The old man and the little girl walked slowly down to the banks of the
river. The little squares of the windows and the two figures under the
porch gazed for a long time after them. A cold snowy wind was blowing
from the white hills. Water mills floated on the Danube. Horses,
harnessed one in front of the other, dragged a barge at the foot of the
castle hill, and small dark skiffs moved to and fro in the stream, as
if Pest and Buda were taking leave of each other before the advent of
winter.
On the shore shipwrights were at work. When they perceived Christopher
Ulwing, they stopped and greeted him respectfully. A gentleman came in
the opposite direction; he too doffed his hat. Near the market place
ladies and gentlemen were walking. Everybody saluted Ulwing the builder.
Anne was proud. Her face flushed.
“Everybody salutes us, don’t they? Are there many people living here?”
“Many,” said her grandfather, and thought of something else.
“How many?”
“We can’t know that; the gentry won’t submit to a census.”
“And are there many children here?”
The builder did not answer.
“Say, Grandpa, you never were a child, were you?”
“I was, but not here.”
“Were you not always in our house, Grandpa?” asked the child,
indefatigable.
Ulwing smiled.
“We came from a great distance, far, far away, Uncle Sebastian and I.
By coach, as long as our money lasted, then on foot. In those days
the summers were warmer than they are now. At night we wandered by
moonlight....”
He relapsed into silence. His mind looked elsewhere than his eyes.
The fortress of Pest! Then the bastions and walls of Pest were still
standing. And he entered the city through one of its old gates.
“It was in the morning and the church bells were ringing,” he said deep
in thought.
Suddenly it seemed to him that he saw the town of times gone by, not as
a reality, but as an old, old fading picture. White bewigged citizens
in three-cornered hats were walking the streets. Carts suspended on
chains. Soldiers in high shakos. And how young and free the Danube was!
Its waters shone more brightly and its shore swarmed with ship-folk.
Brother Sebastian went down to the bank. He himself stopped and looked
at a gaudy, pretty barge, into which men were carrying bags across two
boards. They went on one, returned by the other. A clerk was standing
on the shore, counting tallies on a piece of wood for every bag. The
half-naked dockers shone with sweat. They carried their loads on their
shoulders just as their fore-fathers had carried them here on the
Danube for hundreds of years. The boards bent and swayed under their
weight. The clerk swore. “There are too few men.” He looked invitingly
at Christopher Ulwing. But Christopher did not touch the bags. His
attention was attracted by something in the sand which entered his eyes
like a pinprick, the glittering blade of an axe. He remembered clearly
every word he said. “Knock those two boards together. In an hour we can
slide the whole cargo into the barge.”
Down at the shore, brother Sebastian jumped into a boat. He pointed
with his staff towards Buda. He called his brother, waving his hand.
“I remain here,” was the determined answer, and he picked the axe up
from the sand.
The clerk watched him carefully and nodded approvingly. A few minutes
later, the bags slid speedily down the improvised slide, and the barge,
like a greedy monster, gulped them up into its maw.
The boat and brother Sebastian left the shore. They were already in the
middle of the Danube. The stream and the oars, chance and will, carried
his life into the opposite town. Christopher Ulwing remained in Pest.
Next day, he worked in the office of the ship-broker. Then he went into
the timber yard. Then further. Advancing. Rising. And the town grew
with him as if their fate had been one.
Vainly did Anne ask a thousand little questions; her grandfather did
not answer. He walked far behind his present self.
They reached the boat-bridge. Here too the men saluted. The collector
asked for no toll. At the bridge-head, the sentry presented arms.
“Why?” Anne had asked this question every time she had crossed the
bridge in her short life.
“They know me,” the builder answered simply.
What need was there for the children to know that he owned the bridge,
had contracted for the right of way over the river; that the many rafts
floating down the Danube were his as well as the land above them on the
banks.
The bridge trembled rhythmically. The stream rocked the boats. It
foamed, splashed, as if thirsty giant animals were lapping at the hulls
of the many chained little boats. Lamps stood near the pillars. In the
middle, a coloured spot above the water: the guardian saint of the
river, the carved image of St. John Nepomuk. Beneath it, people passed
to and fro, raising their hats.
Anne pointed to the saint: “People salute him too, even more than
Grandpa.” And she was a little envious.
When they reached the castle on the hill, the little girl began to
complain: “I am hungry.”
The stones of the narrow, snow-covered pavement clattered quietly under
the builder’s long, firm steps.
Around them decaying houses. Yellow, grey, green. Gilt “bretzels,”
giant keys, boots and horse-shoes dangled into the street from over the
tiny shops, suspended from brackets which were ornamented with spirals
of forged steel.
Above the shop of Uncle Sebastian, a big watch was hung. From far away
Anne recognised the immobile golden hands on its face. The tower of
Our Lady’s Church cast its shadow just up to it. It pointed into the
street like a black signpost. The house itself was probably older than
the others. Its upper storey protruded above the ground floor and was
supported by several beams above the pavement. On the bare wall, just
behind the clock-sign, an inscription, with curious flourishes, was
visible:
SEBASTIAN ULWING
CITY CLOCKMAKER
The shop was crowded. Neighbours, burghers from the castle, came here
every afternoon to warm themselves. Uncle Sebastian sat before his
little clockmaker’s table. He was silent. His white hair, smoothed
back from his forehead, fell on the collar of his violet tail-coat.
His figure was tall and bent. According to old fashion he wore
knee-breeches. On his heavy shoes the buckles were a little rusty; the
thick white stockings formed creases. When he perceived Anne, he began
to laugh. He caught her up in his arms and raised her high into the air.
“Where is little Christopher?”
“He has a pain in his foot,” said the master builder, bowing to the
company. Anne turned up her nose significantly. The children did not
think Uncle Sebastian belonged quite among the grown-ups. He understood
many things grandfather could not grasp. They put their heads together,
secretively, affectionately. Anne began to dangle her little legs in
the air and ask for gingerbread. Then she proceeded to investigate the
shop.
At the bottom of it a semi-circular window opened on a courtyard. A
deep leather armchair and a long table with curved legs stood in front
of the window. The table was covered with a lot of old rubbish. The
shelves too were laden with odds and ends. Watches and clocks covered
the grimy walls.
Near the table, a lady tried to sell a _repoussé_, silver, dove-shaped
loving-cup. Perceiving Christopher Ulwing, she curtseyed deeply.
“With your permission, I am Amalia Csik, from the Fisherman’s bastion.”
She wore a hat like a hamper. Everything on her was faded and shabby.
Anne noticed that whenever she moved a musty odour spread from her
clothes. In the shop nobody took any notice of this. All these people
were dressed differently from her grandfather.
“Even the little children are dressed in a modish way,” the lady said
disparagingly. “Of course, everything in Pest is different from what we
have in Buda.... We, here in the castle, are faithful to our own ways,
thank God. Are we not, your reverence?”
The castle chaplain nodded several times his yellow, bird-like head.
“I hear,” said the lady, “that they have started a fashion paper in
Pest.”
“Yes, and they print it in the same type as the prayer books,” grumbled
the chaplain.
The lady gave a deep sigh.
“Notwithstanding that the devil himself is the editor of fashion
papers.”
“Of all newspapers,” said the official censor of the Governor’s council
from beside the stove.
Christopher Ulwing raised one eyebrow in sign of derision. “Is it the
censor who says that?”
“It is I,” came the answer, emphatically, as if an incontrovertible
argument had been thrust into the discussion.
“Literary people in Pest have a different opinion,” grumbled the
builder.
“Perhaps it would be better not to drag them in. As censor, I am a
literary man myself....”
The builder was getting more and more impatient. The censor turned to
the chaplain.
“The written word must not serve the ideals of the individual but the
purposes of the State and Church.”
Christopher Ulwing went to the door. He would have liked to let a
little fresh air into the place. Suddenly he turned back angrily: “I
suppose, gentlemen, you only approve of mediocrity?”
“Well said, Mr. Builder. Nothing but the mediocre is useful to the
organization of the State. That which is above or below only causes
uncomfortable disorder.”
He did not himself know why, but, all of a sudden, Christopher’s
thoughts went to the bookshop of Ulrich Jörg in Pest. He remembered
the young authors who frequented it; their plans, their manuscripts,
detained in the censor’s sieve. All those ambitious hopes, new dreams
and awakening thoughts, younger than he, a little beyond his ken, but
which he loved as he loved his grandchildren.
He turned his back furiously on the censor and went to the bottom of
the room feeling that if he spoke he would say something rude.
The chaplain said with indignation:
“All those people from Pest are such rebels!”
The lady exclaimed suddenly: “There comes the wife of the Councillor of
the Governor’s council! She is wearing her silver-wedding hat!”
All thronged to the door. The shop became quite dark as the fat “Mrs.
Councillor” passed in front of it. The chaplain and the others took
their hats and followed her; let the people think they were in her
company. Quite a crowd for Buda, at least six people went down Tárnok
Street at the same time. Even the good lady with the big hat remembered
some urgent business. She quickly concluded the sale of the loving-cup,
bowed, and rushed after the others.
Christopher Ulwing came forward.
“What a bureaucratic air there is in Buda. I prefer your friends
who come after closing hours: the lame wood-carver and the old
spectacle-maker. Even if they do not carry the world forward, they
don’t attempt to push it back.”
Sebastian laughed good-naturedly:
“These too are good people, only different from you on the other side
of the river. We have time, you are in a hurry. You are for ever
wanting new-fashioned things. Somebody who reads newspapers told the
chaplain that your son spoke at the Town Hall. Now you want avenues,
lamps, brick-built houses.... What are we coming to?”
The builder looked deeply and calmly into his brother’s eyes.
“Brother Sebastian, we have to change or time will beat us.”
The clockmaker became embarrassed.
“Ah, but old things, old ways are so pleasant.”
Christopher Ulwing pointed to the loving-cup.
“This too is old, but this has a right to remain because it is
beautiful. Do you remember, our father too made some like this. The
time may come when you will get a lot of money for it. I should like to
buy it myself.”
Sebastian looked anxiously at his brother.
“Perhaps you won’t sell this either.” The builder again became
impatient. “You buy to do business, but when it comes to selling....”
The clockmaker took the dove-shaped cup into his hand. He held it
gently, tenderly, as if it were a live bird. Then he shook his head.
“No, not yet. I will sell it another day.”
“Why not now?”
“Because I want to look at it for some time,” said Sebastian gently, as
if he were ashamed of himself.
“That’s the way to remain poor. To keep everything that is old, avoid
everything that is new. Do you know, Brother Sebastian, you are just
the same as Buda....”
“And you are just like Pest,” retorted Sebastian modestly.
They smiled at each other quietly.
Anne meanwhile was playing at the tool table and dropping wheels and
watch-springs into the oil bottle.
Uncle Sebastian did not want to spoil her pleasure but watched every
movement of hers anxiously. When the child noticed that she was
observed, she withdrew her hand suddenly. She stared innocently at the
walls.
“I am bored,” she said sadly, “I don’t know what to do. Do tell me a
story.”
“I don’t know any to-day,” said Uncle Sebastian.
“You always know some for you read such a lot....” While saying this
she drew from the pocket of Uncle Sebastian’s coat a well-worn little
green book.
“Demokritos, or the posthumous writings of a laughing philosopher.”
This was Sebastian Ulwing’s favorite book.
“Here you are!” cried Anne, waving her prey triumphantly. “Now come
along, tell me a story.”
The clockmaker shook his head. It still weighed on his mind that he
and the builder could never understand each other. He was proud of his
brother. He felt his will, his strength, but that was wellnigh all he
knew about him. Had he rejoiced, had he suffered in life? Had he ever
loved, or did he have no love for anybody?... He thought of Barbara,
his brother’s dead wife, whom Brother Christopher had snatched from him
and taken to the altar, because he did not know that he, Sebastian,
had loved her silently for a long time. His forehead went up in many
wrinkles.... We human beings trample our fellow creatures under our
feet because we don’t know them.
Anne took his hand and wrung it slowly. “Do tell me a story, do!”
Inside, in front of the courtyard window, the builder turned the pages
of an old book.
Uncle Sebastian sat down and lifted Anne into his lap. Casting
occasional glances on his brother’s face, as if he were reading in it,
he began to tell his story.
“It happened a long, long time ago, even before I was born, in the
time of the Turkish Pasha’s rule. A gay city it was then, was Buda. In
every street shops dealing in masks and fancy dresses were opened. When
Carnival time came, folk used to walk a-singing in the streets of the
castle; old ones, young ones, in gaudy fancy dress, with little iron
lamps--such a crazy procession! The fun only stopped at the dawn of
Ash-Wednesday. All fancy dress shops were closed and bolted. All were
locked, except one in Fortune’s Street which remained open even after
Ash-Wednesday--all the year round.
“Singly, secretly, people went to visit it, at night, when the castle
gates had been closed and the fires at the street corners put out.
Among the buyers were some that had haughty faces. These bought
themselves humble-looking masks. The cruel men bought kind ones,
godless men pious ones, the stupid clever ones, the clever simple ones.
But the greatest number were those who suffered and they bought masks
which showed a laughing face. That is what happened. It is a true
story,” growled Uncle Sebastian, “and it is just as true that those who
once put a mask on never took it off again. Only on rare occasions did
it fall off their faces, on dark nights when they were quite alone, or
when they loved, or when they saw money....”
Again he looked at his brother’s face and then continued in a whisper:
“The business flourished. Kings, princes, beautiful princesses,
priests, soldiers, burghers, everybody, even the Town Councillors, went
to the shop. Its reputation had even spread down to the lower town.
People from the other side of the Danube came too. After a time, the
whole world wore masks. Nobody talked about it but all wore them and
the people forgot each other’s real faces. Nobody knows them any more.
Nobody....”
Uncle Sebastian didn’t tell any more and in the great silence the
ticking of the clocks became loud.
“I didn’t like that story,” said Anne, “tell me about naughty children
and fairies. That’s prettier....”
The clockmaker probably did not hear the child’s voice. He sat in his
low chair as if listening for someone’s steps, the steps of one who had
passed away. He thought of his tale, of his brother, of Barbara, of
himself.
The builder closed the book. He got up.
“Let us go. It is late.”
And the two Ulwings took leave of each other for the winter.
On the bridge over the Danube the sixteen lamps were already alight.
Their light dropped at equal distances into the river. The water played
for a time with the beams, then left them behind. It continued its way
in darkness towards the rock of St. Gellert’s Mount. Only the chill of
its big wet mass was perceptible in the night.
The snow began to fall anew. A light flared up here and there in the
window of a house near the shore. The sound of horns was audible on the
Danube.
On the bridge, Anne suddenly perceived her father. Young Ulwing walked
under the lamps with a girl. They were close together. When they saw
the builder and the child they separated rapidly and the girl ran in
haste to the other side of the bridge.
Christopher Ulwing called his son.
Leaning against the railing, John Hubert waited for them; he was for
ever leaning on something. When they reached him, he took hold of the
little girl’s free hand as if he wanted to put her between himself and
his father.
Anne was afraid. She felt that something was going on in the silence
over her head. She drew her shoulders up. The two men did not speak
for a long time to each other. They walked with unequal, apparently
antagonistic steps and dragged the trembling child between them.
It was Christopher Ulwing who broke the silence. He shouted angrily:
“You promised not to go to her while I was alive! Can’t I even trust
your word?”
“But, sir, don’t forget the child is here!”
“She won’t understand,” retorted the builder sharply.
Anne understood the words quite clearly, but what she heard did not
interest her. Her thoughts were otherwise engaged. She felt keenly
that two hands opposed to each other were pressing her on either side
and that some community of feeling had arisen between her father and
herself. They both feared someone who was stronger than they.
“I went to meet you, sir,” grumbled John Hubert, “and met her by chance
on the bridge.”
Christopher Ulwing stopped dead.
“Is that the truth?”
“I never told lies.” Young Ulwing’s voice was honest and sad. It
sounded as if he laid great weight on what he said because it had cost
him so dear.
The builder, still angry, drew out his snuff box. He tapped it sharply
and opened it.
For ever so long there had lived in this box a quaint old tune. It
woke at the blow and the snuff box began to play.
“Confound it,” exclaimed Christopher Ulwing, and tapped it again to
silence it, but the box continued to play.
The two men, as though they had been interrupted by a comic interlude,
stopped talking. The builder returned the box into his pocket. Anne
bent her head close to her grandfather’s coat. There was now a sound
in it as if a band of little Christopher’s tin soldiers were playing
prettily, delicately, far, far away.
Florian was waiting with a lantern at the bridgehead on the Pest side.
Many small lamps moved through the silence. Snow fell in the dark
streets.
But now Anne was leaning her tired head fully on her grandfather’s
pocket. “More!” she said gently over and over again and inhaled the
music of the snuff box just as Mamsell Tini breathed in the lavender
perfume from her prayer book.