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MAURUS JOKAI
THE GREEN BOOK
OR
_FREEDOM UNDER THE SNOW_
A Novel
TRANSLATED BY
MRS. WAUGH
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1897
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
BLACK DIAMONDS. A Novel. Translated by Frances A.
Gerard. With a Photogravure Portrait of the Author.
16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 50. (In "The Odd Number
Series.")
One of the best of the novels of Mr. Jokai that have
thus far been put into English.... The story is a happy
blend of the elements of romance with those of
every-day life.... The action is varied, animated, and
sufficiently exciting to sustain the reader's interest,
to which a constant appeal is also made by the fresh
and piquant aspects given the book by its Hungarian
atmosphere.--_Dial_, Chicago.
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.
Copyright, 1897, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
All rights reserved.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. SNOW ROSES 1
II. MIST SHADOWS 4
III. COMME LE MONDE S'AMUSE 11
IV. NO RIVAL 17
V. PLAN OF WAR AGAINST A WOMAN 21
VI. OLD AGE 34
VII. THE EIGHT-IN-HAND 47
VIII. AN ORGY OVER A VOLCANO 51
IX. THE BOARD OF GREEN CLOTH AND THE GREEN BOOK 64
X. FROM SCENT OF MUSK TO REEKING TAR 85
XI. THE HUNTED STAG 102
XII. HOW A FORTRESS WAS TAKEN 118
XIII. A CANNIBAL 125
XIV. THE YOUNG HOPEFUL 134
XV. THE CZAR SMILES 141
XVI. SOPHIE 158
XVII. BETHSABA 168
XVIII. KORYNTHIA 172
XIX. THE MONSTER 176
XX. THE BLIND HEN'S GENUINE PEARL 199
XXI. THE MOST POWERFUL RULER OF THEM ALL 207
XXII. THE DEVIL 218
XXIII. THE STORY OF THE MAN WITH THE GREEN EYES 225
XXIV. "THEN YOU ARE NOT--?" 232
XXV. GOG AND MAGOG 247
XXVI. UNDER THE PALMS 255
XXVII. PANACEA 264
XXVIII. THE WEDDING PRESENT 272
XXIX. MADAME POTIPHAR 279
XXX. A MOTHER'S BLESSING 284
XXXI. THE WILL 290
XXXII. NOT ONLY A BULLET STRIKES HOME 299
XXXIII. THE RENDEZVOUS 303
XXXIV. A DIVIDED HEART 316
XXXV. SPARKS AND ASHES 323
XXXVI. DAIMONA 326
XXXVII. IT'S NOT THE KNIFE ALONE THAT STRIKES TO THE HEART 346
XXXVIII. THE TRAGI-COMEDY AT GRUSINO 357
XXXIX. THE HERMIT 365
XL. DISCORDS 372
XLI. HOW TO ROB A MAN OF HIS WIFE 377
XLII. THE FEAST OF MASINKA 389
XLIII. UNDER THE COMETS 404
XLIV. THE MAN WITH THE GREEN EYES 409
XLV. THE HERALD 429
XLVI. "BEATUS ILLE...." 430
XLVII. THE TEMPTER 435
XLVIII. THE MOUSE PLAYS WITH THE CAT 441
XLIX. THE ANTIDOTE 446
L. "DEREVASKI DALOI" 452
LI. THE NAMELESS WIFE OF A NAMELESS MAN 460
EPISODES.--THE RESCUED POET 479
GHEDIMIN AND ZENEIDA 482
THE ROMANCE OF CONSTANTINE 483
THE GREEN BOOK
OR
_FREEDOM UNDER THE SNOW_
CHAPTER I
SNOW ROSES
A blizzard is covering the roads with a thick coating of snow. The
horses are up to their fetlocks in it. The dark-green firs bend beneath
its weight, and what has melted in the midday sun already hangs from the
slender branches of the undergrowth in thick masses of icicles; and as
the wind sweeps through the forest the ice-covered leaves and branches
ring and jingle like fairy bells.
Ever and anon the moon shines out from amid the fast-flying clouds;
then, as though it has seen enough, hides itself again under the ghostly
mist. The sighing of the wind through the forest is like the trembling
of fever-stricken nature. In the stillness of night, through the
pathless forest, rides a troop of horsemen. Their little long-maned
horses sniff their way with low, sunk necks; by the shaggy fur caps of
their riders, and their long lances hanging far back at their sides,
they are to be recognized as a party of Don Cossacks.
They ride in battle array. In the van a picket with drawn carbines; next
to them a detachment; then a cannon drawn by six horses. After that
follow a large body of men; then, again, a mounted gun and
artillerymen. Behind these another troop of mounted horsemen, and
another gun-carriage drawn by six horses. But to this the cannon is
wanting. In its stead a human form lies bound. The head hangs down over
the back of the rattling carriage, and as the moon ever and anon peeps
out from between the clouds, it discloses a face distorted with agony,
from which all trace of hair on head or beard has been cut away--perhaps
dragged out. The eyes and mouth are wide open. A coarse horsecloth
covering is fastened underneath the man. A corner of it drags along the
snow-covered ground. From it every now and then a drop of blood falls--a
sign that, in bleeding, the man still lives. The drops of blood in the
snow fantastically change, as they fall, into roses. Red flowers on the
white snow-field! The ghost-like procession disappears in the mist.
Keeping carefully to one side, but ever following closely on the track
of the soldiers, is a horseman, also mounted on a long-maned,
broad-headed pony. He wears a thick fur coat; a fur-bordered czamarka is
on his head; icicles hang from his long beard. He rides slowly and
cautiously, his horse taking long strides, as though its master were
seeking something on the ground. Then, as often as he sees a red rose
upon the snow, he dismounts, kneels, and with a golden spoon he takes up
the crystallized token and places it in an enamelled reliquary, then
rides on to the next.
The way leads without interruption through a primeval forest. It is the
forest of Bjelostok. Only there, in all Europe, are bisons to be met
with. There no sound of axe is ever heard; storms alone bring down the
giant trees. One forest arises out of the decay of the former. Beeches,
oaks, limes, vie in height with tall pines. In the dead of night resound
the shriek of the lynx, and the roar of the female bison anxiously
calling for its sucking calf. But no human sound is to be heard. No
human dwelling is near. Had not the path through the forest been a
highway, undergrowth had long since made it impenetrable.
The fallen drops of blood lead the rider on farther and farther. Now
they appear at longer intervals. At length the last rose is reached; the
track left by the wheels of the gun carriage is now his only guide. The
horseman continues to follow it. The man bound to the gun-carriage is
assuredly dead by this time. If dead, they will as surely bury him
somewhere.
Upon the endless solitary forest follow towns equally void of human
beings. On the banks of a great river stand two towns facing one
another, marked upon maps of a former century as still fortified places,
but now only to be classed among ruins. At that time they were specified
by name, Kazimir and Ivanowicze, I believe. Now their very names are
lost to history. Fallen walls, heaps of bricks and stones everywhere.
Nettles grow rank in the snow-covered squares and streets; castles,
churches, and temples are overgrown with briers to the very roofs. The
broad river is frozen over; from out the ice rise the piles of a
half-burned drawbridge, near to which stretches a track across the snow.
The solitary horseman follows the traces. In the middle of the river his
scrutinizing search is suddenly brought to a halt by a newly made gap in
the ice.
That it is newly made is shown by the broken ice lying about, upon which
no fresh layer of snow has had time to form. The shape of the gap is
oblong--like an open grave. Close round it are traces of many feet upon
the snow; not far away the smooth surface shows the pressure of a human
form, which must have lain there face downwards. Here, without a doubt,
has been the place of burial. They had lowered the body under the ice (a
secure burial-place, indeed); the current would then convey it gently to
the sea.
The horseman dismounts, kneeling down beside the open space and baring
his head. He murmurs something--perhaps a prayer. Into the water beneath
there drops something--perhaps a tear.
At that instant the moon shines out resplendent. The man's head is
distinctly visible--a head once seen not easily forgotten. A high
forehead; the hair of reddish hue, but already tinged with gray, growing
low upon it; the face thin, nervous; cheek-bones and chin prominent;
nose aquiline; deep-set eyes; the towsled beard brushed forward; the
character of the whole face was one of suppressed suffering, of silent
woe. The moon has again disappeared under the clouds. A thick, heavy
mist falls around. Primeval forest and ruins alike fade; the figure of
the horseman grows more and more shadowy.
Through the thick mist, in the dead stillness of black night, is a weird
sound of sighing and moaning. Perhaps it is the she-bison calling her
young--perhaps it is the voice of one singing "Boze cos Polske."