It was in Vienna, in the Ring-Strasse, at the house of Frau Von ---- I
forget her name, but they used to call her "Madame Necker," because she
was married to a banker, thought a great deal of her manners, had a
weakness for celebrities, and two _jours fixes_ every week. Wednesday
was for the _gens d'esprit_, and Friday was for the _gens betes_.
It was Wednesday evening, and the salon of "Madame Necker" was almost
empty. Excepting her husband, who, to provide against possible
misunderstandings, always showed himself there on the clever peoples'
day, there was no one present but a celebrated poet, a celebrated
poetess, a celebrated orientalist, and a harmless little freethinking
idealist, not at all celebrated but much in fashion.
The conversation turned on social prejudices, and the hostess, whose
fad for the moment was for belles-lettres pure and simple, and who took
no account of aristocracy, could not think of enough scornful words for
a certain Frau von Sterzl, who was spending her life in the vain effort
to balance a seven-pointed coronet, to which she had no right, on her
worried head.
The orientalist looked thoughtful. He was a retired cavalry officer.
Some years before he had accompanied a friend to Cairo, and on the
strength of that, had sent some articles about the Museum of Bulac to
an illustrated journal.
"Not to come of a good family," said he, "is no misfortune and yet,
under certain circumstances, it can cause a social discomfort, which
those who suffer from, deny, and for which not one of them is
consoled."
"This discomfort is shared with so many famous men that I should be
inclined to regard it as a distinction," cried the young idealist, with
much ardor and little logic, as usual.
"That's as much as to say you would like to be descended from a tailor
because Goethe was," said the general, dryly. Not thinking of any
answer to this, the young man said "Hem!" and pulled his moustache.
"And you would like to wear a hump, because AEsop did," smiled the
general.
"My dear general," put in the poet, "what has a hump to do with low
birth?"
"Nothing intrinsically, and yet these two things do meet at one point.
The first is an imaginary evil, while the other is a positive one; but
they are alike in the bad influence which they may exert on the
character."
"Oh, general!" laughed the hostess.
"With your permission," he went on, "I will tell you a story to
illustrate my paradox, which I see you don't accept at present: a very
simple story, of something which I witnessed myself."
"We are all ears," simpered the host, and passed a fat hand over the
two pomaded cupid's wings, which stuck up on either side his head.
"Very interesting, I am sure," said the hostess, in the politely
condescending manner of her great prototype. The poet and the poetess
made satirical faces, the idealist craned his neck forward, eager to
listen.
The general gazed thoughtfully before him for a while, then he began,
speaking slowly:
"He went by the name of Zwilk: by rights it was Zwilch; but after he
was promoted for some brilliant deed of arms or other, he never called
himself anything but Zwilk von Zwilneck. He liked the title so much
that he wrote it on all his books, and bought books that he never read,
in order to write it on them.
"No one knew anything about his origin. Sometimes he passed for the son
of a crowned head and a dancer. I think he set this story going
himself. Sometimes he passed for the son of a sacristan in Reichenhall.
He never mentioned his family; he never went home; he received no
letters, excepting those which came from comrades in the regiment. Only
once did a letter arrive for him, which was plainly not from a brother
officer. It was a narrow, greenish, forlorn-looking missive, with the
address written zigzag, and the sealing wax spattered all over the
cover. They brought it to him in the coffeehouse, and he turned quite
red when the waiter presented it 'Ah, yes,' he said, stiffly, through
his nose. 'A letter from my old nurse.' Heaven knows why we didn't
believe much in that old nurse.
"Whatever Zwilk's origin might have been, his tastes were severely
aristocratic. He never would let himself be introduced to a woman
unless she belonged in 'Society.'
"Others of the corps recognized his exclusiveness by nicknaming him the
'Countess's Zwilk,' 'the Nobl' Zwilk,' and 'Batiste.' These were not
very good jokes, but they never lost their charm for us, and we laughed
at them just as much the hundredth time as the first. Zwilk laughed
with us: his laugh used to make me nervous; it sounded like a bleat,
and seemed to come out of his nose and ears. He was undeniably a
handsome man, tall, blonde, broad-shouldered, stiff and slender, with a
regular profile and a thick blonde beard.
"He had great success with women: that is, with young widows and
elderly pensioners, and the blowsy provincial beauties, to whom, as I
said, he would never be presented, but with whom he danced, all the
same, at balls in the early morning hours.
"You might think these ladies would consider his pompous impertinence
an insult. On the contrary they were greatly impressed by his
'exclusiveness,' and when he waltzed with one of them she talked about
it for a fortnight afterward.
"He wore his uniforms too tight, and his cuffs too long, and he used to
pull the latter down over his knuckles. Those hands of his were
incurably coarse, in spite of all the care they got, and he was always
fussing with them. Sometimes he trimmed the flat, uneven nails in
public; sometimes he crooked the little fingers with graceful ease. His
manners were stiff, and his German was florid, but ungrammatical. He
spoke like a dancing master, who, having 'had a great deal to do with
society,' feels obliged, for that reason, to pronounce the most
teutonic words with a French accent.
"He was at home in danger. Not only did he distinguish himself by
reckless bravery in the field, but he showed in duels a cold
indifference, which gave him great advantage over those of his
opponents, who, though his equals in courage and his superiors in
skill, were yet unable wholly to control a certain sentimental
nervousness. The superior officers all praised him, for he was able,
and he knew how to obey as well as to command. But he was very
unpopular with his subordinates, to whom he showed himself extremely
harsh, and with whom he never exchanged a joke, or a bit of friendly
chat about their families, as the rest of us liked to do.
"As much audacity as he showed in great matters, just so little did he
possess in small ones. Nothing could have induced him to tell a prince
who said a horse had five legs, that it only had four.
"I am aware that this manner of judging him is retrospective. In those
days, while we were in service together it hardly occurred to us, with
our Austrian good humor, easy going, and perhaps a little bit
superficial, to examine critically him or his failings. If we found him
uncongenial, we hardly confessed it among ourselves, still less would
we have acknowledged it to a civilian.
"He had one pronounced enemy in the corps, and that was little Toni
Truyn, cousin of Count Erich Truyn, the Truyn von Rantschin. Poor Toni!
He was the black sheep, the Karl Moor of his distinguished family, and
if he never got so far as to turn incendiary and robber-chief, that was
from lack of energy and of genius. The requisite number of paternal
letters were not wanting.
"His family had a right to lecture Toni, for he had cruelly
disappointed all their hopes. Destined from infancy to the Church, he
suddenly, in his eighteenth year, developed religious scruples. His
family regarded these as a symptom of nervous derangement, arising from
too rapid growth, and they sent him to Rome to be scared back into an
orthodox frame of mind by the hierarchy. To help matters, they provided
him with an Abbe as a traveling companion.
"In less than a month, Toni, having quarreled with his Abbe, was going
up and down in Rome, proclaiming his contempt for Popish superstitions,
and raving about heathen gods and goddesses like a Renaissance
Cardinal. He neither presented himself at the Austrian Embassy, nor
sought the customary Papal blessing: he wandered about with mad
artist-folk, ate in hostelries, danced extravagantly at models' balls,
where he gave the Italian females lessons in Austrian Choregraphy,
which caused them to open their eyes, and ended by falling in love with
a market-girl from the Trastevere. When he came home, he brought his
Trasteverina along, with the naive intention of marrying her. His
father, not unnaturally declined this connection, Toni had still less
mind to the Church, so they put him in the army.
"Found fault with by his superiors, idolized by his subordinates,
cordially liked by the rest of us, he remained to the end, a middling
officer and a splendid comrade. He rode round-shouldered and was
incurably careless about his accoutrements, and because of his harmless
cynicism, and his easy-going, half rustic unmannerliness, we christened
him the Peasant Count and Farmer Toni.
"There was a legend that his Majesty, one day at a hunt or a race, or
some one of those occasions that serve to bring the monarch a little
nearer to his subjects, condescended to ask Toni's father, old Count
Hugo, 'How is your family, and what are your sons doing?' 'The eldest,'
said Count Truyn, 'is serving your Majesty in the Foreign Office, and
the second is in the army.' 'He is here,' added the count, looking
about for Toni. He discovered him not far off, leaning against a tree,
whistling, his hands in his pockets, his cap dragged down over his
ears, oblivious of kaisers.
"The old count was so upset by this sight, that he pointed out another
man, in a great hurry, and that man happened to be Zwilk. The kaiser
asked no more questions, and nothing came of it, but when the
peasant-count told us this story afterward, amid shouts of laughter, he
added, 'Now you know why I can't bear Zwilk. I envy him his
distinction.'
"One hot summer day,--it was in Vienna, and we were riding home from
the man[oe]uvres, through a suburb,--in a deserted street, full of
sweepings and gamins, smelling of soap boiling and leather curing,
Farmer Toni's eyes fell on the dirty sign of a miserable little shop,
'Anton Zwilch, Tin-man.' Resting one hand on his horse's croup, Toni
leaned over, and said with that soft, winning voice of his, which was
in such true aristocratic contrast to his rough-and-ready manners,
'Batiste, is that your cousin?' And Zwilk replied with a forced smile,
through his nose, 'Non, mon cher, that must be another line. We write
our name with a k: Zwilk von Zwilnek.'
"Next day in Cafe Daum, the farmer-count perfidiously seized on a
general lull in the conversation, and called across several tables to
his particular friend. First Lieutenant Schmied.
"'Du, Schmied! Is the brewer at Hitzing, a relative of yours?' And the
other called back affectedly, 'Non, mon cher, that must be another
line, we spell ourselves with an _ie_.'
"This feeble joke was repeated at intervals after that, to the
edification of Toni and his friend, and the great embarrassment of all
the rest. Zwilk pretended not to hear it.
"About this time our corps was enriched by the arrival of Count Erich
Truyn, Toni's cousin. He had got himself exchanged from the Cuirassiers
because of some love affair or other. He was blonde, handsome as a
picture, chivalrous, aristocrat through and through. Like all the
Truyns, excepting Toni, Erich was conservative, even reactionary.
Nevertheless, perhaps exactly for that reason, he was most considerate
toward people who were less well born than himself. When Toni and
Schmied served up their stale joke about 'the other line,' Count Erich
always grew restless, and at last, one day when I was present, he
remonstrated with his cousin. 'You are really too unfeeling, Toni,' he
said. 'How is it possible for you to jeer at a poor devil who can't
help his extraction, and no doubt has to suffer enough from it. Look
here--I--Hm--it would annoy me very much to have this go any further,
but I have heard that poor Zwilk was once a waiter at Lamm.'
"'Whatever he was would make no difference if he were a decent man now,
but he isn't!' broke out Toni. 'He's a low fellow; heartless canaille!'
"'You ought not to speak that way of a comrade,' said Count Erich, much
shocked, 'of a man with whom you stand on terms of _Du_ and _Du_.'
"'I say _Du_ to his uniform, not to him,' muttered Toni. Count Erich
burst out laughing,--'And I took _you_ for a Red!' he cried.
"Soon after this we were sent to Salzburg; there Zwilk saw his best
days. He became the intimate friend of Prince Bonbon Liscat, a very
limited person, between ourselves, whom they had shoved into the army
to keep him occupied, until they could arrange a marriage for him, to
provide his line with heirs.
"Spoiled by priests and women, like so many scions of our highest
nobility, wrapped in cotton from his birth, nurtured in arrogance,
Prince Liscat as a child could never endure the equally pampered
arrogance of his young peers, and always chose his playmates from among
the toadies and fags. Now, true to this taste of his youth, he liked no
company so well as that of Zwilk. Zwilk must dine with him, must drive
with him, Zwilk must accompany him on the piano while he poured forth
elegies on the French horn,--on the tortoise-shell comb, for anything I
know.
"As for Zwilk, he existed for Bonbon: he bathed in aromatic vinegar
like Bonbon: he went to confession; he abused the liberal journals; he
raved about Salvioni's legs, all like Bonbon. He acquired a complete
aristocratic jargon, talking of 'Bougays,' 'Table _do_,' and
'Orschestre.' Prince Liscat was the last to correct him. It would have
been quite too revolutionary for Zwilk to pronounce French as well as
he did himself.
"Zwilk's Bonbon had an ancient uncle, Prince Schirmberg, who lived in a
curious old rococo Chateau, about an hour out of Salzburg. He was a
bachelor, once very gay, now very pious; the first in accordance with
family tradition, the latter from fear of future punishment. He
suffered from spinal complaint, and, being paralyzed in both legs, he
spent his time between a rolling chair and a landau. Before the latter
walked four large cream-colored steeds, in slow solemnity, as if it was
a funeral.
"All the cab drivers and private coachmen reined in as soon as they
overtook the serene equipage, and fell behind, the whole cavalcade then
proceeding at a snail's pace. It would never do to pass the prince, and
it would never do to stir up the princely cream colors by a too lively
example, lest evil befall the princely spinal column.
"Only Toni Truyn wickedly rushed past now and then, at the full
speed of his thoroughbreds. Then the big cream colors before the
old-fashioned landau would give an excited jump or two, and poor Prince
Schirmberg would call out, 'Damn that Truyn!'
"His serene highness certainly hated Toni, who returned it with
good-natured contempt and a number of bad jokes. Some one came and told
Prince Schirmberg that Toni had said he was nothing but a bundle of
prejudices done up in old parchment. This the prince took very ill,
without in the least understanding it. 'Prejudice,' he knew, from
reading the 'Neue Freie Presse' was the liberal word for principles:
and 'Parchment' was simply an aristocratic kind of leather.
"The prince had a sister, Auguste. All the little girl babies in
Salzburg were named after her. We used to call her the May-Beetle,
because she had a little head and a broad, round back, and always
dressed in a black cap and a frock of Carmelite brown.
"She occupied herself with heraldry and charity. That is, she painted
the Schirmberg coat-of-arms on every object that would hold it, and she
engaged all their evening visitors, who were not playing whist with her
brother, in cutting little strips of paper to stuff hospital pillows.
For their reward she used to have them served at ten o'clock with weak
tea and hard biscuits, but, as even the best families in Salzburg still
keep up the barbarous custom of dining at one o'clock, the guests found
their supper rather meagre.
"When she wanted to give them a special treat, she read to them in a
thin voice out of an old Chronicle about the deeds of the Schrimbergs.
"She had a marked weakness for Zwilk. He cut papers with enthusiasm: he
listened to the Chronicles with ecstasy: he fell on one knee to kiss
her hand when she graciously extended it at leave-taking.
"It was Sylvester Day, in the yard of the Riding School. The cold
winter sun fell dazzlingly on the hard, white snow. Long, strangely
twisted icicles hung from the snow-covered roofs, against the gloomy
sides of the buildings which surrounded the court.
"We had given our recruits a good dressing down in the Riding School,
and now we were standing about in little groups chatting, cheerful and
hungry, in the cold court. I heard Erich Truyn behind me, speaking in
that polite, pleasant tone which he kept especially for poor country
priests, and scared women of the lower classes. He was saying, 'I'm
sorry, but First Lieutenant Zwilch is engaged at present. Shall I send
for him?' I turned round. There in the old, grey archway stood handsome
Truyn, blonde, slender, careless, easy, correct without pedantry; from
head to foot what a cavalier ought to be. Beside him, square, clumsy,
tufts of grey hair over his ears, a grey beard under his chin, face
mottled red and blue from the cold, mouth and eyes surrounded by
fine wrinkles, cheeks rough and seamed like the shell of an English
walnut,--an old man, a stranger.
"He wore very poor clothes, half town, half country make, a short
sheepskin, high boots, from which green worsted stockings protruded, a
long faded scarf with a grey fringe twisted round his neck. He had a
little bundle tied up in a red handkerchief squeezed under one arm, and
he was kneading nervously in his two hands a shabby old fur cap, as he
looked up with an expression half frightened, half confiding to Count
Erich.
"That usually so self-possessed young gentleman was much embarrassed,
and was making visible efforts to hide it, while he strove at the same
time to encourage the old stranger.
"'Shall I send for him?' he asked a second time. 'Oh! please, I
can wait, please,'--stammered the old man in his _gemuethlich_
Upper-Austrian dialect.
"I took him for a small mechanic; he was too diffident for a peasant,
and not shabby enough for a day laborer.
"'I can wait,' he repeated. 'Have already waited, long, very long, Herr
Lieutenant.'
"'As you will, but won't you sit down?' said Erich, hesitating, divided
between fear of giving the old man a cold, and fear of not showing him
proper attention.
"Right and left of me our comrades were chatting. 'Sylvester,' cried
Schmied, 'it's the stupidest day of the year. It makes me think of
punch, and cakes, and cousins.'
"'It makes me think of my tailor and my governor,' laughed Farmer Toni.
"The peasant-count was sitting on a bale of hay: Schmied stood over
against him, leaning on the side of a forage wagon. Toni wore a short
white riding coat; his chin was in his hands, his elbows were on his
knees.
"'To the first I owe a bill,' he went on, 'And to the latter I owe
congratulations. Schmied, do you think he'd be satisfied with "Best
Wishes for the New Year," on a card?'
'"Are you going to Schirmberg's to-night?' asked another officer coming
up.
"'Must,' said Toni, laconically. 'And you?'
"'I don't know. Perhaps I can plead another engagement. It will be
deadly dull at Schirmberg's.'
"'I hear they are going to serve champagne and a prince of the blood,'
said Schmied.
"'Hello! What's old Gusti up to?' laughed Toni: 'Big soirees are not in
her line.'
"'It's all for Zwilk,' answered Schmied. 'You know he is going to be
made adjutant to Prince Schirmberg.'
"'Adjutant to a prince!' It was the old stranger who cried out, proud,
excited, turning his head from one to the other.
"Erich had continued to do the honors with all the courtesy of your
true aristocrat to the plebeian who has not as yet stretched out a hand
toward any of his prerogatives. The little old man had grown quite
confiding: he looked up now in Erich's face and asked, 'You know him
well?'
"'He is my comrade,' answered Truyn. 'I wish I could call myself as
admirable an officer as he is. He is one of the best in the service,
and he has a brilliant career before him.'
"Truyn liked Zwilk as little as the rest of us, but he wanted to give
the old man pleasure, and that he could do without falsehood.
"The stranger stripped off his mittens, and put his knuckles to his wet
eyes.
"'I thank you, I thank you,' he sobbed like a child. 'He's my son. I
wanted to see him, long, long, but he was so far away and he never
could come home,--but he wrote,--such beautiful letters. The priest,
himself, couldn't beat them; and,--and--now, I was going to surprise
him, but--will he--will he like it, Herr Lieutenant, after all? Look
you,--I'm afraid,--he such a grand gentleman, and I'--
"Zwilk's voice sounded from within, hard and merciless, rating a common
soldier: then he walked into the yard.
"Arm in arm with Prince Liscat, varnished, laced, buckled, strapped,
affected and arrogant, one hand on his moustache, he simpered through
his teeth:
"'You're much too good, Bonbon. You don't know how to treat the
_canaille_. The Pleb must be trodden on, else he will grow up over our
heads.'
"Then his eyes met those of the old stranger. He turned deathly pale;
the old man shook in every limb. Handsome Truyn, very red in the face,
stammered:
"'Your father has come to see you: it gives me much pleasure to make
his acquaintance,' or some well-meant awkwardness of that kind.
"But Zwilk smiled, his upper lip drawing tight under his nose, showing
his teeth, large, square and white, like piano keys.
"'Der papa?' he simpered, elegantly, looking all over the court, as if
searching for him; then, as the old man, stretching out his trembling
hands, 'Loisl!' Zwilk fixed him with a cold stare and said, 'I don't
know the man; he must be crazy.'
"Ashamed, confused, the stranger let fall his hands; he caught his
breath, then looking anxiously from one to the other of us, he
stammered:
"'It is not my son. I was mistaken: a very grand gentleman. Not my
son.'
"'Never mind,' strutted Zwilk, and clapped him jovially on the
shoulder. 'There, drink my health,' and he reached him a silver gulden.
"The old man took it with an indescribable, hesitating gesture; looked
again in a scared way around on us all, lifted his eyes sadly, as if
begging forgiveness, to the face of the Nobl' Zwilk, and turned away,
repeating, 'Not my son!'
"He was blind with grief. He struck against the sharp corner of the
stone gatepost, recoiled, felt about with his hands for support, and
disappeared.
"We were dumb. There came the ring of a coin on the pavement without, a
half-choked sob, then nothing more.
"'Dost thou dine at the Austrian Court to-day?' inquired Zwilk, with
cheerful effrontery of his friend Bonbon, whose arm he took.
"Farmer Toni hawked and spat slowly and deliberately at Zwilk's feet,
but Zwilk had the presence of mind not to see it, and left the place on
Liscat's arm, still smiling.
"We looked at each other. Count Erich's eyes were full of tears.
Schmied's fists were clenched, and his lip trembled. All of us felt a
tightness in our throat. We longed to rush after the disowned man; to
surround him with respectful attentions; to pour out kind words and
consolation,--if we could have found consolation. But it was one of
those moments when fine feeling lays a restraining hand on sympathy,
and we pass the sufferer blindly by, not daring even to uncover our
heads.
"In the square before the barracks, a silver gulden sparkled on the
pavement in the cold winter sun.
* * * * *
"New Year had come in when the party broke up at Prince Schirmberg's,
and we rode homeward by a narrow, snow-covered path across the fields,
a short cut, by which the heavy equipages of the other guests could not
follow us.
"The soiree had been a great success. The prince of the blood had shown
himself, as usual, all affability, and Zwilk, warmly recommended to
favor, had been graciously distinguished by His Royal Highness.
"The slightly faded Countess Schnick had looked very pretty. Zwilk had
been courting her since autumn, and to-night she had been very
encouraging to the future adjutant of Prince Schirmberg. And Zwilk,
after the departure of His Royal Highness, had beamed and twinkled, and
shone as if varnished all over with good fortune, patronizing
everybody, even his friend Bonbon. Now he rode, sunk in pleasant
reveries, a little apart from us, at the head of our cavalcade.
"The moon shone clear. Sown with countless stars, the sky blue and
cloudless arched above an endless expanse of snow. Everything around us
was of a blinding whiteness, an unearthly purity, and still as death.
Only now and again, at long intervals, a light shudder trembled through
the silence, a swift rushing, a deep sigh,--then once more silence.
"'It is a parting soul,' said Erich Truyn, listening, much moved. Erich
was a little superstitious.
"'Nonsense,' grumbled Schmied, 'it is a tree letting fall its burden of
snow.'
"'Everything is so strangely pure, one is afraid of meeting an angel,'
said Toni.
"'Yes, it makes one ashamed of being a man,' muttered Schmied. Then we
all ceased talking. We thought of home. The New Year's night, so still
and peaceful, brought us all memories of long-forgotten childhood.
Presently Schmied spoke out in his deep bass voice, to Toni.
"'I must see if I can't get leave and give my old governor a surprise
for Twelfth Night. He's awfully pleased when Hopeful turns up.'
"'Wish I could say the same of my Herr Papa,' sighed Toni. 'But it's
all up in that quarter. I'm simply a lightning rod for him. When his
steward bothers him, he sits down and writes me an abusive letter. But
it's partly my own fault,' he added, regretfully.
"Count Erich, who had lost his father shortly before, looked straight
ahead, his brows meeting, his eyes winking unsteadily.
"Proudly the Nobl' Zwilk rode at the head of our little troop, rocking
himself in dreams of gratified vanity. All at once his horse reared, so
violently and unexpectedly that he was thrown. He kept hold of the
bridle, and was back in the saddle next moment, punishing his horse
furiously, and cursing so loud that Schmied, who rode nearest him,
called out 'Restrain yourself': and pointed to a small wayside shrine,
on the edge of the path. It held an image of the Virgin, and a half
extinguished lamp, burning dimly before it, sent a red ray into the
blue white of the moonbeams.
"Then, on the spot where Zwilk's horse had shied, Schmied's Gaudeamus
began to back and tremble, to our amazement, for Schmied's horses were
reputed as phlegmatic as their master. Next Truyn's Coquette jumped to
one side, and Toni's Lucretia began swinging herself backward and
forward like a wooden rocking horse.
"'I think the brutes have entered into a conspiracy to make us stop
here and say our prayers,' said Toni. But Schmied sprang down.
"'What is it?' we called. 'Some one frozen,' he answered. 'Perhaps some
one drunk,' lisped Prince Liscat. Erich and his cousin with the rest of
us were already dismounted. Two sleepy grooms held our horses.
"There on the chapel steps, crouched a human form, in the attitude of
one who has fled to God with a great burden.
"We stretched him out on the snow. His limbs cracked gruesomely. His
hands were hard as stone: he must have been dead for hours. The cold
moon shone on his face. It was old and wrinkled, the frost of frozen
tears glimmered on his cheeks and around his mouth. The dead drawn
mouth kept the expression of weeping.
"'It's the poor devil who came to us yesterday morning in the
Riding-School,' said Erich, and bowed his head reverently.
"'Better so,' muttered Schmied, in a shaky voice. 'Better for him.' The
little peasant-count kneeled in the snow, rubbing the stiff hands and
sobbing.
"'We had better take ourselves off. We can't do any good here, and
there will be trouble with the police.'
"It was Zwilk who spoke, standing by with white, strangely smiling
face: his voice was hoarse and hurried.
"Then Toni sprang to his feet. 'You hound!' he cried, and struck him
across the face with a riding-whip."
The speaker paused a few seconds, then went on quietly.
"Of course Zwilch left the army. He and Toni fought with pistols.
Zwilch came off extremely well, and Toni extremely ill, being badly
wounded in the hip. He lay in bed six months, but during that time he
was reconciled to his family, and shortly after he got well he married
a pretty little cousin. He lives in the country, overseeing an estate
of his father's. He has grown steady, has a great many children and
preserves the most touching affection for his old comrades.
"We gave the poor old stranger a grand funeral, which the whole
officer's corps attended. We buried him in St. Peter's Churchyard, and
put him up a fine monument.
"The Nobl' Zwilk vanished utterly. For a long time I expected to see
him turn up as a fencingmaster somewhere. But far from it: I ran across
him lately in Venice, married to a rich widow from Odessa. His servants
call him Eccelenza; things prosper with him."
The old general paused, and looked about him. He had told his story in
a voice of much feeling, and now he evidently looked for some signs of
sympathy.
The celebrated poet remarked, with a grin, that the story would make a
good subject for a comedy, if you changed the ending a little. The
celebrated poetess said she didn't feel much interest in stories that
hadn't any love in them. The hostess inquired if the widow whom Zwilch
married was a person of good reputation. The host remarked that that
was what came of letting the rabble into the same regiment with
respectable people.
Only the youthful idealist had been so much moved that he was afraid to
speak for fear of showing it. But at last he pulled himself together
and broke out with these enigmatical words--
"After all, it's our own fault."
"How do you mean?" asked the hostess.
He blushed and stammered. "I mean, that if there were no Prince Liscat,
there would be no Nobl' Zwilk."
WHAT HAPPENED
TO HOLY SAINT PANCRAS OF EVOLO
What Happened to Holy Saint Pancras
of Evolo
I
"Down with him! Into the sea with the old pig-head! Let him come to
reason among the crabs and cuttle-fish! Now he touches water,--now he
swims,--now he goes under! There, Evoluccio, may you find it cool and
pleasant!"
He who made all this shouting and ranting was the little
broad-shouldered Cesare Agresta, ship-trader, and he stood in the midst
of a noisy crowd on the outermost edge of the cliffs which descend
steeply to the sea before Evolo. They who moved about with turbulent
cries, and still more turbulent behavior, among the gnarled olive trees
on the rocks where the old chapel stands, were his fellow citizens, the
entire population of the little Sicilian town of Roccastretta--men and
women, children and aged people, rich and poor, even including the
reverend Padre Atanasio, and the equally reverend Syndic. These two,
withdrawn a few steps apart, watched the crowd's activity with a
curiously sly expression of mischievous amusement.
Around the stem of an ancient olive tree some handy, half-naked fellows
had slung a thick rope, whose length reached over the rocks down to the
sea, and which, with many tugs and jerks, as if attached to a heavy,
uneven weight that pitched about, made the old trunk shake from lowest
root to topmost branch. Don Cesare held the chief command over this
tumultuous mob. He ran, he gesticulated, he ordered, he swore, he
laughed, he blustered, and they all obeyed him to the letter.
"Just why little Don Cesare exerts himself so much about it I can't
make out," said the well-nourished padre, in his neighbor's ear. "The
old Evolino, or, as they call him in despite to-day, Evoluccio, has
never done any harm to Don Cesare. It must be all one to him whether it
rains or not, since he doesn't possess the smallest bit of land, and
not one single lemon tree can he call his property."
The Syndic shrugged his shoulders like a man at loss for an answer, and
said, slightly nodding toward a youthful pair, half hidden behind the
chapel, who seemed to be excellent company for one another:
"While Don Cesare bestows his attention upon the old, his pretty sister
occupies herself with the young."
"I have long remarked that there was something between those two," said
the padre with a half envious side glance, in which rebellion,
contending in the heart's depths with resignation, was plainly
manifest; "but what will come of it? The wealthy Nino will never
content himself with the sister of a ship-trader."
"Nay, Father Atanasio, one need not always be thinking of marriage,"
answered the other, smiling slyly on the stout padre.
"I know that very well," replied the holy man, without taking the least
offence at the Syndic's light-mindedness; "but if it comes to Don
Cesare's knowledge, let Nino beware of his knife."
"That is Nino's business. Between my neighbor's door and its hinge I
never put my fingers," cried the Syndic with a laugh.
They were interrupted by the crowd streaming back from the cliffs
toward the chapel.
"This pleases you. Father Atanasio," cried a lank sailor, who looked
out from beneath his Calabrian cap like a bandit. "You never were on
good terms with the old Evoluccio. Well, he's fixed for one while!"
"He'll stay down there till he gets reasonable," said another, shaking
his fist at the sea; "and if that won't do,--something else will!"
"Yes, yes!" howled a third; "if water fails he shall feel fire. Only
that Don Cesare talked us down to-day, we'd have built a blaze under
the old one's feet that would have made him remember us forever! The
villain! the lump! the old heathen!"
At these words, a little smile, like a flash, shimmered in the eye of
Father Atanasio, but it was very brief, and remarked by no one; then he
said, slowly, waving his hand to those who were passing, and clothing
his words in an unctuous sort of conciliatory chant:
"That is enough. It will certainly work this time. Malicious the
Evolino never was. He only needs to have his old memory jogged a bit.
If you were as old as he you would forget too, sometimes."
Then the bystanders all broke into loud laughter, and cried to each
other:
"The padre is always right The Evoluccio is an old fellow--older than
any of us can think--and one must be considerate with age."
"Carmela! Carmela!" suddenly sounded from the midst of the confused
throng descending the side of the cliff toward the little town; and
from his higher point of observation the padre saw Don Cesare's short
figure powerfully fighting against the stream of people, and remarked
with edification how he stretched his neck, how he jumped off his
little legs, and stood on his little toes, making strenuous efforts to
climb the hill again, or, at least to look over the heads of his fellow
citizens. "Carmela," he cried, "where are you?" But Carmela appeared to
have just reached a highly interesting clause of her conversation with
the smart and enterprising Nino, who was pushing his suit gaily with
the listening girl.
"See," he said, pointing to where, close at the foot of the promontory
a country house lay hidden among the groves of lemon trees, "yonder is
my Casina. Last year I inherited it, and now in a few days it will be
all ready to live in. How pretty it looks! Everything new, and ready
for daily life. And it is so cool and pleasant sitting there on a hot
summer evening, with the fresh, silvery spring that trickles out of the
rock into an old Greek marble basin; it is a stone from the temple, you
know, that used to stand here, with images of gods, and wonderful
animals. Only come there with me, and see how much pleasanter it is
than in the dark street under your window."
The pretty girl's look followed his gesture. She shaded her eyes with
her hand, and a rosy smile rested on her delicately cut mouth.
"Oh, yes," she said, half aloud, to herself, "it may well be cool and
pleasant there."
Then she heard her brother's voice.
"I am coming," she cried; and, hastily turning to Nino, "shall I see
you this evening at the usual hour?"
"Yes, if you will promise to come out here with me."
"Yes, yes," she cried, hastily, and ran away toward the others, who
were descending the hill. Nino stroked his slender moustache, and a
mocking little smile shot from his eyes after the pretty girl who had
so thoughtlessly thrown him this momentous promise.
When Padre Atanasio found himself alone by the chapel under the olive
trees he walked with much deliberation to the edge of the cliff and
looked over; a most peculiar, condoling, bantering smile hovered on his
lips, as his glance fell on the rope, and glided down to the place
where it plunged into the sea. Down there, several feet deep under
water, dashed over by the foaming waves, floated something heavy, that
looked like a human body--a helpless lump, which the waves tossed
hither and thither, and across which the fish, like silver arrows, shot
back and forth in lightning darts. Occasionally the thing would bounce
against a rock, roll back on itself, and then resume its regular motion
in the water. If the dashing of the waves ceased for a little, and a
sunbeam fell upon the clear flood, one could have sworn that a corpse
was floating there--the corpse of an old man with snow-white hair and
beard, in a faded red-brown mantle; the rope was knotted strongly
around his hips, and his arms were closely bound by it also. He lay
there, the poor old man, stretched out stiffly, and let the waves drive
him, and Padre Atanasio looked down at him so queerly, and queer
sounded the words which the holy man threw him over his shoulder at
parting:
"Serves you rights Evoluccio! What? You wanted to keep up a sinful
competition with the blessed Mother of God? You must have the finest
presents, the handsomest wax candles, the gayest festivals! And what
is there so extraordinary about you, then? You're nothing but a
half-converted old heathen!"
But the poor old man with the snow-white beard and hair, and the
red-brown mantle, over whom the jolly fishes were swimming, was not a
murderer's victim; he was not even a corpse; he was not even a poor old
man. He was nothing more nor less than the especial patron saint of the
little town and surrounding country. Holy Saint Pancras of Evolo--the
Evolino, as the people were accustomed, after their familiar fashion,
to call him for short--the Evoluccio, as they injuriously named him
when his conduct didn't please them.
The good saint might well have wondered what had happened to him on
that fine spring morning, when the entire population of Roccastretta
broke into his sanctuary on the Promontory of Evolo, tore him from his
pedestal, carried him out from the cool twilight of his chapel into the
glaring day, tied a rope around his body, dragged him, amid the most
intolerable cursing and abuse, to the edge of the rocks, and pitched
him over, like a dead cat, into the sea.
Hardly two days before, all Roccastretta had assembled in his chapel,
and words of the most passionate devotion had risen like a cloud of
grateful incense to the niche in whose depths he had made his dwelling
for more years than any one there could count.
"Holy Pancrazio of Evolo, dear good Saint Pancras," prayed this pious
people, "you love us like children and we love you like a father. Every
Sunday we bring you fragrant nosegays, and when, as at present, the
burning drought kills our flowers, then we bring bunches of gold and
silver tinsel, and thick yellow wax candles to light before your image.
Father Atanasio, who never honored you as he ought, and always calls
you a half-converted heathen, he is of opinion that we give his Madonna
nothing but miserable tallow dips, and keep the best of everything for
you. So, you see, best, dearest Evolino, that we don't grudge you
anything, and our children shall be just like us; for you are our own,
only honored patron saint. Only, now, bethink you of your office,
dearest, kindest Evolino. For three months not a drop of rain has
fallen on our fields, trees, vines. Look around you! The figs are
drying up, the olives will not swell, the wheat fields look like a
desert. If you don't send rain, Evolino, it is all over with our
harvest, and nothing will be left for your people but to save
themselves from starvation by catching fishes and crabs. Be good, then,
holy Saint Pancras, and send rain. You know very well it is not a
tempest we want, but a good, long, mild, soaking rain, such as you know
how to send when you will. To-morrow, or next day, at the latest. Do
this for us, dear Saint Pancras, and you know how we will deck your
image beautifully, and honor you above all the other saints; yes, even
before the blessed Madonna herself, who is such a busy Queen of Heaven
and Earth that she has no time to think about our little place. But
you, Evolino, belong to us alone, and have no one else to look after!
Care for us then, dearest Evolino, and we will bless you to all
eternity."
Thus they prayed and besought him, and the ancient Evolino in his niche
listened without stirring an eye or a hand, as became a saint that was
cut out of wood, and plastered over with paint; and presently they all
trooped out and locked the door, leaving the honest old fellow to his
dreams in the cool, cozy chapel. Long and many were the Christian years
that he had stood up here in the sanctuary of Evolo; but his dim
confused remembrance looked wistfully back into the twilight of a still
older time. There was a shrine here then, too--not a chapel, but a
temple; other priests came and went before his image, other songs were
sung and other gods were honored. The ancient sculpture had hewn him
out of stout knotty wood, and beneath the various crusts deposited
by the lapse of centuries, the old image was still hidden, as it came
from that hand, now long moldering in dust; defaced, however, by
strange gaudy daubs of color, with a red mantle, over a blue tunic,
silver-white beard and hair, cherry-red lips, black brows in two even
arches above the neatly painted eyes, and a round saintly nimbus,
behind his head, that glistened as if he had a pure gold sailor's hat
on the nape of his neck. Truly he didn't look like that in the old
times, yet they honored him then much as he was honored now, not like
one of the high mighty ones, who are only to be addressed with fear and
trembling; like a dear old friend rather, with whom a man can exchange
the familiar "thee and thou"--older, certainly, and doubtless of higher
degree, but who has dwelled so long in our midst that he seems like one
of our own people. This feeling increased with the lapse of years, and
a most confidential relation had sprung up between the patron saint and
his flock--a relation of mutual service and mutual indulgence, as of
friendly neighbors who like to do each other a brotherly good turn when
they can.
It was Saint Pancras' duty to take care of the little town, and its
surrounding country; but the honest patron was so old and brittle, that
no one could blame him if his head was not always in the right place,
and his thoughts sometimes went wool gathering, so the weakness of age
was helped for Evolino by various friendly hints; if that had no
effect, the duties of a patron saint were set before him seriously but
kindly; if this did not serve, then the standpoint was made clear in
coarse but unmistakable fashion,--and thus it happened that on this
fine spring morning, after he had failed to supply the longed-for rain,
in spite of prayers and entreaties, he was lowered at the end of a rope
into the sea, like a common malefactor, for his punishment and his
reformation.
And so he lay down there at the end of his rope, and saw how the crowd,
when their work was accomplished, took the way to the town, and saw how
Padre Atanasio, who hated him for a dangerous rival, in the bottom of
his heart, wept crocodile tears over him, and then he saw how his
chapel stood above among the olive trees, lonely and forsaken, and how
the open door swung to and fro in the wind,--and he may have turned
back in his dim memory to that fair, long past time when the warm
sea-winds blew through the breezy colonnades, when the bright sunbeams
played over his youthful godlike figure, when he looked down from his
pedestal upon the coast, the purple sea, and the high-beaked ships with
their great oars. Then, when he was a young god, when they brought
grapes and figs, and pomegranates to lay at his feet! Gayer than now
sounded the songs of the priests, and lustily streamed up the clouds of
incense from the golden vessels. He was not Saint Pancras of Evolo
then, yet it was under a very similar sounding name that he was honored
by the believing crowd, and none then would have dared to snatch from
his pedestal the beautiful God of the Winds, and throw him down among
the fibrous polyps, a mock for women and children.
In dull, humming tones sang these ancient, half-smothered memories
through his drowsy thoughts, and duller, and still further off, were
the voices of the noisy folk, who had just left him, and in crisp
softly-splashing wavelets the eternal sea, like a tender mother with
her sleeping child, rocked holy Saint Pancras of Evolo.