Theudelinde was like a child in her joy--like a child in her
submission to her spiritual adviser, to whom she looked up as a
father, a counsellor, a true friend.
All this he might be; but it was also true that from the date of this
conversation the owner of Bondavara lost her hold on her own property
forever.