flying--his floating cloak represented the wings.
"Ten thousand! Twenty thousand! Forty thousand! Commission paid! The
emperor! The king! Pasture! The crop!" He gasped out disconnected
words, which Timar at last put together.
"All right, Johann; I know what you mean. The commission has come to
settle the value of the land wanted for the new works. Your fields,
bought for twenty thousand, will be sold by you for forty thousand: the
surplus is your profit; that is the crop--did not I tell you?"
"Yes, sir; and they were words like those of the golden-mouthed St.
John. I see very clearly that you told me the truth, and I see that I
get the twenty thousand gulden for nothing. Never in my life did I earn
so much money by the hardest work. My senses are going. Do let me turn a
somersault!"
Timar had no objection. Johann Fabula turned not one but three
somersaults all across the floor, and then three back again; and then
stood straight on his legs again before Timar.
"There! now I am all right again. All that money belongs to me."
He came six times that day to pay a visit to Timar. First he brought his
wife, then his younger daughter, then his married daughter, afterward
his son who had left college, and the fifth time the little boy who was
still at school. His wife brought Timar a splendid Komorn loaf of white
bread with a brown glazed crust; the married daughter a dish of
beautiful Indian-corn cakes; the unmarried one a plate of red eggs, gilt
nuts, and honey-cakes decorated with colored paper like a wedding
present; the big boy, who was a noted bird-catcher, brought a cage full
of linnets and robins; and the school-boy declaimed a rhymed ode. The
whole day they overwhelmed him with gratitude, and the sixth time they
all came together late in the evening and sung in his honor a song of
praise out of the hymn-book.
But what will his competitors, and especially Herr Brazovics, bring and
sing to him when they learn how he has entrapped them about the purchase
of the Monostor?
CHAPTER VII.
THE WEDDING-DRESS.
The wedding was to be in three days' time.
On Sunday afternoon Athalie went to pay visits in turn to all her school
friends. It is one of the bride's privileges to pay these visits without
her mother; they have so much to say to each other the last time in all
their girlhood.
Frau Sophie was delighted to be allowed to stay at home one day in the
year, and neither pay nor receive calls--not to act as chaperon to her
daughter and listen to conversation in German, of which she did not
understand a word. She could remain at home and think of her happy
parlor-maid times--the days when on an idle Sunday like this she could
fill her apron with ears of Indian corn, and sit down on the bench
before the door picking out the grains one by one and cracking them,
while she chatted and gossiped with her companions. To-day the leisure
time and the boiled ears of maize were at hand, but the friends and the
gossip on the bench were wanting. Frau Sophie had allowed the
maid-servants and the cook to go out, that she might have the kitchen to
herself; for you can not eat corn in the parlor on account of the husks
which get strewn about. In the end she found suitable company. Timea
came creeping up to her. She also had no work to do. The embroidery was
finished, and the dress had gone to the needle-woman, who would send it
home at the last moment. Timea was quite suited to the kitchen bench
beside Frau Sophie. They were both only on sufferance in the house. The
difference was that Timea felt herself a lady, though every one looked
on her as a servant; while all the world knew that Frau Sophie was the
mistress of the house, and yet she felt like a servant. So Timea perched
herself on the little bench near Frau Sophie, as the nursery-maid and
the cook do after quarreling all the week, when they make it up on
Sunday and have a chat together.
Only three days and then the marriage!
Timea looked cautiously round to see if any listeners were near to
overhear, and then in a low voice asked, "Mamma Sophie, do tell me what
is a wedding like?"
Frau Sophie drew her shoulders up and shook like a person who laughs
internally, looking with half-shut eyes at the inquiring child. With the
malicious delight old servants take in deceiving young ones, she
encouraged the laughable simplicity of the girl. "Yes, Timea," in the
important tone of a story-teller, "that is a wonderful sight. You will
see it."
"I tried once to listen at the church door," confessed Timea, frankly;
"I had crept in when a wedding was going on, but all I could see was
that the bride and bridegroom stood before a lovely golden shrine."
"That was the altar."
"Then a naughty boy saw me and drove me away, calling out, 'Be off, you
Turkish brat!' Then I ran away."
"You must know," began Sophie, while she took out a grain at a time and
put them in her mouth, "that then comes the venerable pope, with a
golden cap on his head, on his shoulders a robe of rustling silk worked
with gold, and carrying a great book with clasps in his hand. He reads
and sings most beautifully, and then the bridal pair kneel on the steps
of the altar. The pope asks them both whether they love each other."
"And are they obliged to answer?"
"Of course, silly; and not only that, but the priest reads out of the
big book an oath to the bridegroom and then afterward to the bride, that
they will love and keep to each other till death divides them. They
swear it by the Holy Trinity and the Blessed Virgin and all the saints,
forever and ever, Amen; and the whole choir repeats the Amen. Then the
priest takes the two rings from a silver dish and puts one on each of
their third fingers, makes them clasp hands and winds a golden girdle
round them, while the precentor and the choir sing to the organ 'Gospodi
Pomiluj.'"[2]
[Footnote 2: Lord have mercy on us.]
The melancholy sound of the words "Gospodi Pomiluj" pleased Timea. That
must be some magic blessing.
"Then they cover the bridegroom and also the bride with a flowered-silk
veil from head to foot, and while the pope blesses them the two
witnesses hold a silver crown over each."
"Ah!"
When Frau Sophie noticed the deep interest of the girl she got warmer
and warmer, and tried to inflame her fancy with the splendors of the
Greek ritual. "The choir goes on singing, and the pope takes one crown
and makes the bridegroom kiss it, then places it on his head and says,
'I crown thee as servant of God and husband of this handmaid of the
Lord.' Then he takes the other crown, gives it to the bride to kiss, and
says to her, 'I crown thee as handmaid of the Lord, and wife of this
servant of God.' The deacon begins to pray for the young pair, and
meanwhile the priest leads them three times round the altar, and the
witnesses take off the veil which covered them. The church is full of
people, who all look and whisper, 'That is a bride to be kissed. What a
beautiful pair!'"
Timea nodded her head with girlish delight, as if to say, "That is
delightful; it must be lovely."
"Then the pope brings out a golden cup of wine, and the bride and
bridegroom drink from it."
"Is there really wine in it?" asked Timea in alarm. Her fear of wine
came partly from the recollection of the prohibition in the Koran.
"Of course there is--real wine. Then the bride-maids and groomsmen throw
maize baked in honey over them; that brings luck. It is lovely, I can
tell you."
Timea's eyes shone with the prophetic fire of a magnetic dream. She
pictured these mysterious proceedings to herself as partly a rite,
partly an enigma of the heart, and trembled all over. Sophie laughed in
her sleeve and found this most amusing; a pity she should be disturbed
in it. Manly steps approached the kitchen door, and some one came in.
What a surprise! it was Herr Katschuka.
The mistress of the house was horrified, for she had only slippers on,
and her apron full of maize. Which should she hide first? But Timea was
more frightened, though she had nothing to hide.
"Excuse me," said Katschuka, with familiar ease; "I found the doors all
shut on the other side, so I came round by the kitchen."
"You see," screeched Frau Sophie, "my daughter has gone to visit her
friends. I sent the maids to church, and we two are the only ones at
home; so we just sat down in the kitchen. Pray excuse our _negligee_,
Herr Captain."
"Don't disturb yourself, I will remain here with you."
"Oh, no, I could not allow it. Here in the kitchen! We have not even a
chair for the captain."
But Herr Katschuka knew what to do in any emergency. "Don't make a
stranger of me, Mamma Sophie. Here, this can will do for a seat," and he
sat down opposite Timea on a pail, and even set the hostess at ease with
respect to the ears of maize. "That is excellent for dessert; give me a
handful in my cap. I like it very much."
Frau Sophie was on the broad grin when she saw that the captain did not
disdain to take the vulgar sweets in his military cap, and eat a
quantity without even shelling them. It made him very popular with his
mother-in-law. "I was in the midst of an interesting conversation with
Timea," began Sophie; "she was asking me about--a baptism."
Timea was on the point of rushing away, if Frau Sophie had told the
truth; but she would not have been the mother of a marriageable daughter
if she had not possessed the art of turning the conversation at the
entrance of an unexpected visitor.
"I was describing a baptism to her. She is quite frightened at it. Just
look how she is trembling; for I was telling her that she would have to
be wrapped up like a baby and carried in arms, and that she must cry
like one. Don't be alarmed, you little fool. It is not true; I was only
joking. Her greatest trouble is that her hair will be all spoiled."
This requires explanation. Timea had splendid long, thick hair. Athalie
amused herself by making the hairdresser execute on it the most
surprising coiffures. Sometimes all the hair was combed up and built
into a tower, again it was frizzed into wings on each side over the ear;
in short, the girl had to appear in the most ridiculous head-dresses,
such as no one had ever worn, and which required unsparing use of tongs,
pincers, brushes, and pomade. Athalie pretended to do this out of
affection for her cousin, and the poor child had no idea how she was
disfigured by it.
Herr Katschuka undeceived her. "Fraulein Timea, you need not regret this
coiffure. It would suit you much better if you wore your hair quite
plain; you have such lovely hair, that it is a sin to burn it with irons
and smear it with pomade. Do not allow it; it is a shame to lose any of
your magnificent hair, and it is soon ruined by the ill-treatment which
ladies call hairdressing--it loses its brilliancy, splits at the points,
breaks easily, and falls early. You do not require all that artificial
structure. Your hair is so beautiful that you need only plait it
plainly, to possess the finest of all coiffures." It is possible that
Herr Katschuka only said this out of a humane sympathy with the
ill-treated head of hair, and meant merely to free it from the tortures
inflicted on it. But his words had a deeper effect than he expected:
From that moment Timea had a feeling as if the comb in her hair was
splitting her head, and could hardly bear it till the captain had gone.
He did not stay long, for he took pity on Frau Sophie, who was
struggling continually to hide her feet in their torn and down-trodden
slippers. Herr Katschuka promised to look in again in the evening, and
took his leave. He kissed Frau Sophie's hand, but made a low bow to
Timea.
Hardly was he out of the door before Timea snatched the large comb from
her hair, tore down the heaped-up plaits, destroyed the whole edifice,
then went to the basin and began to wash her hair and her whole head.
"What are you doing there, girl?" said Frau Sophie, angrily. "Will you
leave off this moment! Let your hair alone. Athalie will be fine and
angry when she comes home and sees you."
"Let her be angry, for all I care," replied the girl, defiantly; and
she wrung her locks out, sat down behind Frau Sophie, and began to put
up her loosened hair into a simple threefold plait. Pride was awakened
in her heart; she began to be less timid; the word of the captain
infused courage into her--his wish, his taste, were laws to her. She
coiled the plait simply into a knot, and wound it round her head as he
had suggested. The mistress laughed to herself: this child has been made
a fool of certainly!
While Timea was plaiting her hair, Sophie came nearer and tried to
wheedle her again.
"Let me tell you more about the wedding. Where did that stupid Katschuka
interrupt us? If he had only known what we were talking about! Yes, I
stopped where the bride and bridegroom drink from the cup, the choir and
the deacon sing 'Gospodi Pomiluj.' Then the pope reads the Gospel, and
the witnesses hold the crowns over the heads of the couple. The pope
receives them back, lays them on the silver dish, and says to the
bridegroom, 'Be praised like Abraham, and blessed like Isaac, and
increase like unto Jacob;' and to the bride, 'Be praised like Sara,
happy like Rebecca, and increase like Rachel'--and after this blessing
the bride and bridegroom kiss each other three times before the altar
and before the wedding-guests."
Timea shut her eyes at the thought of the scene.
* * * * *
Athalie was not a little surprised when she came home and saw Timea with
plaited hair.
"Who allowed you to turn up your hair? Where is your giraffe comb and
your bow? Put it on at once."
Timea pressed her lips together and shook her head.
"Will you do what I tell you instantly?"
"No."
Athalie was staggered at this resistance. It was unheard of that any one
should contradict her. And this from an adopted child, who ate the bread
of charity, who had always been so submissive, and once even kissed her
foot. "No!" said she, going toward Timea, and bringing her face, red
with anger, as close to the other's alabaster cheek as if she would set
it on fire.
Frau Sophie looked on with malicious joy from her corner, and said,
"Didn't I say you would catch it when Athalie returned?"
But Timea looked straight into Athalie's flaming eyes, and repeated her
"No!"
"And why not?" screamed Athalie, whose voice was now like her mother's,
while her eyes were exactly like her father's.
"Because I am prettier thus," answered Timea.
"Who told you that?"
"He."
Athalie crooked her fingers like eagles' claws, and her teeth shone
clinched between her red lips. It was as if she would tear the girl in
pieces. Then her unbridled rage suddenly turned into scornful laughter.
She left Timea and went to her room.
Herr Katschuka paid another visit the same evening. At table Athalie
overwhelmed Timea with unwonted kindness.
"Do you not think, Herr Captain, that Timea is much prettier with her
hair dressed in this simple way?"
The captain assented. Athalie smiled. Now it was no longer a joke, but a
punishment which was to be inflicted on the girl.
Only two days to the marriage. During that time Athalie overflowed with
attention and tenderness to Timea. She must not go out to the kitchen,
and the servants were told to kiss her hand on entering the room. Frau
Sophie often called her "little lady." The dress had come home finished,
and what child-like delight it gave Timea! She danced round it and
clapped her hands.
"Come and try on your wedding costume," said Athalie, with a cruel
smile.
Timea let them put on the splendid dress she had herself embroidered.
She wore no stays, and was already well formed for her age, and the
dress fitted her very fairly. With what shy pleasure she looked at
herself in the great mirror! Ah! how lovely she will be in her wedding
finery! Perhaps she thought, too, that she would inspire love! Perhaps
she felt her heart beat; and possibly a flame was already alight there
which would cause her grief and pain.
But that was no matter to those who were carrying on the shameful jest.
The maid who dressed her bit her lips so as not to laugh aloud. Athalie
brought out the bridal wreath, and tried it on Timea's head. The myrtle
and the white jasmine became her well.
"Oh, how beautiful you will be to-morrow!"
Then they took the dress off Timea; and Athalie said, "Now I will try it
on; I should like to see how it would suit me."
She required the help of the stays to squeeze her waist into the dress,
which gave her splendid figure an even more magnificent "contour." She
also put on the wreath and looked at herself in the glass. Timea sighed
deeply, and whispered to Athalie, in tones of undisguised admiration,
"How lovely, how lovely you are!"
It might, perhaps, have been time now to make an end of this deception.
But no--she must drain the cup. First, because she is so forward; and
then, because she is so stupid. She must be punished. So the
contemptuous farce was carried on the whole day by all the household.
The poor child's head swam with all the congratulations. She listened
for Herr Katschuka, and ran away when she saw him coming.
Did he know what was going on? Quite possibly. Did it vex him? Perhaps
it did not even vex him. Very likely he knew things of which the
laughers did not dream, and awaited the important day with perfect
indifference.
On the last morning before the marriage, Athalie said to Timea, "To-day
you must fast entirely. To-morrow is a very solemn day for you. You will
be led to the altar, and there first baptized and then married; so you
must fast the whole of the day before, in order to go purified to the
altar."
Timea obeyed this direction, and ate not a morsel for the entire day.
It is well known that all these adopted children have excellent
appetites. Nature demands its rights; and the love of good things is the
only desire which they have a chance of satisfying. But Timea conquered
that appetite. She sat at dinner and supper without touching anything,
and yet they had purposely prepared her favorite dishes.
In the anteroom the maids and the cook tried to persuade her to eat
secretly the delicacies which they had put aside for her, telling her
she might break her fast if no one knew it. She would not be persuaded,
and controlled her hunger. She helped to prepare the tarts and jellies
for the wedding feast; a mass of tempting and luscious cakes lay before
her, but she never touched one. And yet Athalie's example, who also was
busy with the preparations for the next day, showed her that it is quite
permissible to take a taste when one has a chance. She must keep her
fast. She went early to bed, saying she felt chilly. And so she was, and
trembled with cold even under her quilt and could not sleep. Athalie
heard her teeth chattering, and was cruel enough to whisper in her ear,
"To-morrow at this time where will you be?"
How should the poor child sleep, when all the slumbering feeling which
at this age lie in the chrysalis stage were being prematurely scared
into life?
Timea lay till dawn in a fever, and slumber never closed her eyes.
Toward day-break she slept heavily; a leaden hand lay on her limbs, and
even the noise which went on around her in the morning did not rouse
her.
And this was the marriage-day!
Athalie ordered the servants to let Timea sleep on; she herself let down
the window curtains that the room might be dark: Timea was only to be
awakened when Athalie was already dressed in all her bridal array. That
required much time, for she wished to appear to-day in the whole panoply
of her beauty. From far and near numerous relations and friends had
arrived to assist at the marriage of the rich Brazovics' only daughter,
the prettiest girl for seven parishes round.
The guests were already beginning to assemble in the house of the bride.
Her mother, Frau Sophie, had been squeezed into her new dress, and into
her even more uncomfortable new shoes, by which her desire to get the
day over was much increased.
The bridegroom had also arrived, with a beaming countenance, and polite
as usual; but this cheerful aspect did not mean much--it was only part
of his gala uniform. He had brought the bouquet for the bride. At that
time camellias were unknown; the bouquet was composed of various colored
roses. Herr Katschuka said as he presented it that he offered roses to
the rose. As a reward, he received a proud smile from the radiant face.
Only two were wanting--Timea and Herr Brazovics.
Timea was not missed; no one asked after her. But every one waited most
impatiently for Herr Brazovics. It was said that he had gone very early
to the castle to see the governor, and his return was impatiently
expected. Even the bride went several times to the window and looked out
for papa's carriage.
Only the bridegroom showed no anxiety. But where could Herr Brazovics
be? Yesterday evening he had been in a very good temper. He had been
amusing himself with his friends, and invited all his acquaintances to
the wedding. Late in the night he had knocked at Herr Katschuka's
window, and called to him, instead of "Good-night," "The hundred
thousand gulden will be all ready to-morrow." And he had good reason to
be in such a merry mood. The governor of the fortress had informed him
that the plans had been accepted to their full extent by the war
department: the expropriation was arranged. Even the money had been paid
for that part which lay on the ground between the two river branches;
and the others concerned had received notice that this very night they
would obtain the signature of the minister. It was as good as having the
money in one's pocket. The next morning, Herr Brazovics could hardly
await the usual hour of reception, and arrived so early in the
ante-chamber of the governor, that no one else was there. The governor
did not keep him waiting, but called him in at once.
"A little misfortune," said he.
"Well, if it is not a great one--"
"Have you ever heard of the privy council?"
"Never."
"Nor I. For fifteen years I never heard it spoken of. But it does exist,
and has just given a sign of life. As I told you, the minister had
agreed to the execution of the fortifications and the necessary purchase
of land. Then from some unknown source evidence was brought forward by
which many disadvantageous circumstances were discovered. It would not
do to compromise the minister, so they called the council together,
which had not been heard of for fifteen years, except when its members
drew their salary and had their band to play. The council, when this
questionable affair was submitted to it, found a wise solution: it
agreed to the decision in principle, but divided its execution into two
parts. The fortifications on the river-side are to be provided for at
once, but the Monostor section is only to be begun when the other is
finished. So the owners of the Monostor land will have the pleasure of
waiting eighteen or twenty years for their money. Good-morning, Herr
Brazovics."
Herr Athanas could not utter a syllable. There was no help for it. The
profit so certainly counted on was gone--gone also those other hundred
thousand gulden which were buried in vineyards of no value, which are
now worthless. He saw all his castles in the air destroyed: his
beautiful house, his cargo-ships on the Danube, the lighted church with
the brilliant company, they were only a _fata morgana_, blown away with
the mirage of the Monostor forts by the first puff of wind--melted into
nothing, like the light cloud which obscures the sun.
* * * * *
Ah! here comes Timea!
At last she had had her sleep out. In the twilight of the curtained room
it had taken her long to rouse herself; she dressed like one in a
feverish dream, and groped sleepily through the adjoining rooms, all
empty, till she came to the one where Athalie had dressed. When she
entered the bright room full of flowers and presents, she remembered for
the first time that this was her wedding-day.
When she saw Herr Katschuka with the bouquet in his hand, the thought
shot across her that this was the bridegroom; and when she cast a glance
on Athalie she thought, "That is my wedding-dress." As she stood there
in her astonishment, with wide eyes and open mouth, she was a sight for
laughing and weeping.
The servants, the guests, Frau Sophie, could not contain their
merriment.
But Athalie stepped forward majestically, took hold of the little
thing's delicate chin with her white-gloved hand, and said, smiling,
"To-day, my little treasure, you must allow me to be the one to go to
the altar. You, my child, must go to school and wait five years before
you are married, if indeed any one proposes to you."
Timea stood as if petrified, and let her folded hands fall into her lap.
She did not blush or become paler. There was no name for what she felt.
Perhaps Athalie knew that this cruel jest was not calculated to enhance
her charms, and tried to lessen its effect. "Come, Timea," she said; "I
only waited for you. Come and put on my veil."
The bridal veil!
Timea took the veil with stiffened fingers, and went toward Athalie. It
was to be fastened to her hair with a golden arrow.
Timea's hand trembled, and the arrow was heavy: it would not go through
the thick hair. At an impatient movement of Athalie's its blunt point
pricked the lovely bride's head slightly.
"You are too stupid for anything!" cried Athalie, angrily, and struck
Timea on the hand. Her eyebrows contracted. Scolded, struck, on such a
day, and in the presence of that man! Two heavy drops formed in her eyes
and rolled down her white cheek. I trow those two drops turned the scale
held by the Great Judge's hand, from which happiness and misery are
measured out to man.
Athalie tried to excuse her hastiness by her feverish excitement. A
bride may be pardoned if she is nervous and irritable at the last
moment. The witnesses, the bride-maids, are ready, and the bride's
father has not yet arrived.
Every one was uneasy; only the bridegroom was quite composed.
A message had come from the church that the pope was ready and waiting
for the bridal pair. Already the bells are ringing, as is the custom at
grand weddings. Athalie's heart beats high with vexation that her father
does not come. One messenger after another is sent for him. At last his
glass coach is seen approaching. Here he is at last!
The bride steps up to the mirror once more, to see if her veil falls in
the right folds. She puts her bracelets and necklace straight.
Meanwhile, a curious sound is heard below, as if many people were
rushing upstairs together. Mysterious noises and smothered exclamations
are heard in the next room; every one presses thither; the bride-maids
and friends run out to see what it is; but it is remarkable that none of
them return.
Athalie hears her mother scream. Well, she generally screams even when
she is talking quietly.
"Do see what has happened," says Athalie to her bridegroom.
The captain goes out, and Athalie remains alone with Timea, the
suppressed whispering grows louder. At last even Athalie becomes uneasy.
The bridegroom returns. He remains standing at the open door, and says
thence to his bride, "Herr Brazovics is dead."
The bride throws her arms into the air and falls swooning backward. If
Timea had not caught her in her arms, she would have struck her head on
the marble table behind her. The lovely, haughty face of the bride is
whiter even than Timea's; and Timea, while she holds Athalie's head on
her breast, thinks, "See how the beautiful wedding-dress lies in the
dust!"
The bridegroom stands at the door and looks at Timea, then turning away
suddenly, he leaves the house amid the universal confusion.
He does not even take the trouble to lift his bride from the ground.
CHAPTER VIII.
TIMEA.
"How the beautiful dress lies in the dust!"
Instead of the wedding feast there followed the funeral banquet, and in
the place of the embroidered robe came the mourning garments.
Black! The color which makes rich and poor alike.
Athalie and Timea were dressed alike in black. And if the mourning had
consisted only in the wearing of its outward garb! But with the sudden
death of Herr Athanas, all the birds of ill omen had collected, as the
ravens come and sit in long lines on the roof before a great storm.
The first croak was, that the bridegroom sent back his engagement-ring.
He did not appear at the funeral to lend his bride a supporting arm as
she followed the coffin half fainting; for in this little town it was
the custom that the mourners, whether gentle or simple, should follow
their dead on foot and with bare heads to the burial-ground.
There were some who blamed this course of action in Katschuka, and did
not consider it an excuse that, as Herr Brazovics had not kept to the
condition of handing over the dowry beforehand, the bridegroom was
justified in considering himself freed from his obligations. There are a
few narrow-minded people who can find no excuse for such a withdrawal.
Then came the ravens and sat on the roof. One creditor after another
appeared and demanded his money. And then the whole house of cards
collapsed.
The first who spoke of a suit at law blew the concern into the air. When
once the avalanche begins to roll, it never stops till it gets to the
foot of the hill.
It was soon ascertained that the fears of the bridegroom, who had got
safely away, were only too well founded. In the affairs of Herr
Brazovics there figured so many investments apparently sound but really
unprofitable, such false calculations, unsecured debts, and imaginary
securities, that when order was brought into this chaos, the whole
property did not suffice to satisfy the creditors. Besides, it came to
light that he had used moneys intrusted to his honor: orphans' capital,
church endowments, hospital funds, the deposits of his ship captains.
The floods rose over the roof of the house, and these floods brought
mire and dirt with them; and what they left behind was--shame.
Timea too lost her whole property. The orphan's trust-money had never
been invested at all.
Every day lawyers, magistrates' clerks, bailiffs, came to the house.
They sealed each box and closet; they did not ask the ladies for
permission to visit them; unannounced they bounced in at any hour of the
day, ransacked the rooms, and gave vent to reproaches and curses on the
dead man, so loud that the mourning women could not but hear them. All
they found in the house was taken out in turn and appraised, down to the
pictures, with and without their frames; even the wedding-dress, without
a bride, did not escape this fate. And then they decided on the date,
and had it posted on the door, on which everything was to be sold by
auction--everything, not excepting the embroidered dress. The last lot
would be the house itself; and when it was sold the former owners could
go their way wheresoever they chose, and the beautiful Athalie might
look up to Heaven and ask where she was henceforth to lay her haughty
head. Where indeed?--she, the orphaned daughter of a fraudulent
bankrupt, to whom not even her good name was left, whom no one wanted,
not even herself. Of all the treasures she possessed, only two valuable
souvenirs remained which she had hidden from the bailiffs--an onyx box
and the returned engagement-ring. The box she had concealed in her
pocket; and when alone at night, she drew it out and looked at its
precious contents. There were all sorts of poison in it. By some odd
freak, Athalie had bought it in one of her Italian journeys, and while
it was in her possession she thought she could defy the world. She
imagined herself able to destroy her own life at any moment, and this
idea made her feel as a despot to her parents and her lover. If they do
not do all she wishes, the box is there; she need only choose the
swiftest poison, and in the morning they would find her a corpse. Now a
great temptation assailed her; life lay before her as a desolate waste;
the father had made his child a beggar, and the bridegroom had forsaken
his bride.
Athalie rose from her bed: she looked into the open box, and sought
among the various poisons.
Then she suddenly discovered that she was afraid of death! She had not
strength to cast life away; she gazed at herself in the glass--was all
that beauty to be annihilated?
She shut the box and put it away. Then she brought out the other jewel,
the ring. There is a poison in that too, and of a yet more deadly sort,
for it kills the soul. But she has the courage to swallow it--to
intoxicate herself with it. She had loved the man who gave her this
ring--not only so, but she was still madly in love with him. The
poison-box gives bad advice--the ring even worse. Athalie begins to
dress; there is no one to help her--the servants have all left the
house, Frau Sophie and Timea are sleeping in the maids' room; the
official seal has been attached to the doors of the public apartments.
Athalie does not wake the sleepers, but dresses alone. How far the night
has passed she can not tell; no one winds up the splendid clocks, now
that they are to pass under the hammer. One points to eight o'clock,
another to three, but it does not matter. Athalie finds the key of the
street-door, and creeps out, leaving all open behind her. Who is likely
to be robbed? and besides, who would, like her, venture alone in the
dark streets?
At that time the streets of Komorn were decidedly dark at night. One
lamp at the Trinity pillar, one at the town-hall, and a third at the
main guard--no others anywhere. Athalie takes the road to the Promenade,
the so-called Anglia. It is a region of evil reputation. A dark lane
between the town and the fort, in which at night fallen women with
painted faces and disheveled hair loiter, when they are driven from
their haunts on the "little square." Athalie is sure to meet such
creatures if she goes by the Anglia. But she is not afraid. The poison
she sucked out of the golden ring has taken away from her fear of these
impure forms. One only shrinks from the gutter as long as one has kept
clear of it.
At the corner stands a sentry: she must try to creep past him without
being seen and challenged.
The corner house has a colonnade leading to the square. Here in the
day-time the bread-sellers have their stand. Athalie chooses her path
through this arcade, as it hides her from the sentry's eyes.
In walking quickly she stumbled over something. It was a ragged woman,
quite drunk, lying across the threshold. The half-human creature whom
her foot touched gave vent to filthy curses. Athalie took no notice, but
stepped aside from the obstacle; she felt easier when she turned the
corner toward the Promenade. The light of the main-guard lamp had now
disappeared, and she found herself under the gloom of the trees. Through
the juniper-bushes shone a ray from a lighted window. Athalie followed
that guiding star. There lay the dwelling of the engineer officer. She
seized the lion-headed knocker at the little door, over which was
painted the double eagle; her hand trembled as she raised it in order to
knock gently, and at the sound the soldier-servant came out and opened
to her.
"Is the captain in?" asked Athalie.
The fellow nodded, grinning. Yes--he was at home. He had often seen
Athalie, and many a pretty bright coin had rolled into his hand from her
delicate fingers, when he carried the beautiful lady flowers or choice
fruit from his master.
The captain was up and at work; his room was simply furnished, without
any luxury. On the walls hung maps and surveying instruments; the
strictest military simplicity surprise the in-comer, as well as a
penetrating smell of tobacco, which adhered to the books and furniture,
and was perceptible even when no one was smoking. Athalie had never seen
the captain's room. The house to which he was to have taken her on their
marriage-day was very different, but it had been taken possession of by
the creditors with all its contents on that very morning. She had only
looked in at the window when she walked with her mother on the Promenade
in the afternoon to hear the band play.
Herr Katschuka started up in alarm. He was not prepared for a lady's
visit; the three top buttons of his violet tunic were unbuttoned,
contrary to regulations, and he had laid aside his horsehair cravat.
Athalie remained standing at the door with hanging arms and her head
down: the captain hastened to her.
"In God's name, fraulein, what are you doing here? What are you here
for?" She could not speak--she sunk on his breast and sobbed wildly. He
did not embrace her. "Sit down, fraulein," said he, leading her to the
plain leather sofa, and then his first care was to put on his cravat
again. He drew a chair near the divan and sat down opposite Athalie.
"What do you want, fraulein?"
She dried her tears and looked with her radiant eyes long at the
captain, as if thus to tell him why she came. Will he not understand?
No, he understood nothing. When she was obliged to break silence, she
began to tremble as if with ague.
"Sir," she said, with a quivering voice, "as long as I was prosperous,
you were very devoted to me. Is nothing left of that affection?"
"Fraulein," answered Katschuka, with cold politeness, "I shall always be
your devoted friend. The blow which fell on you struck me too--we have
both lost our all. I am in despair, for I see no means of resuscitating
my hopes reduced to ashes. My profession imposes conditions on me which
I can not fulfill: it is not allowed to those of us who have no private
means to marry."
"I know it," said Athalie, "and it was not that which I wished to
suggest to you. We are now very poor, but there may be some favorable
turn in our lot. My father has a rich uncle in Belgrade whose heirs we
are; at his death we shall be rich again. I will wait for you--do you
wait for me. Take back your ring--take me to your mother, and let me
stay with her as your betrothed. I will wait for you till you fetch me
away, and will be a good daughter to your mother."
Herr Katschuka sighed so deeply that he nearly blew out the light which
stood before him. "Alas, fraulein," said he, taking up the golden circle
from the table, "that is, unhappily, quite impossible. You little know
my mother. She is an ambitious woman--an inaccessible nature. She lives
on a small pension, and loves no one. You have no idea what struggles I
have had with my mother about my _affaires du coeur_. She is a baroness
by birth, and has never consented to this union. She would not come to
our marriage. I could not take you to her, fraulein--on your account I
have quarreled with her."
Athalie's breast heaved feverishly, her face glowed; she seized with
both her hands that of her faithless bridegroom, on which the ring was
wanting, and whispered, while tears ran down her cheeks, so low that
even the deaf walls could not hear, "You--you have braved your mother
for me: I will defy the whole world for you!"
Katschuka dared not meet the speaking eyes of the lovely woman. He drew
geometrical figures on the table with the golden circle he still held,
as if he would decipher from their angles of incidence the difference
between love and madness.
The girl continued in a whisper, "I am already so deeply humiliated that
no shame can bring me lower; I have no more to lose in this world. If
you were not here, I should have already killed myself. I belong not to
myself, but to you--say, what shall I be to you? I have lost my senses,
and all is the same to me; kill me, if you choose--I will not stir."
Herr Katschuka, during this passionate speech, had worked out the
problem of what he was to answer. "Fraulein Athalie, I will speak
frankly--you know I am an honest man."
Athalie had not asked him about that.
"An honest and chivalrous man would be ashamed to take advantage of the
misfortune of a woman for the satisfaction of his lowest passions. I
will give you good advice as a well-meaning friend, as one who has a
boundless respect for you. You tell me you have an uncle in Belgrade: go
to him. He is your blood relation, and must receive you in a friendly
way. I give you my word of honor that I will not marry, and if we meet
again I shall always bring you the same feelings which for years I have
experienced toward you."
He told no lie when he gave this promise. But from what his face showed
at this moment, Athalie could read what he did not say--that the captain
neither now nor for years past had loved her, that he loved another, and
if this other was poor and made a beggar, he had good reason to promise
on his word of honor that he would not marry. This it was which Athalie
read in the cool expressions of her faithless bridegroom. And then
something flashed through her brain like lightning. Her eyes flashed
too.
"Will you come to-morrow," she asked him, "to escort me to my uncle in
Belgrade?"
"I will come," Katschuka hastened to reply. "But now go home. Did any
one come with you?"
"I came quite alone."
"What imprudence! Who is to take you back?"
"You need not," she said, bitterly. "If at this hour any one saw us
together, what a scandal it would be--for you. I can walk alone. I am
not afraid. I have no longer anything worth stealing."
"My servant shall follow you."
"He shall do nothing of the sort. The patrol might arrest the poor
devil. After the last post he must not be seen in the streets. I will
find my way alone. So then--to-morrow--"
"I will be with you by eight o'clock."
Athalie wrapped herself in her black cloak, and hurried away before
Katschuka had time to open the door for her. It seemed to her as if the
captain was putting on his sword almost before she had left his door. Is
he perhaps going to follow her in the distance?
She stopped at the corner of the Anglia, but no one was following. She
ran home in the darkness, and as she hastened through the deep night she
concocted a plan in her head. If only the captain once sits by her in
the carriage, if he goes with her to Belgrade, he will see that no power
on earth can deliver him from her. As she passed through the long
market-hall, she stumbled again over the same female figure as it lay on
the stones. This time it did not awake nor curse her. What sound sleep
these wretches enjoy! But when Athalie got to the door of her home, a
thought sunk like lead into her mind. What if the captain was only so
ready with his promise of escorting her to Belgrade in order to get rid
of her? What if he does not come to-morrow, either at eight or later? A
torturing jealousy excited her nerves. When she reached the anteroom,
she felt about on the table for the candle and matches she had left
there. Instead of these her hand touched a knife--a sharp cook's knife
with a heavy handle. This also sheds light on darkness. She grasped the
knife and walked up and down. Her teeth chattered: the thought was
working in her, how if she were to drive this knife into the heart of
that girl with the white face, who sleeps beside her? That would be an
end of them both. They would convict her of the murder, and so she would
get out of the world.
But Timea is not sleeping there now.
Athalie only remembered when she had gone to the bed in which Timea
usually slept, that she was sleeping with Frau Sophie to-night. The
knife fell from her hand, and then she was frightened. She began to feel
how lonely she was, how dark was all around her, dark too in her own
soul.
* * * * *
The roll of a drum awoke Athalie out of a distressing dream. She dreamed
of a young lady who had murdered her rival, and was led to the place of
execution. Already she knelt on the scaffold, the headsman with his
naked sword stood behind her, the judge read the sentence and said,
"With God there is pardon." The drum beat, then Athalie awoke.
It was the auctioneer's drum. The bidding had begun; but that drum is
even more dreadful than the one which gives the signal of death. To
listen, when the voice which penetrates even to the street calls out the
well-known old favorite things which only yesterday were our own! "Once,
twice; any advance?" and then "thrice!" and the drum rolls and the
hammer falls. Then it begins again, "Once, twice; any advance?"
Athalie put on her mourning-dress, the only one left to her, and went to
find some one. There were only her mother and Timea to look for. They
would probably be in the kitchen.
Both had long been up and dressed. Frau Sophie was as round as a tub.
Knowing well enough that no one would search her, she had put on a dozen
dresses one over the other, and hidden a few napkins and silver spoons
in her pockets. She could hardly move. Timea was in her simple black
every-day dress, and was preparing warm milk and coffee. At the sight of
Athalie, Frau Sophie broke into loud sobs, and hung on her neck. "Oh, my
dear, darling, pretty daughter! What have we come to, and what will
become of us? Oh, that we had not lived to see this day! This dreadful
drum woke you, I suppose?"
"Is it not yet eight o'clock?" asked Athalie. The kitchen clock was
still going.
"Not eight? Why, the auction began at nine. Can you not hear it?"
"Has no one been to see us?"
"Silly idea! Why, who should visit us at such a time?"
Athalie said no more, but sat down on the bench--the same little seat on
which Frau Sophie had described to Timea the splendid wedding ceremony.
Timea prepared the breakfast, toasted the bread, and laid the kitchen
table for the two ladies. Athalie did not heed the invitation, however
much pressed by Frau Sophie. "Drink, my dear, my own pretty! Who knows
where we shall get coffee to-morrow? The whole world is against us, and
every one abuses and curses us. What will become of us?" But that did
not hinder her from gulping down her cup of coffee. Athalie was thinking
of the journey to Belgrade, and of her expected traveling companion.
Frau Sophie's mind was much occupied with original notions on easy modes
of death. "If there were only a pin in the coffee that it might stick in
my throat and choke me." Then the wish arose that the flat-iron would
fall down from the shelf as she passed and crush her skull. She would be
glad, too, if one of the earthquakes which occasionally occur in Komorn
would happen now, and bury the house and all in it. As, however, none of
these ways of dying came to pass, and Athalie would not speak, there was
nothing left but to vent her wrath on Timea. "She takes it easily, the
ungrateful creature! She is not even crying; indeed it is easy for her
to laugh--she can go to service, or work with a milliner and keep
herself; she will be glad to be quit of us, and live on her own hook.
You just wait, you will soon have to remember us. You'll be
sorry--before a year is over you'll repent fast enough." Timea had done
nothing to repent of, but Frau Sophie saw it in the future, and her
anger was only surpassed by the grief she felt about Athalie. "What will
become of you, you sweet and only darling? Who will take care of you?
What will become of your pretty white hands?"
"There, go and leave me in peace," said Athalie, shaking her lamenting
mother off her neck. "Go and look out of the window and see if any one
is coming up to us."
"Nobody, nobody!--who should be coming?"
Time went on; drum and bid succeeded each other; whenever the kitchen
clock struck, Athalie started up, and then let her head fall into her
hands again and stared before her. The roses on her cheeks took a violet
shade, her lips were blue, an olive shadow darkened her exquisite face;
her staring eyes, with deep marks below them, her swollen lips, her
painfully contracted eyebrows, turned the ideal beauty into an image of
horror. She sat like a fallen angel driven from heaven. It was already
noon, and he for whom she waited never came. The noise of the sale came
nearer and nearer. The auctioneer went from room to room; they had begun
in the outer rooms, now they were coming to the reception-rooms, at
whose far end was the kitchen.
Frau Sophie, in spite of her despair, had her senses about her enough to
notice that the bidding was very quick. Hardly was anything put up
before the drum beat, and "any advance?" was cried. The buyers standing
in groups complained, "No one has a chance--the man is mad. Who can this
fool be?"
Now only the kitchen department is left, but no one enters it. Outside,
the drum is heard, "No one will give more?" It has been bought as a
whole, unseen--by some fool.
It struck Frau Sophie, too, that people did not hasten to fetch the lots
they bought out of the rooms, as usual at an auction; here nothing is
touched. Now comes the principal lot, and every one goes down to the
yard, for the house itself is being put up. The buyers press round the
table of the official auctioneer; the upset price is named. Then some
one makes an offer in a low voice. Among the crowd arises a confused
noise, tones of astonishment, laughter, hissing; the people scatter, and
again one hears, "He must be a fool." Grumbling and angry, all go away.
"Once, twice, thrice!" the hammer falls. The house has found a
purchaser.
"Now it's time to go, my sweet darling daughter. We will look out for
the last time. If only the tower of St. John's Church would fall and
crush us all together!" But Athalie sat on the bench, waiting and
waiting, and looking at the clock. It points to two. One little ray of
hope still shone through the Egyptian darkness--perhaps it was the dread
of pushing through the crowd of bidders which had kept the captain from
coming; perhaps he will appear as soon as the yard is clear.
"Don't you hear some one coming?"
"No, my beauty, I hear nothing."
"Yes, mother, I hear some one creeping upstairs gently, on tiptoe."
In truth soft steps approach. Some one knocks at the kitchen door, like
a polite visitor who begs permission to enter, and waits till it is
given him; and then the door opens gently, and in comes, with hat off,
and courteous bow--Michael Timar Levetinczy. He remained standing near
the door after saluting the ladies. Athalie rose with an expression of
disappointment and hatred; Frau Sophie wrung her hands, and looked up
with a mixture of hope and fear; Timea met his gaze with gentle
calmness.
"I," began Timar, sending his "I" in advance like a pope in his bull--"I
have had this house and all its saleable contents knocked down to me at
the auction. I did not buy it for myself, but for the one person in it
who is not to be bought, and yet is the only treasure on earth in my
sight. . . . Fraulein Timea, from this day forward you are the mistress
of this house. Everything in it belongs to you--the clothes, the jewels
in the wardrobes, the horses in the stable, the securities in the
safe--all is inscribed in your name, and the creditors are satisfied.
You are the owner of the house--accept it from me; and if there is a
corner in it where there is room for a quiet fellow who would only
impose on you his respect and admiration, and if this corner could be
given to me--if there was a little shelter for me in your heart, and you
did not refuse my hand--then I should be only too happy, and would swear
that the whole aim of my life would be to make you as happy as you made
me."
Timea's face beamed at these words with maidenly pride. A mixture of
inexpressible pain, noble gratitude, and holy sacrifice lighted up her
countenance. "Thrice, thrice," her lips stammered, but without a sound,
only her sympathetic nerves heard what she wanted to utter. This man had
so often saved her; he was always so good to her; he had never made
sport of her, nor flattered her, and now he gives her all her heart
could desire. All? No, all but one thing, and that is gone; it belongs
to another.
Timar waited quietly for an answer. Timea remained silent.
"Do not answer hastily, Fraulein Timea," he said. "I will await your
decision. I will come to-morrow, or in a week, or whenever you like to
give me an answer. You are mistress of all I have handed over to you; I
attach no conditions to it; it is all registered in your name. If you do
not wish to see me here again, it only costs you one word; take a week
or a month or a year to consider what you will answer."
Timea stepped forward with decision from behind the stove where the
other two women had pushed her, and approached Michael.
In her manner lay a precocious gravity, which lent to her face a womanly
dignity. Since that eventful wedding-day she had ceased to be a child;
she had become serious and silent. She looked calmly into Michael's
face, and said, "I have already decided."
Frau Sophie listened with envious malice for Timea's answer. If only she
would say to Timar, "I don't want you--go away!" Anything is possible
from such an idiot of a girl, who has had another man put in her head.
And if Timar, just to revenge himself, were to say, "Well then, stay as
you are; you shall have neither the house nor my hand, I will offer both
to Fraulein Athalie"--and if he were to marry Athalie! As if cases had
not been heard of in which an honest lover was refused by some stuck-up
girl, and then out of pique offered his hand to the governess, or
proposed to the housemaid on the spot! This hope of Frau Sophie's,
however, was not destined to be fulfilled.
Timea gave her hand to Timar, and said in a low but firm voice, "I
accept you as my husband."
Michael grasped the offered hand--not with the fire of a passionate
lover, but with the homage of a man, and looked long into the unearthly
beauty of the girl's eyes.
And the girl allowed him to read her soul. She repeated her words: "I
accept you as my husband, and will be a faithful and obedient wife; I
only ask one favor--you will not refuse me?"
Happiness made Michael forget that a merchant should never sign his name
to a blank sheet of paper. "Oh, speak! what you desire is already done."
"My request is," said Timea, "if you take me to wife, and this house
becomes yours again, and I the mistress in your house, that you should
allow my adopted mother who received me, an orphan, and my adopted
sister with whom I have grown up, to remain here with me. Regard them as
my mother and sister, and treat them as kindly."
An involuntary tear fell from Timar's eye. Timea noticed it, seized his
right hand with hers, and made a new attack on his heart. "You will, I
know you will do as I ask you; and you will give back to Athalie all
that was hers?--her nice clothes and jewels; and she will stay with us,
and you will be the same to her as if she were my own sister; and you
will treat Mamma Sophie as I do, and call her mother?"
Frau Sophie, hearing this, began to sob aloud. She sunk on her knees
before Timea, and covered her hands, her dress, even her feet with
unceasing kisses, while she murmured broken and inaudible words.
In the next moment Timar was himself again, and the far-seeing vision
came to his aid, which at any critical time raised him above his rivals.
His quick invention whispered to him what must be done to provide
against future complications. He took Timea's little hands in his. "You
are a noble creature, Timea. You will permit me henceforward to call you
by your name? and I will not disgrace your good heart. Stand up, Mamma
Sophie; do not cry; tell Athalie she might come nearer to me. I will do
more than Timea asked, for love of her, and for you two; I will provide
for Athalie not only a place of refuge, but a happy home of her own; I
will pay the deposit for her bridegroom, and give her the dowry which
her father had promised to her. May they be happy together."
Timar had foreseen things still below the horizon, and thought that no
sacrifice would be too great to get the two women out of the house and
away from Timea, and to manage that the handsome captain should be
married to the lovely Athalie.
But now it was his turn to be overwhelmed with kisses and gratitude by
Frau Sophie. "Oh, Herr von Levetinczy! Oh, dear, generous Herr von
Levetinczy! let me kiss your hand, your feet, your clever head." And she
did as set forth in her programme, and kissed besides his shoulders,
coat-collar, and his back, at last embracing both Timar and Timea in her
arms, and bestowing her valuable blessing upon them. "Be happy
together!"
It was impossible to help laughing at the way the poor woman expressed
her joy. But Athalie poisoned all their pleasure.
Proud as a fallen angel who is asked to return, and who prefers
damnation to humbling her pride, she turned away from Timar, and said in
a voice choked with passion, "I thank you, sir. But I never wish to hear
of Herr Katschuka again, either in this world or the next! I will never
be his wife; I will remain here with Timea--as her servant."
_BOOK THIRD.--THE OWNERLESS ISLAND._
CHAPTER I.
THE MARRIAGE OF THE MARBLE STATUE.
Timar was intensely happy at being engaged to Timea.
The unearthly beauty of the girl had captivated his heart at first
sight. He admired her then, and afterward the sweet nature which he
learned to appreciate won his respect. The shameful trick played on her
in the house of Brazovics awoke in him a chivalrous sympathy. The airy
courtship of the captain aroused his jealousy; all these were symptoms
of love, and at last he had reached the goal of his wishes: the lovely
maiden was his, and would be his wife.
And a great burden was lifted from his soul--self-reproach; for from the
day when Timar found the treasures of Ali Tschorbadschi in the sunken
ship, his peace was gone. After each brilliant success of any of his
undertakings, the voice of the accuser rose in his breast "This does not
belong to you--it was the property of an orphan which you usurped. You a
lucky man? You a man of gold? It is not true! Benefactor of the poor?
Not true! Not true! You are a thief!"
Now the suit is decided. The inward judge acquits him. The defrauded
orphan receives back her property, and in double measure, for whatever
belongs to her husband is hers too. She will never know that the
foundation of this great fortune was once hers; she only knows it is
hers now--thus fate is reconciled.
But is it really reconciled? Timar forgot the sophism that he offered
Timea something besides the treasures which were hers--himself--and in
exchange demanded the girl's heart, and that this was a deception, and
like taking her by force.
He wished to hasten the wedding. There was no need of delay on account
of the trousseau, for he had bought everything in Vienna. Timea's
wedding-dress was made by the best Parisian house, and the bride was not
obliged to work at it herself for six weeks, as at that other. That
double unlucky dress was buried in a closet which no one ever opened; it
would never be brought out again.
But other hinderances of an ecclesiastical nature presented
themselves--Timea was still unbaptized. It was only natural that Timar
should wish Timea, when she left the Moslem faith for Christianity, to
enter at once the Protestant Church to which he belonged, so that they
might worship together after their marriage. But then the Protestant
minister announced it as an indispensable condition of conversion that
neophytes should be instructed in the creed of that church into which
they were to be received. Here a great difficulty arose. The Mohammedan
religion has nothing to say to women in its dogmas. To a Moslem a woman
is no more than a flower which fades and falls, whose soul is its
fragrance, which the wind carries away, and it is gone. Timea had no
creed.
The very reverend gentleman found his task by no means easy when he
tried to convince Timea of the superiority of the Christian religion. He
had converted Jews and Papists, but he had never tried it with a Turkish
girl.
On the first day, when the minister was explaining the splendors of the
other world, and declaring that there all who in this world had loved
each other would be reunited, the girl put this question to him--"Would
those meet who had loved each other, or only those whom the minister had
united?" This was a ticklish question; but the reverend gentleman
answered, from his own puritanical point of view, that only those could
possibly love each other who were united by the church, and that it was
of course impossible for those who were thus united _not_ to love each
other. But he was careful not to repeat this question to Herr Timar.
The next day Timea asked him whether her father, Ali Tschorbadschi,
would also arrive in that world to which she was going?
To this delicate question the minister was unable to give a satisfactory
reply.
"But is it not the case that I shall there still be the wife of Herr
Levetinczy?" asked Timea, with lively curiosity. To this the Herr Pastor
was glad to reply, with gracious readiness, that that would certainly be
the case.
"Well, then, I shall ask Herr Levetinczy, when we both go to heaven, to
keep a little place for my father, that he may be with us; and surely he
will not refuse me?"
The reverend gentleman scratched his ear violently, and thought he had
better lay this difficult point before the church synod.
The third day he said to Timar that it would be best to baptize and
marry the young lady at once: then her husband could give her
instruction in the other dogmas.
The next Sunday the sacred rite was celebrated. Timea then for the first
time entered a Protestant church. The simple building, with its
whitewashed walls and unornamented chancel, made a very different
impression on her mind from that other church, out of which the naughty
boys had chased her when she peeped in. There were golden altars, great
wax tapers burning in silver candelabra, pictures, incense filling the
air, mysterious chants, and people sinking on their knees at the sound
of a bell. Here sat long rows of men and women apart, each with their
book before them, and after the precentor had set the tune, all the
congregation joined in unison. Then silence, and the minister mounted
the high pulpit and began to preach without any ceremony. He did not
sing, nor drink from the chalice, nor show any holy relics--only talk,
talk on.
Timea sat in the first row with her sponsors, who led her to the font,
where another long sermon was preached. At last it was over; the
neophyte bowed her head over the basin, and the minister baptized her,
in the name of the Trinity, "Susanna." She wondered why she should be
called Susanna, as she was quite satisfied with her own name.
Then they all sat down again and sung the eighty-third psalm, "Oh, God
of Israel," which awoke in Timea a slight doubt as to whether she had
not been turned into a Jewess.
All her doubts vanished, however, when another minister arose, and read
from the chancel a document which set forth that the noble Herr Michael
Timar von Levetinczy, of the Swiss Protestant Church, had betrothed
himself to Fraulein Timea Susanna von Tschorbadschi, also of the Swiss
Protestant religion.
Two more weeks must pass before the marriage. Michael spent every day
with Timea. The girl always received him with frank cordiality, and he
was happy in his anticipations of the future. He generally found Athalie
with his bride, but she made some pretext for leaving the room, and her
mother look her place.
Mamma Sophie entertained Michael with praises of his bride--what a dear
girl she was, and how often she spoke of her kind, good Michael, who had
taken such care of her on board the "St. Barbara." Sophie had heard
every little detail, which only Timea could have known, and Michael was
delighted to find that she remembered so well.
"If you only knew, dear Levetinczy, how fond the girl is of you!" And
Timea was not confused when she heard Frau Sophie say this. She affected
no modest contradiction, but did not strengthen the assurance by any shy
blushes. She allowed Timar to hold her hand in his and look into her
eyes, and when he came and went she smiled at him.
At last the wedding-day arrived. Troops of guests streamed in from all
parts, a long row of carriages stood in the street, as on that other
ill-omened day; but this time no misfortune occurred.
The bridegroom fetched the bride out of the house of Brazovics, which
was now her own, and took her to the church, but the wedding banquet was
in the bridegroom's house. Frau Sophie would not be denied the task of
arranging everything. Athalie remained at home and looked from behind
the curtain, through the same window at which she had awaited the
arrival of her own bridegroom, while the long row of carriages was set
in motion.
And there she waited till they all went past again after the marriage,
bride and bridegroom now in the same carriage, and looked after them.
And if during this time the whole congregation had prayed for the young
couple, we may be sure that she also sent a--prayer--after them.
Timea had not found the ceremony as impressive as Frau Sophie had
described it to her. The clergyman did not wear a golden robe or miter
himself, nor did he bring out any silver crowns to crown them as lord or
lady to each other. The bridegroom wore a velvet coat, as nobles did
then, with agraffes and fur on it. He looked a fine man, but he held his
head down; he was not yet used to carry it proudly, as beseems the gala
suit of a noble. There was no veil wound round the two, no drinking from
the same cup, no procession round the altar and holy kiss, not even any
altar at all; only a black-robed minister, who said wise things no
doubt, but which had not the mysterious charm of the "Gospodi Pomiluj."
The Protestant marriage, deprived of all ceremony, leaves the Oriental
fancy, with its desire for excitement, quite cold. And Timea only
understood the external ceremony as yet.
The brilliant banquet came to an end; the guests went away, the bride
remained in the bridegroom's house.
When Timar was alone with Timea, when he sat by her side and took her
hand, he felt his heart beat and its pulsation spread through his whole
frame. . . . The unspeakable treasure which was the goal of all his
desires is in his possession. He has only to stretch out his arm and
draw her to his breast. He dares not do it--he is as if bound by a
spell. The wife, the baroness, does not shrink at his approach. She does
not tremble or glow. If only she would cast her eyes down in alarm when
Michael's hand touched her shoulder! If only the warm reflex of a shy
blush passed over her pale face, the spell would be broken. But she
remains as calm and cold and passionless as a somnambulist. Michael sees
before him the same figure which he awoke from death on that eventful
night--the same which lay on the bed before him like an altar-picture
which radiates cold to the spectator, and whose face never changed when
her night-dress slipped from her shoulders, nor even when told that her
father was dead--not even when Timar whispered into her ear, "Beloved!"
She is a marble statue--a statue which bows, dresses itself, submits,
but is not alive. She sees, but her glance neither encourages nor
alarms. He can do what he likes with her. She allows him to let down her
lovely bright hair, and spread the locks over her shoulders; she allows
his lips to approach her white face, and his hot breath to touch her
cheek: but it kindles no responsive warmth in her. Michael thinks if he
were to press the icy form to his breast, the charm would be broken; but
in the act of doing it, an even greater emotion overcomes him. He starts
back as if he was about to commit a crime against which nature, his
guardian angel, every sensitive nerve in him protested. "Timea," he
whispered to her in caressing murmurs, "do you know that you are my
wife?"
Timea looked at him and answered, "Yes, I know it."
"Do you love me?"
Then she opened wide her large dark eyes, and as he looked into them it
seemed to him as if he were granted a glimpse into all the mysteries of
the starry heavens. Then she veils them again with her silky lashes.
"Do you feel no love for me?" entreats the husband with a yearning sigh.
That look again, and the pale woman asks, "What is love?"
What is love? All the wise men in the world could not explain it to one
who does not feel it. But it requires no explanation for those who have
it within them.
"Oh, you child!" sighed Timar, and rose from his wife's side.
Timea rose also. "No, sir, I am no longer a child. I know what I
am--your wife. I have sworn it to you, and God has heard my vow. I will
be a faithful and obedient wife to you--it is appointed to me by fate.
You have shown me so much kindness, that I owe you a lifelong gratitude.
You are my lord and master, and I will always do what you wish and
order."
Michael turned away and covered his face. This look of self-sacrifice
and abnegation froze all desire in his veins. Who would have the courage
to press a martyr to his heart, the statue of a saint, with
palm-branches and crown of thorns?
"I will do what you command."
Michael now first began to guess what a hollow victory he had won. He
had married a marble statue.
CHAPTER II.
THE GUARDIAN DEVIL.
It has often happened that a man has found his wife's heart to be devoid
of all inclination toward him.
And no doubt many have looked for a cure in course of time. What can one
do in winter, except look forward to spring? As the daughter of
Mohammedan parents, Timea had been brought up not to see the face of the
man who was to be her husband until the wedding-day. There no one asks,
"Do you, or do you not, love him?" neither her parents, the priest, nor
the man himself. The husband will be good to her, and if he should find
her out in infidelity, he will kill her. The principal thing is that she
should have a pretty face, bright eyes, fine hair, and a sweet
breath--no one asks about her heart. But Timea had learned in a
different school in the house of Brazovics. There she learned that among
the Christians love was allowed, and every opportunity given for it; but
that any one who did fall in love was not cured like a sick person, but
punished like a criminal. She had expiated her crime.
When Timea became Timar's wife, she had schooled herself strictly, and
forbidden every drop of her blood to speak to her of anything except her
duties as a wife; for if she had allowed them to talk of her secret
fancies, then each drop of blood would have persuaded her to go the same
road on which that other girl had twice, in the darkness of the night,
stumbled over the body of the sleeping woman, and that stumble would
have killed her soul. She crushed and buried the feeling, and gave her
hand to a man whom she respected, to whom she owed gratitude, and whose
life-companion she was to remain.
This story is repeated every day. And those who meet with it console
themselves with the idea that soon the spring will come and the ice will
melt.
Michael went with his young wife to travel, and visited Italy and
Switzerland. They returned as they went. Neither the romantic Alpine
valleys nor the fragrant orange-groves brought balm to his heart. He
overwhelmed his wife with all that women like, dress and jewels; he
introduced her to the gayeties of great cities. All in vain: moonlight
gives no heat, even through a burning glass. His wife was gentle,
attentive, grateful, obedient; but her heart was never open to him,
neither at home nor abroad, neither in joy nor sorrow. Her heart was
buried.
Timar had married a corpse.
With this knowledge he returned from his travels. At one time he thought
of leaving Komorn and settling in Vienna. Perhaps a new life might begin
there. But then he thought of another plan: he decided to remain in
Komorn and move into the Brazovics' house. There he would live with his
wife, and arrange his own house as an office, so that business people
might have nothing to do with the house his wife lived in. In this way
he could be absent from home all day, without its being noticed that he
left his wife alone.
In public they always appeared together. She went into society with him,
reminded him when it was time to leave, and departed leaning on his arm.
Every one envied his lot; a lucky man to have such a lovely and faithful
wife! If she were not so true and good! If he could only hate her! But
no scandal could touch her.
This spring brings no melting of her ice-bound heart. The glaciers grow
every day. Michael cursed his fate. With all his treasures he can not
buy his wife's love. It is all the worse for him that he is rich;
splendor and great wealth widen the rift between them. Poverty binds
close within its four walls those who belong to each other; laborers and
fishermen, who have only one room and one bed, are more fortunate than
he. The woodman, whose wife holds the other end of the saw when he is at
work, is an enviable man: when they have finished they sit down on the
ground, eat their bean-porridge out of one bowl, and kiss each other
afterward.
Let us become poor people!
Timar began to hate his riches, and tried to get rid of them. If he was
unfortunate and became poor, he would get nearer to his wife, he
thought.
He could not succeed in impoverishing himself. Fortune pursues those who
despise it. Everything he touched, which with another would certainly
have failed, became a brilliant success. In his hands the impossible
turned to reality--the die always threw six; if he tried to lose his
money by gambling, he broke the bank--gold streamed in upon him; if he
ran away or hid, it rolled after him and found him out.
And all this he would have joyfully given for a kiss from his wife's
sweet lips.
And yet they say money is almighty. Everything is to be had for money.
Yes--false; lying love, bright smiles on the charming lips of such as
feel it not--forbidden, sinful love, which must be concealed--but not
the love of one who can love truly and faithfully.
Timar almost wished he could hate his wife. He would have liked to
believe that she loved another, that she was faithless and forgot her
wifely duty; but he could not find any cause for hatred. No one saw his
wife anywhere but on her husband's arm. In society she knew how to
preserve a bearing which compelled respect, and kept bold advances at a
distance. She did not dance at balls, and gave as a reason that when a
girl she had not been taught to dance, and as a woman she no longer
wished to learn. She sought the company of older women. If her husband
went on a journey, she never left the house. But what did she at home?
For reception-rooms in society are transparent, but not the walls of
one's house. To this question Michael had a most convincing reply.
In this house Athalie lived with Timea.
Athalie was--not the guardian angel but the guardian devil of Timea's
honor. Every step, every word, every thought of his wife, every sigh she
uttered, every tear she shed, even the unconscious mutterings of her
dreams, were spied upon by another woman, who hated him as well as his
wife, and certainly would hasten to make both miserable, if a shadow of
guilt could be found on the walls of the house.
If Timea, at the moment when she begged Michael to allow Athalie and
Frau Sophie to continue living in the same house, had listened to
anything but the voice of her kind and feeling heart, she could not have
invented a better protection for herself than keeping with her the girl
who had once been the bride of the man she ought never to meet again.
These pitiless and malicious eyes follow her everywhere; as long as the
guardian devil is silent, Timea is not condemned even by God. Athalie is
silent.
* * * * *
Athalie was a real dragon to Timea, in small things as well as great. No
circumstance, ever so trifling, escaped her attention if it afforded her
a chance of playing Timea a trick. She pretended that Timea wished to
show her generosity by treating the quondam young lady of the house as a
sister, or like a lady visitor, which was enough to make Athalie behave
in company as if she were a servant. Every day Timea took the broom out
of her hand by force when she came in to clean the room; she constantly
caught her cleaning "her mistress's" clothes, and if visitors came to
dinner, she could not be induced to leave the kitchen. Athalie had
received back from Timea her whole arsenal of ornaments and toilet
necessaries. She had wardrobes full of silk and merino dresses; but she
chose to wear her shabbiest and dirtiest gowns, which formerly she had
put on only when the hairdresser was busy with her coiffure; and she was
glad if she could burn a hole in her dress in the kitchen, or drop oil
on it when she trimmed the lamp. She knew how much this hurt Timea. All
her jewels too, worth thousands, had been restored to her: she did not
wear them, but bought herself a paste brooch for ten kreutzers, and put
it on. Timea took the brooch away quietly, and had a real opal put into
it; the faded old dresses she burned, and had others made for Athalie of
the stuff she was herself wearing.
Oh, yes, one could grieve Timea, but not make her angry.
Even in her way of speaking, Athalie made a parade of an insufferable
humility, although, or rather because, she knew it hurt Timea. If the
latter asked for anything, Athalie rushed to fetch it with an alacrity
like that of a black slave who fears the whip. She never spoke in a
natural tone, but annoyed Timea by always lowering her voice to the thin
whining sound which gives an impression of servility; she stammered with
affected weakness, and could not pronounce the letter _s_.
She never let herself be surprised into forgetfulness or familiarity;
but her most refined cruelty consisted in her unseasonable praises of
the husband and wife to each other.
When she was alone with Timea she sighed, "Oh, how happy you are, Timea,
in having such a good husband who loves you so much!" If Timar came
home, she received him with naive reproaches. "Is it right to stay away
so long? Timea is quite desperate, she awaits you with such longing; go
in gently and surprise your wife. Hold your hands over her eyes, and
make her guess who it is."
Both had to bear the derision which, under the mask of a tender,
flattering sympathy, wounded their hearts. Athalie knew only too well
that neither of them was happy.
But when she was alone, how completely she threw off the mask with which
she tormented the others, and gave vent to her suppressed rage. If alone
in her room she threw the broom Timea had tried to take away furiously
on the ground; then again beat the chairs and sofas with the handle, in
order, as she said, to shake the dust out, but really to work off her
anger on them. If in going out or in her dress caught in the door, or
the sleeve on the handle, she wrenched it away with her teeth clinched,
so that either the dress was torn or the handle dragged off, and then
she was satisfied.
Broken crockery, chipped glasses, mutilated furniture, bore witness in
quantities to the disastrous hours they passed in her company. Poor
Mamma Sophie avoided her own daughter, and was afraid to be left alone
with her. She was the only person in the house who ever heard Athalie's
natural voice, and to whom she showed the bottomless depths of the gulf
her hatred had dug. Frau Sophie was frightened of sleeping in the same
room with her, and in a confidential moment showed her faithful cook the
black bruises which her daughter's hand had left on her arms. When
Athalie came into her mother's room in the evening, she would pinch her,
and scream in her ear, "Why did you ever give me birth?"
And when at last she went to bed, after finishing her day's work with
pretended gentleness and hidden fury, she required no one to help her.
She tore off her clothes, dragged the knotted strings asunder,
ill-treated her hair with hands and comb as if it was some one's else;
then stamped on her clothes, blew out the candle, leaving a long wick to
smolder and fill the room with its evil odor, and threw herself on her
bed; there she bit the pillow, and tore at it with her teeth while she
brooded over the torture she had to endure. Sleep only came to her after
she had heard a door shut--the door of the lonely chamber of the master;
then she was glad--then she could sleep.
It could be no secret to her that the young husband and wife were not
happy. She waited with malicious joy to see what mischief could be
developed from it.
Neither of them seemed to notice it. No quarrel ever took place; no
complaint, not even an involuntary sigh, ever escaped either of them.
Timea remained unchanged, only the husband grew more gloomy every day.
He sat for hours by his wife, often holding her hands in his, but he did
not look into her eyes, and rose to go away without a word. Men can not
keep a secret as women can. Timar got into the habit of going away and
fixing the day of his return, and then returning sooner than he was
expected. Another time he surprised his wife at a moment when he was not
looked for; he pretended a chance had brought him home, and would not
say what he wanted. But suspicion was written on his brow. Jealousy left
him no peace.
One day Michael said at home that he had to go to Levetinczy, and could
hardly get back in less than a month. All his preparations were made for
a long absence. When the married couple took leave of each other with a
kiss--a cool, conventional kiss--Athalie was present.
Athalie smiled. Another would hardly have noticed the smile, or at any
rate would not, like Michael, have marked the derision which lay in
it--the malicious mockery at one who little knows what goes on behind
his back. It was as if she said, "When you are once gone, you fool--!"
Michael took the sting of this spiteful smile with him on his journey.
He carried it on his heart half-way to Levetinczy; then he made his
carriage turn round, and by midnight he was back in Komorn. In his
house there were two extra entrances to his room, whose keys he always
carried about with him, so that he could get in without any one knowing
of his return. From his room he could reach Timea's through the several
anterooms. His wife was not in the habit of locking her bedroom door.
She was accustomed to read in bed, and the maid generally had to come
and see whether she had not fallen asleep without putting out the light.
On the other side, the room in which Athalie and her mother slept
adjoined his wife's bedroom. Michael approached the door noiselessly and
opened it cautiously. All was still; every one slept. The room was dimly
lighted by the shaded light of a night-lamp.
Michael drew the curtain aside: the same statue of a sleeping saint lay
before him which he had once aroused to life in the cabin of the "St.
Barbara." She seemed to be fast asleep; she did not feel his
neighborhood; she did not see him through her downcast lashes. But a
slumbering woman can see the man she loves even in her sleep, and with
closed eyes. Michael bent over her breast and counted her heart-beats.
Her heart beat with its normal calm. No suspicious symptom to be
found--nothing to feed the hungry monster which seeks a victim.
He stood long and gazed on the slumbering form. Then suddenly he
started. Athalie stood before him, dressed, and with a candle in her
hand. Again that insulting smile of mockery lay on her lips. "Have you
forgotten something?" she asked in a whisper.
Michael trembled like a thief caught in the act.
"Hush!" said he, pointing to the sleeper, and hurried away from the bed.
"I forgot my papers."
"Shall I wake Timea that she may get them out?"
Timar was angry at being detected for the first time in his life in a
direct lie.
His papers were not kept by Timea, but in his own room.
"No, do not wake my wife; the papers are in my room--I only wanted the
key."
"And you have already found it?" asked Athalie, seriously, who then
lighted the candles and officiously conducted Michael to his room.
Here she put down the candle and did not go away. Michael turned
over his papers with confusion; he could not find what he
sought--naturally--for he knew not what to look for. At last he shut
his desk without taking anything out. Again he was met by the hateful
smile which from time to time played round Athalie's lips. "Do you
wish for anything?" said Athalie, in answer to his inquiring looks.
Michael remained silent.
"Do you wish me to speak?"
Michael felt at these words as if the world was falling on him. He dared
not answer.
"Shall I tell you of Timea?" whispered Athalie, bending nearer to him,
and holding the stupefied man under the spell of her beautiful
serpent-eyes.
"What do you know?" asked Michael, hotly.
"Everything--do you wish me to tell you?"
Michael was undecided.
"But I can tell you beforehand that you will be very unhappy when you
learn what I know."
"Speak!"
"Very well--listen. I know as well as you do that Timea does not love
you. But one thing I know which you do not--namely, that Timea is as
true to you as an angel."
Timar started violently.
"You did not expect that from me? It would have been welcome news to
hear from me that your wife deserved your contempt, so that you might be
able to hate and reject her. No, sir; the marble statue you have taken
to wife does not love you, but does not deceive you. This I only know,
but with absolute certainty--oh, your honor is well guarded. If you had
engaged the hundred-eyed Argus of the legend as a watchman, she could
not be better guarded than by me. Nothing of what she does, says,
thinks, escapes me: in the deepest recesses of her heart she can have no
feeling hidden from me. You acted wisely in the interests of your honor
when you took me into your house. You will not drive me out of it,
though you hate me; for you know well that as long as I am here, the man
whom you fear can never approach your sanctuary. I am the diamond lock
of your house. You shall know all: when you leave town, your house is a
cloister while you are absent; no visitors are received, neither man nor
woman; the letters which come to your wife, you will find unopened on
your writing-table; you can give them to her to read or throw them into
the fire, just as you choose. Your wife never sets foot in the streets,
she only drives out with me; her only walk is on the island, and I am
always with her; I see her suffer, but I never hear her complain. How
could she complain to me, who suffer the same torment, and on her
account? For from the time when that ghostly face appeared in the house
my misery began; till then I was happy and beloved. Do not be afraid of
my bursting into tears; I love no longer--now I only hate, and with my
whole soul. You can trust your house to me; you can ride through the
world in peace; you leave me at home, and as long as you find your wife
alive on your return you may be sure that she is faithful to you. For
know, sir, that if she ever exchanges a friendly word with that man, or
responds to his smile, or reads a letter from him, I would not wait for
you, I would kill her myself, and you would only come home to her
funeral. Now you know what you leave behind--the polished dagger which
the madness of jealousy holds aimed at your wife's heart; and under the
shadow of that dagger you will daily lay your head down to sleep, and
although I inspire you with loathing, you will be forced to cling to me
with desperation."
Timar felt all his mental energy crippled under this outburst of
demoniac passion.
"I have told you all I know about Timea, about you and myself; I repeat
once more, you have taken to wife a girl who loves another, and this
other was once mine. It was you who took this house from me; under your
hand my father and my property sunk into dust; and then you made Timea
the mistress of this house. You see now what you did. Your wife is not a
woman, but a martyr. It is not enough that you should suffer; you must
also acquire the certainty that you have made her, for whose possession
you strove, miserable, and that there can be no happiness for Timea as
long as you live. With this sting in your breast you may leave your
house, Herr Levetinczy, and you will nowhere find a balm for your
smarting wound, and I rejoice at it with all my heart!"
With glowing cheeks, gnashing teeth, and glaring eyes, Athalie bowed to
Timar, who sunk exhausted into a chair. But the girl clinched her fist
as if to thrust an invisible dagger into his heart.
"And now--turn me out of your house if you dare!" All womanhood was
quenched in the girl's face. Instead of a hypocritical submission, it
was dominated by the fury of unbridled passion. "Drive me away from here
if you dare!"
And proud as a triumphant demon she left Michael's room. She had taken
the lighted candle which was on the table away with her, and left the
wretched husband in darkness. She had told him that she was not the
humble servant, but the guardian devil of the house. As Timar saw the
girl with the light in her hand go toward the door of Timea's bedroom,
something whispered to him to spring up, seize Athalie's arm, and
setting his foot before the threshold, to cry to her, "Remain then
yourself in this accursed house, as I am bound by the promise I gave;
but not with us!"
And then to rush into Timea's room, as on the eventful night when the
ship went down, to lift her in his arms from the bed, and with the cry,
"This house is falling in, let us save ourselves!" to fly from it with
her, and take her to some place where no one spies on her . . . this
thought darted through his head . . . that was what he ought to have
done.
The door of the bedroom opened, and Athalie looked back once more; then
she went in, the door shut, and Michael remained alone in the darkness.
Oh, in what darkness!
Then he heard the key turn twice in the lock. His fate was sealed; he
arose and felt round in the dark for his traveling-bag. He kindled no
light, made no noise, so that no one should awake and report that he had
been here. When he had collected all his things, he crept softly to the
door, shut it gently behind him, and left his own house cautiously and
noiselessly, like a thief, like a fugitive. That girl had driven him
away from it.
Out in the street he was met by a snow shower. That is good weather for
one who does not wish to be seen. The wind whistled through the streets,
and drove the snowflakes into his face; Michael Timar, however, went on
his way in an open carriage, in weather in which one would not turn a
dog into the street.
CHAPTER III.
SPRING MEADOWS.
As far as the Lower Danube, the traveler took with him rough and wintery
skies; here and there fresh snow covered the fields, and the woods stood
bare. The stormy cold suited the thoughts with which Timar was
occupied. That cruel girl was right--not only the husband but the wife
was wretched. The man doubly so; for he was the author of their mutual
misery.
These bitter, disconsolate thoughts followed Michael to Baja, where he
had an office, and where, when he traveled into the flax districts of
Hungary, he had his letters sent. A whole bundle awaited him; he opened
one after another with indifference; what did he care whether the rape
had been frost-bitten or not, that the duties in England were raised, or
that exchange was higher? But among the letters he found two which were
not uninteresting--one from his Viennese, the other from his Stamboul
agent. The contents greatly rejoiced him. He put them both away, and
from that moment the apathy began to disperse which had hitherto
possessed him. He gave his orders to his agents with his usual quickness
and energy, carefully noted their reports, and when he had finished with
them, proceeded on his way in haste.
Now his journey had an object--no great or important one, but still an
object. It was to give a pleasure to two poor people--but a real joy.
The weather had changed; the sky had cleared, and the sun shone warmly
down below. In Hungary, where summer follows immediately on winter,
these swift changes are common. Below Baja the face of the country, too,
was changed. While Michael rushed southward with frequent changes of
horses, it was as if nature had in one day advanced by many weeks. At
Mohacs he was received by woods decked in new green; about Zambor the
fields were spread with a verdant carpet; at Neusatz the meadows were
already dressed with flowers; and in the plains of Pancsova golden
stretches of rape smiled at him, and the hills looked as though covered
with rosy snow--the almonds and cherry-trees were in blossom. The two
days' journey was like a dream-picture. The day before yesterday
snow-covered fields in Komorn, and to-day on the Lower Danube hedges in
bloom!
Michael alighted at the Levetinczy castle to spend the night. He gave
his instructions to the bailiff on the day of his arrival; the next
morning he got up early, entered the carriage, and drove to the Danube
to inspect his cargo ships. Everything was in order. Our Herr Johann
Fabula had been appointed overseer of the whole flotilla: there was
nothing for him to do. "Our gracious master can go and shoot ducks."
And Herr von Levetinczy followed this good advice of Herr Fabula. He had
a boat brought, and ordered provisions for a week, his gun, and plenty
of ammunition to be put in it. No one will be surprised if he does not
return from the reed-bed, now full of prime water-fowl, before a week
has elapsed. It storms with duck, snipe, and herons, the last only
valued for their feathers; even pelicans are to be met with, and an
Egyptian ibis has been shot there. It is said a flamingo was once seen.
When an ardent sportsman once gets into those marshes, you may wait till
he comes out! And Timar loved sport, like all sailors. This time Michael
did not load his gun. He let his boat float down with the stream till he
reached the point of the Ostrova Island--there he seized the sculls and
crossed the Danube obliquely. When he got round the island he soon saw
where he was. From the southern reed-beds rose the tops of the
well-known poplars--thither he went. There was already a channel broken
through the rushes, across and along as required, if you only understood
it. Where Michael had once been, he could find his way in the dark. What
would Almira and Narcissa be doing? What should they be doing in such
lovely weather but gratifying their passion for sport? Only, however,
within certain limits: the field-mouse must be pursued at night, and
that is easy for Narcissa, but she is strictly forbidden to chase birds.
To Almira the marmots which came across the ice and settled in the
island are positively interdicted. Aquatic prey still remain, and that
is good sport too. Almira wades into the pure, clear water among the
heaps of great stones at the bottom, and cautiously puts her fore-paw
into a hole, out of which something dark is peeping. Suddenly she makes
a great jump, draws her foot back, limps whining out of the water on
three legs, and on the fourth paw hangs a large black crab, which has
caught hold with its claws. Almira hobbles along in despair till, on
reaching the bank, she succeeds in shaking off the dangerous monster; it
is then carefully inspected by both Almira and Narcissa, to see at what
price it can be induced to allow its body to be deprived of the shell.
The crab naturally does not quite see the fun of this, and retires with
all speed backward to the water. The two sportsmen, however, shove the
reactionary party forward with their paws, until at one shove it is
turned on its back, and now all three are in doubt what to do
next--Almira, Narcissa, and the crab.
Almira's attention is suddenly attracted by another object. She hears a
noise and scents something. A friend approaches by water; she does not
bark at him, but utters a low growl. This is her way of laughing, like
some cheery old gentleman. She recognizes the man in the boat. Michael
springs out, fastens the boat to a willow stump, pats Almira's head, and
asks her, "Well, then, how is it all? is it all well?" The dog replied
many things, but in the Newfoundland-dog language. To judge by the tone,
the answer is satisfactory.
Then all at once a pitiful cry disturbs the pleasant greeting. The
catastrophe which might have been foreseen has occurred. Narcissa came
near enough to the upset and sprawling crab for it to catch her ear with
its nippers, and then to bury all its six claws in her fur. Timar rushed
to the scene of misfortune, and with great presence of mind, seeing the
magnitude of the danger, seized the mailed criminal in a place where its
weapons could not reach him, pressed its head between his strong
fingers, and obliged it to let go its prey; then he dashed it with such
force on to a stone that it was shattered, and gave up its black ghost.
Narcissa, to show her gratitude, sprung on to the shoulder of her
chivalrous deliverer, and snorted from there at her dead enemy.
After this introductory deed of heroism, Timar busied himself in
disembarking what he had brought with him. All are packed into a
knapsack, which he can easily throw over his shoulder. But the gun, the
gun! Almira can not abide him with a gun in his hand, but he can not
leave it here, for it might easily be stolen by some one. What to do?
The idea struck Timar to give it into Almira's charge, who then, in her
leonine jaws, carried the weapon proudly before him as a poodle bears
its master's cane. Narcissa sat on his shoulder and purred in his ear.
Michael allowed Almira to go on before and show him the way.
Timar felt transformed when he trod the turfy paths of the island. Here
was holy rest and deepest solitude. The fruit-trees of this paradise are
in bloom; between their white and rosy flower-pyramids wild roses arch
their sprays; the golden sunbeams coax the flowers' fragrance into the
air; the breeze is laden with it--with every breath one inhales gold and
love. The forest of blossom is full of the hum of the bees, and in that
mysterious sound, from all these flower-eyes, God speaks, God looks: it
is a temple of the Lord. And that church music may not be wanting, the
nightingale flutes his psalm of lament, and the lark trills his song of
praise--only better than King David. At a spot where the purple lilacs
parted, and the little island-home was visible, Michael stood
spell-bound. The little house seemed to swim in a flaming sea, but not
of water, only of roses. It was covered with rose-wreaths climbing to
the roof, and for five acres round it only roses were visible--thousands
of bushes, and six-foot rose-trees, forming pyramids, hedges, and
arcades. It was a rose-forest, a rose-mountain, a rose-labyrinth, whose
splendor dazzled the eye and spread afar a scent which surrounded one
like a supernatural atmosphere.
Hardly had Michael entered on the winding path through this wilderness
of roses, before a melodious cry of joy was heard. His name was called.
"Ah, Herr Timar!"
And she who had uttered his name came running toward him. Timar had
already recognized her by her voice: it was Noemi--little Noemi, whom he
had not seen for nearly three years. How she had grown since then--how
changed, how developed she was! Her dress was no longer neglected, but
neat, though simple. In her rich golden hair a rose-bud was fastened.
"Ah, Herr Timar!" cried the girl, and stretched out her hand to him from
afar, greeting him with frank delight, and a warm shake of the hand.
Michael returned it, and remained lost in gazing at the girl. Here then,
at last, is a face that beams with joy at the sight of him. "How long it
is since we saw you!" said the girl.
"And how pretty you have grown!" exclaimed he.
Sympathy shone in every line of Noemi's face. "So you remember me
still?" asked Timar, holding the little hand fast in his own.
"We have often thought of you."
"Is Madame Therese well?"
"There she comes."
When she saw Michael she hastened her steps; from a distance she had
recognized the former ship's captain, who now again, in his gray coat
and with his knapsack, approached her hut. "God greet you! you have kept
us waiting a long time!" exclaimed the woman to her visitor. "So you
have thought of us at last?" And she embraced Michael without ceremony;
then his well-filled knapsack caught her eye. "Almira," she said to the
dog, "take this bag and carry it in."
"There are a brace of birds in it," said Michael.
"Indeed! then take care, Almira, that Narcissa does not get at it."
Noemi was affronted. "Narcissa is not so badly educated as that."
To make it up, Frau Therese kissed her daughter, and Noemi was
reconciled.
"Now let us go in," said Therese, taking Michael's arm familiarly.
"Come, Noemi."
A huge boat-shaped basket made of white osier-twigs stood in the way,
and its heaped-up contents were covered with a cloth. Noemi began to
lift it by both handles; Michael sprung to help her, and Noemi burst
into a childish shriek of laughter, and drew off the cloth. The basket
was heaped with rose-leaves. Michael took one handle, and so they
carried it together with its sweet cargo along the lavender-bordered
path.
"Do you make rose-water?" asked Timar.
Therese threw a glance at Noemi. "See how he finds out everything!"
"With us in Komorn much rose-water is made. Many poor women live by it."
"Indeed? Then elsewhere also the rose is a blessing of the Lord--the
exquisite flower which alone would make man love this world! And it not
only rejoices his heart, but gives him bread. Look you--last year was a
bad season; the late frost spoiled the fruit and the vintage; the wet,
cold summer destroyed the bees, and the poultry died of disease: we
should have had to fall back on our stores if it had not been for the
roses, which helped us in our need. They bloom every year, and are
always faithful to us. We made three hundred gallons of rose-water,
which we sold in Servia, and got grain in exchange. Oh, you dear
roses--you life-saving flowers!"
The little settlement had been enlarged since Timar was last there.
There was a kiln and a kitchen for the preparation of the rose-water.
Here was an open fire with the copper retort, from which the first
essence dropped slowly; near the hearth stood a great tub with the
crushed rose leaves, and on a broad bench lay the fresh ones which
required drying.
Michael helped Noemi to empty the basket on to the bench; that was a
scent, a perfume, in which one could revel and intoxicate one's self!
Noemi laid her little head on the soft hill of rose leaves, and said,
"It would be delicious to sleep on such a bed of roses."
"Foolish child," Therese chided her. "You would never awake from that
slumber; the odor would kill you."
"That would be a lovely death!"
"Then you want to die?" Frau Therese said, reproachfully; "you want to
leave me here alone, you naughty child?"
"No, no!" cried Noemi, embracing her mother with eager kisses. "I leave
you, my dear, darling, only little mother!"
"Why do you make such silly jests then? Don't you think, Herr Timar, it
is not right for a young girl to allow herself these jokes with her
mother--for a little girl who was playing with a doll only yesterday?"
Michael quite agreed with Frau Therese that it was inexcusable under any
pretense for a young lady to tell her mother that she thought any kind
of death would be delightful. "Now just stop here and see that the
essence does not boil, while I go to the kitchen to get a good dinner
ready for our guest. You'll stay all day, of course?"
"I will stay to-day and to-morrow too, if you will give me something to
do for you. As long as you find me work I will remain."
"Oh, then, you can stop the whole week," Noemi interrupted, "for I can
find you plenty to do."
"What work would you give Herr Timar, you little simpleton?" laughed the
mother.
"Why, of course, to crush the rose leaves!"
"But perhaps he does not know how."
"How should I not know all about it?" said Timar. "I have often enough
helped my mother with it at home."
"Your mother was a very good woman, I am sure."
"Very good."
"And you loved her very much?"
"Very much."
"Is she still living?"
"She has long been dead."
"So now you have no one in the world belonging to you?"
Timar thought a moment, and bowed his head sadly--"No one." . . . He had
spoken the truth.
Michael noticed that Therese still stood at the door, doubtful whether
to go or not. "Do you know, good mother," said he, suddenly remembering,
"you need not go to the kitchen to cook anything for me. I have all
sorts of provisions with me; there is only the table to spread--we shall
all have enough."
"Then who has looked after you and provided you so well with traveling
comforts?" asked Noemi.
"Who but our Herr Johann Fabula?"
"Oh, the honest steersman!--is he here too?"
"He is loading the ship on the other bank."
Therese guessed Timar's thought, but she would not be behind him in
delicate tact. She wished to show him that she had no scruple about
leaving him alone with Noemi. "No, I have thought of something else; I
will manage both here and in the kitchen. You, Noemi, can meanwhile take
Herr Timar over the island and show him all the changes since he was
here."
Noemi was an obedient daughter; she did without question what her mother
told her. She tied her Turkish handkerchief round her head, which framed
her face charmingly. Timar recognized the scarf he had left as a present
to her.
"Au revoir, darling!" "Au revoir," said the mother and daughter with a
kiss. They seemed to take leave of each other every time they parted, as
if going on a long journey; and when they met again in an hour, they
embraced as if they had been separated for years: the poor things had
only each other in this world.
Noemi threw one more inquiring look, and Therese answered with a nod
which meant, "Yes, go!"
Noemi and Timar now wandered on through the whole island. The path was
so narrow that they were forced to walk close together, but Almira had
the sense to push her great head between them and form a natural
barrier. In the last three years cultivation had made great strides on
the little island. A practicable road had been cut through the bushes;
the old poplars had been uprooted, the wild crabs grafted; a skillful
hand had formed neat fences from the broken branches; and where the
orchard ceased, hedges divided the island, and hemmed in fields which
supplied pasture for lambs and goats. One little lamb had a red ribbon
round its neck, and this was Noemi's pet. When the flock saw her they
ran to her and bleated a greeting which she understood; then they
followed her and Timar to the border of the field where the fence
stopped them.
Behind these was to be seen a plantation of fine walnuts, with
widespread shady heads and thick trunks, whose bark was smooth as silk.
"Look," said Noemi, "those are my mother's pride; they are fifteen years
old--just a year younger than I am," she said quite simply.
On the right was the marsh, as Timar well remembered when he first came
to the island and made his way through it. Now it was covered with
water-plants; yellow lilies and white bell flowers were spread over the
surface of the morass, and in the midst stood quietly two storks.
Timar opened the little gate; it was a pleasant reminder to see this
wilderness once more, and yet it seemed to him as if his guide was
afraid and uncomfortable.
"Are you still all alone here?" asked Michael.
"We are alone. At market-times people come to barter with us, and in
winter wood-cutters come and help us to hew the trees and root them up:
the wood serves to pay them. We do the rest ourselves."
"But fruit-gathering is very troublesome, especially on account of the
wasps."
"Oh, that is not hard work; our friends singing there on the trees help
us with the wasp-killing. Do you see all the nests? Our laborers live
there; here no one troubles them, and they do us good service. Just
listen!"
The wilderness resounded indeed with a heavenly concert. In the evening
every bird hastens home, and then they are at their best. The cuckoo,
the clock of the woods, has enough to do in striking the hours, and the
thrush whistles in Greek strophes.
Then suddenly Noemi screamed aloud, grew pale, and started back with her
trembling hand on her heart, so that Timar felt it his duty to seize her
by the hand that she might not fall. "What is it?" Noemi held her hand
before her eyes and said, half laughing and half crying, in a tone of
mingled fear and disgust, "Look, look! there he comes."
"Who?"
"There, that one!"
He saw a large, wrinkled, fat frog, which was creeping quietly in the
grass, keeping an eye on the new-comers, and ready for a spring, in case
of danger, into the nearest water-course.
Noemi was so paralyzed with fright that she had not the strength to run
away.
"Are you afraid of frogs?" asked Timar.
"I have a horror of them; I should be frightened to death if it jumped
on me."
"How like a girl! They love cats because they coax and flatter, but they
can not bear frogs because they are ugly; and yet, do you know, the
frogs are just as good friends to us as the birds: this common, despised
animal is the best assistant to the gardener. You know there are moths
and beetles and grubs which only come out at night; birds are asleep
then, but the detested frog comes out of his hole and attacks our
enemies in the dark; he feeds on the night-moths and their grubs, the
caterpillars and the slugs, and even the vipers. It is splendid the war
he makes on noxious insects. Keep quiet, just look--the ugly, wrinkled
frog is not creeping there to frighten you--he is not thinking about it.
He is a gentle beast, conscious of no sin, and does not regard you as an
enemy. Do you see a blue beetle fanning with his wings? That is one of
the worst insects, a wood-borer, of which one grub suffices to spoil a
whole young plantation; and our little friend has fixed on him as a
prey. Don't disturb him; look, he is drawing himself up for a
spring--wait. There! now he has made his leap, and darts out his long
tongue like lightning: the beetle is swallowed. You see that our good
frog is not such a disgusting creature, in spite of his shabby coat."
Noemi clasped her hands, quite pleased, and already felt less dislike to
frogs. She let Michael lead her to a seat, and tell her what sensible
creatures they are, what funny tricks they play, and what curious games
exist among them. He told her of the sky-blue frog of Surinam, of which
one specimen cost the King of Prussia four thousand five hundred
thalers; then of the fire-frog, which sheds a clear light around in the
darkness, creeps into houses, hides in the beams, and croaks
unmercifully at night. In Brazil sometimes you can not hear the singers
in the opera-house for the chorus set up by the frogs which live in the
building. Now Noemi was laughing at this awful enemy, and the laugh is
half-way from hatred to love.
"If only they would not make such an ugly noise!"
"But you see in these tones they express their tender affection for
their little wives, for among frogs only the little husband has a
voice--the lady is dumb. The frog exclaims all night to his wife, 'How
lovely, how charming you are!' Can there be a more affectionate creature
than a frog?"
Noemi was beginning to look at it from the sentimental side.
"Then, too, the frog is a learned animal. You must know that the true
frog is a weather-prophet: when it is going to rain he knows it, comes
out of the water and croaks his prophecy; when dry weather is coming he
goes back to the water."
"Ah!" began Noemi, getting interested.
"I will catch one," said Timar; "I hear one among the bushes."
He soon came back with a tree-frog between his palms. Noemi trembled and
got excited. She was red and pale by turns.