THE LIVING STATUE.
Timar remained alone with the dead body, with a person sunk in a
death-like stupor, and with a buried secret. The silent night covered
them, and the shades whispered to him, "See! if you do not do what has
been committed to you--if you throw the corpse into the Danube, and do
not wake the slumberer, but let her sleep on quietly into the other
world--what would happen then? The spy will have already given evidence
in Pancsova against the fugitive Tschorbadschi; but if you anticipate
him and the land at Belgrade instead, and lay information there, then,
according to Turkish law, a third of the refugee's property would fall
to you; otherwise it would belong to no one. The father is dead, the
girl, if you do not rouse her, will never wake again; thus you would
become at one stroke a rich man. Only rich people are worth anything in
this world--poor devils are only fit for clerks."
Timar answered the spirits of the night--"Well, then, I will always
remain a clerk;" and, in order to silence these murmuring shadows, he
closed the shutters. A secret anxiety beset him when he saw the red moon
outside; it seemed as if all these bad suggestions came from it, as well
as an explanation of the last words of the dying man about the Red
Crescent.
He drew back the curtain from Timea's berth.
The girl lay like a living statue; her bosom rose and fell with her slow
breathing--the lips were half open, the eyes shut; her face wore an
expression of unearthly solemnity. One hand was raised to her loosened
hair, the other held the folds of her white dress together on her
breast.
Timar approached her as if she were an enchanted fairy whose touch might
cause deadly heart-sickness to a poor mortal. He began to rub the
temples of the sleeper with the fluid from the bottle. In doing so, he
looked continually in her face, and thought to himself, "What, should I
let you die, you angelic creature? If the whole ship were filled with
real pearls, which would be mine after your death, I could not let you
sleep away your life. There is no diamond in the world, however
precious, that I should prefer to your eyes when you open them."
The lovely face remained unchanged, in spite of the friction on brow and
temples; the delicate meeting eyebrows did not contract when touched by
a strange man's hand. The directions were that also over the heart the
antidote must be applied. Timar was obliged to take the girl's hand, in
order to draw it away from her breast: the hand made no smallest
resistance; it was stiff and cold, as cold as the whole form--beautiful
and icy as marble.
The shadows whispered--"Behold this exquisite form! a lovelier has never
been touched by mortal lips; no one would know if you kissed her."
But Timar answered himself in the darkness, "No--you have never stolen
anything of another's in your life. This kiss would be a theft." And
then he spread the Persian quilt, which the girl had thrown off in her
sleep, over her whole person up to her neck, and rubbed above the heart
of the sleeper with wetted fingers, while, in order to resist
temptation, he kept his eyes fixed on the maiden's face. It was to him
like an altar-picture--so cold, yet so serene.
At last the lids unclosed, and he met the gaze of her dark but dull
eyes. She breathed more easily, and Timar fell her heart beat stronger
under his hand; he drew it away. Then he held the bottle with the strong
essence for her to smell. Timea awoke, for she turned her head away from
it, and drew her brows together. Timar called her gently by name.
The girl started up, and with the cry "Father!" sat up on her bed,
gazing out with staring eyes. The Persian quilt fell down from her lap,
the night-dress slipped from her shoulders. She looked more like a Greek
marble than a sentient being.
"Timea!" and as he spoke he drew the fine linen over her bare shoulders.
She did not answer. "Timea!" cried Timar, "your father is dead." But
neither face nor form moved, nor did she notice that her night-dress had
left her bosom uncovered. She seemed totally unconscious.
Timar rushed into the other cabin, returned with a coffee-pot, and began
in feverish haste, and not without burning his fingers, to heat some
coffee. When it was ready, he went to Timea, took her head on his arm
and pressed it to him, opened her mouth with his fingers, and poured
some coffee in. Hitherto he had only had to contend with passive
resistance; but as soon as Timea had swallowed the hot and bitter
decoction of Mocha, she pushed Timar's hand with such strength that the
cup fell; then she drew the quilt over her, and her teeth began to
chatter.
"Thank God! she lives; for she is in a high fever," sighed Timar, "And
now for a sailor's funeral."