She took her lute and replied clearly and daringly. Then again the soft
melodic whisper floated up from the water. Her answer was firm and
triumphant, shrilling on one sustained crystal note of longing. This
passionate appeal for life, for freedom, touched the hearer’s heart, as
the murmurous caress which followed proved.
Six years had passed since any one had spoken to her like that, six
silent years of convent life. She was like one buried alive, calling
out to the warm, sweet world on the other side of the grave. Her lute
told this in a song of unrest.
The next day there was a solemn meeting of the sisters in the great
audience hall of St. Euthymius. Sister Seraphita had heard the music.
She had awakened the others, who, in their turn, awakened the Mother
Superior. Never had their unworldly ears heard sounds like these. They
plunged them into an alien world, where they trembled. They troubled
their minds with the tone-pictures they flashed upon the senses.
The music concealed a persistent suggestion that there are nobler
things than a life of prayer and penance. It brought back memories
of forgotten days. It touched their arid hearts to strange tremors.
It sent a-flutter insistent voices as the sea sends abroad upon the
wind the story of its secret longing. It gave transient energy to dead
instincts. It set vibrating thoughts inimical to convent life. The
stupidest among them felt this, and they agreed that it must be stopped.
In addition, it had been whispered that it sounded as if two lutes
were being played, instead of one. Of course, they knew that that was
impossible. No one could gain entrance to the convent. If they did hear
two lutes, who was it who played the other one?
A look of awful comprehension brightened their dull old eyes. It was
marvelous playing, too. They remembered that. Even the Superior said
that she had not heard its equal. No mortal fingers swept that other
lute. No mortal fingers could so fill the castle with resonance. There
_were_ two lutes! Who played the other? It was Satan who did it--Satan
and none other!
Then the Superior recalled what she had heard of the music and dancing
madness that had taken possession of the nuns of the south of France in
the early years of the church. How it had been proved to be the work
of Satan and how the evil spirit had been exorcised. Abbé X---- had
written a book about it. After discussing the subject, Elsbeth was sent
for.
“My dear daughter,” began the Superior, “it grieved me to learn of
your disobedience. I, together with the sisters, have decided that
forfeiture of the lute is a just punishment. Sister Seraphita may now
bring it to my room and hang it upon the wall. As for you, my daughter,
I recommend the prayers for the penitent.” Then she rose, signifying
that the session was at an end.
Elsbeth said nothing. Her mind was so filled by the occurrences of the
past days that the meaning barely reached her.
That night the melody floated up to where she stood waiting, just as
the sickle of the moon swung to a level with the black tree-tops.
How could she answer now? Hastily she unfastened the window. Then she
remembered a lace handkerchief belonging to her mother, which she
picked up the day they took her away. It was filmy and light. It would
float upon the water. He would see it fluttering down. In one corner
was embroidered, in the colored needlework of the day, the crest of
the house of Radknothy.
The changed music that came told her that he had caught the
handkerchief. He understood the message. In the answering tones there
was something deferential.
Then he played the melody of the first night, modulating it
masterfully, and using the theme as the basic idea for many a sweetly
extemporized caprice. As she stood alone in the dim cell listening,
while the warm spring night caressed the short, bright curls upon her
head, it thrilled her with a joy that was akin to pain. It was like the
memory of something that had vanished--a tragic past that had swept her
away upon billows of flame. It was the sense-memory of a past whose
incidents she could not recall, but whose fervor flashed upon her.
The sisters heard the music. One by one, softly, they crept to the
Mother Superior’s door to see if she were awake. There she sat, a
terrified, trembling old figure, her eyes staring at the lute upon the
wall, while her pale lips murmured a prayer. One by one they peered in
to make sure that the lute was really there, hanging motionless upon
the wall. Yet its music echoed down the long corridors and floated in
at the windows. A ghastly procession they made! Shrunken and hollow of
cheek, toothless, yellow and wrinkled of face! The candles silhouetted
sharply and distorted their bald and trembling heads.
Yes, there was the lute, motionless, just where Sister Seraphita had
hung it. Yet they could hear its music. What a horrible thing! To
listen to music made by a lute hung out of reach upon a wall! Their
shrunken chins and toothless lips trembled. Their knees knocked
together. It was all their old, weak hands could do to hold the candles.
Here was proof of the work of the evil spirit. Every sister in the
convent was a witness. Perhaps it was Satan himself who swept the
strings. In addition, they had heard that the coming of an evil spirit
is accompanied by a breath of cool air or a freshening breeze. Whenever
the wind came stronger, the music was noticeably louder. That was
another proof.
The next day and the next were given over to prayer. But each night the
same dreadful thing occurred, the same luxurious and sinful melody came
floating on the midnight. The aged sisters were distracted. They were
grieved, too. No scandal had ever touched St. Euthymius.
On the fourth day they met in solemn council, to which Elsbeth was
summoned, in order to be questioned. She said that each night, in
accordance with the Superior’s orders, she had gone early to bed after
repeating thrice the prayers for the penitent. Quickly she fell asleep.
Then she dreamed--but so vividly that the following day she was unable
to tell the dream from reality--that the Mother Superior came to her
door, knocked softly, opened it and held out the lute. She took it
and improvised upon it the rest of the night. Softly then again the
knocking came, the Superior opened the door, took the lute and went
away. Each night she dreamed the same dream. And each morning she found
her door as she had left it.
On hearing this the good sisters were more puzzled than ever. One
thing, however, was certain. Elsbeth was the medium through which the
evil spirit gained entrance. Through her he was trying to draw the
Mother Superior into his toils, and thus work the ruin of the convent.
After sifting conflicting opinions, they decided that she should be
confined within her room for a month. During that time she was not to
see nor hold converse with any one. Food and drink would be placed at
her door at regular intervals.
The first days of confinement were lonely. The lute was gone. There
was nothing for company. Nor did the first week of confinement have any
effect upon exorcising the demon. Each night the trembling old women
gathered in the Superior’s room to watch with terrified eyes while the
motionless lute made music.
Elsbeth’s only amusement was to stand on tiptoe and look out through
the swinging square of the window. It was so high that she could not
see anything immediately below. One day while she was standing on
tiptoe peering out, her knees, trembling with the strain, struck a
projection of the grooved wood, and she felt the wall yield as if a
door were there.
Getting down on her knees, she scrutinized every curve of the
decorative wood to see if a spring could be found. She knew the room
had belonged to the old Baron who built the castle, and that it was
unlike the others. Since the hidden spring--if such an one there
were--did not disclose itself to the eye, she determined to follow
with her fingers every scroll of the panel, pressing evenly upon each
in turn.
About half-way up to the lower edge of the window, at about the height
where her knees had been, a whorl of polished wood slipped from sight.
The panel swung out and the level lake lay before her. Leaning out, she
found that the stairway which she had seen from the edge of the water
was within reach. This was the old Baron’s place of secret exit.
That night, when the unknown serenader touched his lute, she opened
the door, swung lightly to the stair top and motioned silence. The
listening sisters, who heard the music begin, then cease abruptly,
were filled with thankfulness. After waiting an hour and hearing no
recurrent sound, they crept back to their beds, secure in the thought
that the exorcising of the demon had begun.
In a little boat at the foot of the stairs sat a man holding a jeweled
lute. It seemed to Elsbeth that she had always known him. He looked
just like the men with whom she had been acquainted for years in her
dreams. Like them, he was dark and young. Like them, too, he was
handsome and had come to fetch her in a boat. He wore the costume of
an Hungarian nobleman of the middle of the sixteenth century: a light
blue mantle fancifully braided, of Polish cut, thrown coquettishly over
one shoulder, called in those days _kabodion_; black velvet breeches,
a round-topped hat and a tight-fitting dress coat, such as were worn
by men of birth, called _mente_. Years of silence had thrown her so
completely upon herself for companionship that it had become difficult
to tell the real from the unreal. The one who waited in the boat was
merely a proof of the reality of dreams.
He, on his part, saw a girl-woman of magnificent proportions coming
swiftly down the steps. Upon her head a halo of little curls shone in
the light. Her face was very white, but in her eyes there was the look
with which La Fiorita had gone to meet her lovers. So familiarly did
she hasten to him that he felt himself drawn within the magic circle of
her day dreams, where nothing was impossible, and held out his hands
impulsively to help her to a seat.
Yet, how can any one tell in what other life we have met, how close the
tie that bound us, whose fibers vibrate on in this!
“Where shall we go?” he asked, admiration shining in his eyes.
“Down there, around the bend of the lake, where the sisters cannot hear
our voices.”
He bent to the oars, and a silver furrow stretched behind them.
Meanwhile Elsbeth looked attentively at her companion. His youth
pleased her. He was the only one she had met who was young like herself.
Prince Ràkoczi was about twenty-eight. He had been married some years
to an Italian woman many years his senior. The Princess--known as the
Princess of the Bloody Heart, because of a heart of rubies which she
invariably wore--was descended from the Italian house of Montanelli.
The head of this house was known throughout Europe for the making of
skillful and artistic instruments of torture. It was due to her father,
Alonzo Montanelli, that in that age murder had reached the dignity of
a fine art, and was accompanied by the exquisite decorative setting
that befits a fête. The name, Montanelli, was password to every torture
chamber of Europe.
Once around the bend, she said: “Where are we going?”
“To my chapel yonder.”
“Shall we be alone?”
“Quite alone.”
“Then I will play upon your lute.”
“You shall have another like it for yourself,” he said, handing it
toward her, while the moon found the heart of a crimson stone and
flashed red light upon his hand.
At sight of the richly lighted chapel, her eyes shone like a little
child’s at sight of a Christmas tree. So great was her capacity for
happiness that she forgot the past in the pleasure of a moment.
He led her into the chapel. “You cannot imagine what I thought when I
first saw you. I thought that you were the original of a picture that
hangs here. That Magdalene is not a painter’s dream. It is the portrait
of the woman whom my father loved. During my mother’s life the picture
was not hung. It was only after I came into possession of the estate
that it was taken from its place of concealment. It is La Fiorita, a
dancing girl whom my father knew in Venice in his youth.” Looking up,
Elsbeth saw a voluptuous Venetian beauty, whose face stirred vague
memories.
When they rowed back to the convent, the moon was low in the sky. The
lake was dull and tarnished. In the tops of the trees a crisp wind
shivered that told of dawn.
During the days that followed, Elsbeth was glad of her imprisonment.
She escaped the sisters’ prying eyes. They who live in solitude are
skilled in reading the heart.
Each night the Prince came for her, and they drifted down the lake,
explored its recesses, improvised upon their lutes within the chapel,
or reclined upon the steps to talk of love. In this way a month passed
away.
To the good sisters of St. Euthymius the month had brought comfort.
The evil spirit was controlled and put to flight. They could sleep in
peace, their timid old hearts untroubled by fear. Now the lute hung
silent upon the wall. There had been no recurrence of the melody. The
prayerful penance of Elsbeth had exorcised the demon.
The Superior called a council. It was agreed that Elsbeth should spend
another month in prayer and silence. When the word was brought to her,
she received it humbly. The Superior’s heart was filled with gratitude.
Her patience was bearing fruit.
One night, after the beginning of the second month, when Elsbeth and
Prince Ràkoczi entered the chapel, he rushed to fasten the door that
communicated with the castle.
“Why do you do that?” inquired Elsbeth.
“The Princess has arrived. Of course there is little danger of her
coming here. Yet it is best to be safe.”
Then they forgot about her in their love and joy in each other, and set
about perfecting plans for Elsbeth’s escape from the convent.
“Listen, little one,” the Prince continued, drawing her to him, while
the candles struck rich colors from his braided _kabodion_ and accented
the pallor of his face. “It is arranged for to-morrow night. A larger
boat and two oarsmen will come for us here. They will row us to the end
of the lake. There an old servant will await us with a carriage. He
will take you to a hunting lodge of mine, to the east of here, near
the Bohemian Forest. There, as soon as I can make arrangements, I will
join you, and together we will go to Italy. I have a present for you
for to-morrow night, too--a dress and a jewel, brought all the way from
Stamboul. You shall put it on, and we will celebrate our marriage here
at the altar--”
“What was that--a knock?”
“Yes.”
“The Princess?”
“It must be. No one else would come. We must be quick. I will get into
that chest there, beneath the picture. Turn the jeweled fruit to the
right. That locks it. Then go to the altar and say your prayers. If she
questions you, your quick wits must frame an answer.”
When Elsbeth unbolted the door, a tall, gaunt woman approaching middle
age swept in. She wore a long, dark, cloaklike garment of _morit_, and
a violet-colored _kazabajka_, while her hair was partially hidden
beneath a white _csepesz_. Suspended from her neck was a ruby heart.
She had narrow, side-glancing eyes, a long oval face, and thin lips.
Her expression indicated cruelty.
“My fair nun, how came you here--and at this hour?”
“Most gracious Princess,” replied Elsbeth, bending in salutation,
“last night I had a dream in which I saw The Virgin of the Red Girdle
poise in the air above the Ràkoczi chapel. That, as the gracious
Princess knows, bodes ill. I made a vow to avert the ill by prayerful
intercession at the altar.”
“And you chose night, good sister, for your beneficent purpose?”
“By day, most gracious Princess, I am occupied with convent duties.
Therefore I sacrifice to it the hours of sleep.”
“But the Prince--does he help you? Where is he?”
“The Prince? Your Highness will see that I am at my prayers alone, and
with your gracious permission I will return to them.”
The Princess made a signal of dismissal, and Elsbeth knelt with her
rosary at the altar.
Princess Ràkoczi was too astute and too well versed in the intrigues
of that subtle age to take the nun’s smoothly spoken words at their
face value. She saw, too, that the nun was a woman of great beauty. The
disfiguring garb could not hide that. She made a tour of the chapel.
Around the outer edge, at the base of the walls, were placed coffers in
which the church silver, the relics, and the priestly vestments were
stored. From time to time, as she made this tour of inspection, she
glanced sharply at Elsbeth, to see if she were intent upon her beads.
When she had completed the circuit, she paused at Elsbeth’s right and
bent to look at the gem-decorated carving of the chest that stood
beneath the picture of La Fiorita. As she bent down, she heard a sharp
sound. Looking up, she saw that the rosary had dropped upon the marble
altar and that the nun’s hands were trembling.
“I have found him!” she thought. “What a lesson I will teach them!”
Jealous rage pinched her pale features to a cruel thinness. Aloud she
said: “Good sister, I thank you for your unselfish watchfulness.”
Elsbeth rose and remained bowing while the Princess passed out. When
she had been gone a sufficient time for safety, the nun bolted the door
and released the Prince.
“You shall not have another experience like this!” he said, clasping
her in his arms.
“But to-morrow night?”
“She would not spy upon us two nights in succession.”
On the way across the lake, the sparkles of light upon the water
were not more numerous than the words of love which he lavished upon
Elsbeth. They erased from her mind the disagreeable occurrence. She
thought only of the morrow, of escape--and of the gorgeous gown and the
jewel that had come from Stamboul.
As soon as they left the chapel, the Princess had the door unbolted,
and entered, followed by two men bearing a chest identical in size and
design with the one that stood beneath the picture. In obedience to
her command they exchanged them, and took the former chest back to the
castle.
The next night found Elsbeth on the stairs waiting eagerly. When Prince
Ràkoczi came, she took the package he gave her and ran back to her
room. When again she came out, she wore a short white satin princess
dress, heavily embroidered in seed pearls. It was cut low and square at
the neck, and flared at the bottom. It resembled in style and cut the
votive robes made for statues of the Virgin. About her neck was a cross
of diamonds. The convent cloak was thrown over her arm, to be used in
case of need.
No sooner had they entered the chapel and seen to the safe bolting of
the door, than with kisses and caresses he led her to the picture of La
Fiorita. Moving a few steps away, he paused and looked at her.
“You cannot imagine how greatly you resemble that picture. In certain
ways the faces are identical. The difference is that you have not lived
so much. That is the woman my father loved. This is the woman whom I
love. As she was the grief of his life, you will be the happiness of
mine--” An imperative knock interrupted him.
Elsbeth donned the cloak and hood, drawing it carefully over the
whiteness of her gown. Then she unbolted the door. Graciously the
Princess entered.
“My good sister, I am going to take you from your prayerful duties for
a few moments to-night to gratify a curiosity of mine.”
“I shall be most happy to serve you, Gracious Princess,” murmured
Elsbeth.
“I have heard,” she continued, “that beneath the fingers of a pure
woman the opal loses its angry fire and becomes white like a pearl. It
is my wish to find out if that is true. Now on that chest there--the
one beneath the repentant Magdalene--opals are set. You, of course,
having had no occasion to observe the chest, have not seen them. I
will make the test in the light of this candle, if you will come. Now
observe the decoration on the chest front, a procession of wise men
bearing offerings to the infant Christ. It was designed and made by
Maestro Benedetto da Majano and is well-nigh priceless. Notice the rich
softness of the wood--its depth of color. Do you see how it poises
between the shades of brown and red? Look at that kneeling figure
there, holding up a plate filled with fruit. The fruit in the center of
the plate is made of opals. Now place your finger upon the central one,
the apple. It represents, I fancy, the forbidden fruit of the tree of
life.
“That’s right. That’s right. Remarkable! Remarkable! It has grown
pale--see! So have you, good nun. Why is that? Why does your hand
tremble? Hold it more firmly, that I may see. There!--there!--Now press
your fingers on that central stone.”
Elsbeth obeyed. As she did so, a shriek rang out, so heartrending, so
horrible, it curdled the blood. Again a shriek of mortal anguish--then
silence.
Above her, stern and erect, Princess Ràkoczi towered, her thin face
illumined by the pointed candle. Without a word she gathered up her
rustling robe and walked away.
When she had gone, Elsbeth lifted the chest lid. “Merciful God!” she
cried. “Help! Help! Help!” Again and again she called, until her throat
felt numb and weary.
When she pressed her finger to the opal, she had touched a spring that
released round, needle-like darts of steel, which had been concealed
beneath the satin lining. The body within was shredded into ribbons.
In the space of a moment it had become an unrecognizable mass of pulp.
Across it lay a silver heart, shining dimly, and beside it two tiny
marble Cupids held chains of roses, which were dotted with blood.
Madly she grasped the steels, attempting to tear them away. But she
succeeded only in making deep wounds in the palms of her hands. She ran
to the castle door, determined to have revenge. The door was fastened
on the other side. When she beat upon it and tried to call for help,
she found she could not speak. Her throat was paralyzed. She was dumb.
The next morning, when the sisters of St. Euthymius came to tell her
that they had decided to release her from her confinement, they found
her lying upon her bed, robed in white satin and pearls, a cross of
diamonds upon her breast. When they spoke to her in their astonishment
at the sight that met their eyes, and asked for an explanation, she
pointed to her mouth. They understood. She had taken the vow of eternal
silence. Then she held up her hands. The palms were dotted with spots
of red. They fell upon their knees in reverence and adoration, crying:
“A miracle! _The stigmata! The stigmata!_” They saw, too, that her face
was changed, and that her hair was streaked with white.
For the remainder of her life, which lasted twenty-five years, Saint
Elsbeth was never known to break her vow of silence.
The white robe and the diamond cross which came down from heaven when
she was made the bride of Christ possessed greater healing efficacy
than any relics in Hungary. Their power was oftenest called into
service by maidens and young lovers, until Saint Elsbeth became the
patron saint of the heart. Through these relics Saint Euthymius became
the richest convent in all Hungary and the most widely known for the
piety of its inmates.
There are certain days of midsummer when the convent is gratuitously
open to the public. Then the room with its tiny window overlooking the
lake is shown, where the miracle was wrought, and the white satin robe
and diamond cross came down from heaven to honor Saint Elsbeth, who was
the bride of Christ.
THE OPAL ISLES
_Vivere ardendo é non sentire il malo!_[9]
GASPARA STAMPA.
(To live intensely, to be impervious to wrong!)
We were sitting over our after-dinner cigars, my host, Gustav Berençy,
and myself, when the conversation touched on love. Without pausing to
consider the effect of the question or its evident infringement of
guest-right, I boyishly asked him why he had never married.
Gustav Berençy had been the friend of my grandfather. They had
known each other in Paris in their youth. I remembered hearing my
grandfather say that Berençy was not only the handsomest, but the
most distinguished man he had met. Looking out upon the luxurious
park-setting of his seaside home, I could not help wondering why he
had always lived alone.
As I asked the question, I saw that the eyes looking into mine were
dimmed for a moment, as if by a veil of grief.
“I _am_ married,” he replied; “not by the law of man, but by something
more sacred--the law of the heart, which is God’s law.”