THE TEMPTER IN CHURCH.
Three years had passed since Fanny went to live with Aunt Teresa. Those
three years had a great influence upon her youthful and pliable
disposition. At first Teresa was severe and stony-hearted towards the
child; her obstinacy, like a thorny hedge, had to be broken down. The
smallest fault was chastised, every moment of her time had its allotted
task, of which she had to give an account, not a single contradiction,
not the slightest sulkiness was put up with. Then, too, she was never
able to escape detection, a far-seeing, austere pair of eyes was ever
upon her, making falsehood impossible, looking through her very soul,
seizing and pruning down every thought as it arose. The weeds had to be
extirpated before the seeds of nobler flowers could be sown.
When, however, she had at last brought under the child's unruly
disposition and convinced her that it was of no use to play the
hypocrite or tell lies, inasmuch as there is a Being Who sees behind all
our thoughts, Who is everywhere present and watchful, Whom nothing
escapes, and Who watches over us even when we are asleep, so that we are
bound from very necessity to be just and honest; when she had brought
her charge as far as this, I say, Teresa began gradually to teach her
how conversion could have its pleasant side likewise. Teresa's
confidence grew proportionately with Fanny's candour. She frequently
left the child to herself, ceased to supervise her allotted tasks,
showed her that she believed what she said, and thereby gradually
exalted and purified her whole disposition. Perceiving that her rigorous
mentor trusted her, Fanny began to discover what self-respect means. And
what a precious treasure that is! and what a pity more attention is not
paid to it!
Teresa never alluded to the child's relatives; on the contrary, whenever
her thoughts seemed to be turning that way she would divert them into a
different direction. And gradually, as Fanny's notions of right and
wrong grew clearer and firmer, she felt less and less of a desire to
inquire after the members of her own family. At last it came to
this--that when, one day, having obtained Teresa's permission to go
somewhere, she suddenly came face to face in the street with Matilda,
who was riding in an open carriage, she fled terror-stricken into the
court-yard of the house where dwelt a lady of her acquaintance, in order
that her sister might not see her.
Teresa heard of this, and ever afterwards treated Fanny much more
tenderly.
One day, while sitting at her work, the girl sighed heavily. Teresa knew
at once that she was thinking of her relatives.
"Why do you sigh?" she asked.
"Poor Matilda!" said the girl; and she spoke with quite genuine emotion,
for she really did pity her sister who rode in a carriage and wore
Brabant lace, while she herself was so happy at home over her sewing.
Teresa made no reply, but, full of emotion, she clasped the child to her
breast. God had at last rewarded her for all the labours and anxieties
of the last three years, for Fanny was now saved, and doubtless reserved
for a happier future.
And, indeed, poverty in itself is not such a very great calamity, after
all. Those who have a close acquaintance with it will tell you that it
possesses joys of its own which are not to be bought with heaps of gold
pieces. Besides, Teresa was not absolutely destitute. She received five
hundred florins a year from an insurance office for life, with one half
of which she not only supported the pair of them comfortably, but even
left a margin for a little recreation. The other half she carefully put
by, that Fanny might have something when she herself was gone. And the
girl made a little money as well; she earned something by her
needlework. Oh, ye men and women who swim in luxury, you do not know
what delight, what rapture it is when a young man or woman receives the
reward of his honest labour for the first time; you know nothing of the
proud consciousness of being self-sufficient, of being able to live
without the compassion, without the assistance, of other people!
And Fanny's work was very well paid, too!
In the house where they lived there was an Hungarian cabinet-maker, who
owned several houses in Pressburg, John Boltay by name. This rich
artisan, long, long ago, when he had only just served his
apprenticeship, was tenderly disposed towards Teresa, and offered her
his hand. But Teresa's relatives would not give him the girl, although
she loved him; their family belonged to the official class, and looked
down upon a mere workman. So Boltay went away and married some one else,
and the marriage turned out unhappy and childless; and by the time his
wife died both he and Teresa had grown old. Teresa had never married at
all. For forty years she had been growing old and grey, but she had
never forgotten her first love. In the mean time her family had gone
down in the world, and she had been obliged to live in a house in the
suburbs, where she had remained for five-and-twenty years. Boltay
meanwhile had become a rich man, and had purchased the house in which
Teresa lived, and this gave him an opportunity of doing little
kindnesses to Teresa, which she could not very well refuse. Thus, he
turned the yard into a garden, gave the noisier of his tenants notice to
quit, and charged her a purely nominal rent. And yet, for all that, they
never exchanged a word together. Boltay himself lived at the opposite
end of the town, over his shop; but he knew very well, all the same,
what was going on at Teresa's. He knew, too, that she had adopted Fanny,
and about this time he frequently sent over his head journeyman (a
worthy, honest young fellow, and his favourite, whom he meant to make
his heir, so people said, for he had no relatives) to purchase Fanny's
handiwork, for which he paid very handsomely. He would not have dared to
offer Teresa any direct assistance; but Teresa, for the girl's sake,
felt bound to accept what he offered in this way.
Maybe both she and Boltay thought what a pretty pair the two young
people would make. Alexander (to give the young journeyman his name for
the first time) was a tall, muscular, well-built fellow, with blonde
curly locks, ardent blue eyes, and a bold, manly face. There was nothing
slovenly or commonplace in his bearing, nor, on the other hand, did he
affect gentility; but there was that quiet self-confidence about him
which belongs to the man whose mind and body are equally developed. The
girl was a slender, ideal creature, with languishing black eyes and a
rosy, chubby face so full of colour that even round her eyes one could
not detect a spot of pallor--just such a beauty, in fact, as the world
is apt to make much of. They contrasted prettily enough--blonde and
brunette, blue eyes and black; he so bold, vigorous, and sedate, she so
overflowing with tenderness and feeling; yet who can tell what is
written concerning them in the stars?
Amongst Teresa's acquaintances was a dapper little man who was generally
known, not by his real name, but by his official title--the precentor.
One evening the worthy precentor happened to hear light-hearted Fanny
sing the snatch of some song or other, and, surprised, connoisseur as he
was, by the music of her pretty voice, suggested that he should teach
her an air from the "Stabat Mater," that she might sing it in the choir
at church.
Teresa trembled at the thought. Matilda at once occurred to her mind;
yet, after all, it is one thing to sing frivolous love ditties on an
open stage in fancy costume, face to face with a lot of lazy young
loungers, and quite another to sing in the Church of God, behind a
closed screen, sublime and edifying hymns for the benefit of devout
worshippers, although, of course, the Evil One, who is always seeking
his prey, may find his victim in the Church of God itself. Teresa,
therefore, felt bound to allow Fanny to go to the precentor, who
instructed her with great enthusiasm, and was never weary of praising
her. The girl, indeed, rarely went there alone. Either Teresa herself,
or a worthy crony of Teresa's, Dame Kramm by name, regularly accompanied
Fanny to the precentor's dwelling, and in an hour's time returned to
fetch her away again. That the rumour of Fanny's beauty and virtue
should not have spread through the town was too much to expect. There
are always a number of unoccupied young gentlemen about, whose sole
mission in life seems to be to make such discoveries, and the number of
these pleasure-hunters was considerably increased on the occasion of
the assembling of the Diet at Pressburg, when many of our younger
conscript fathers spread the report of newly found female virtue as far
as possible. Who did not know of the Meyer girls in those days?--and
those who did, could not help knowing likewise that there was a fifth
sister. Now, where was this last little sister hiding? Why, it was the
most natural question in the world.
The girls themselves made no mystery of the matter. They explained with
whom Fanny was, and where and when she might be seen. Ah! and this was
much more than mere giddiness; it was shamelessness, jealousy, hatred!
Matilda could not forgive Fanny for avoiding her in the street, and the
others could not pardon her for possessing a treasure which they
possessed no longer--innocence! What a dish for the fine palate of a
connoisseur! What a rare fruit of paradise! A child of fifteen or
sixteen, whose diamond soul has been cleansed from mud and filth, who is
still conscious of God, and capable of pure delights, whose tender
loving heart, perhaps, is in the safekeeping of some honest, romantic
youth--what a fine thing to root her up unmercifully, to tear off her
budding leaves one by one, hurl her back again into the mire from which
she has been plucked, and make her acquainted with that new, that
withering, consuming fire of infernal passion begotten among the souls
of the nether world!
So the chase was let loose after the tender roe that had emerged from
the garden of paradise. Swarms of those knight-errants who have nothing
else to do waylaid and accosted her in the streets and byways, and
offered her their flattery, their homage, their gifts, but above the
head of the fairy roe rested a star, which suffered not the darts of the
huntsmen to hit their mark. That star was the star of purity.
The discomfited youths, more and more angry every day, used to meet at
the Meyers' and deride one another at the failure of their endeavours.
Very often, too, heavy bets on the issue of the event were offered and
taken, just as if it were a horse-race or a coursing-match. At length a
well-known dandy, Fennimore by name, resolved to try the effect of an
open direct attack; it was, he opined, the best way of conquering the
sex. So one day, when he had ascertained that Fanny was alone at home,
he sent her a splendid bouquet of hot-house flowers, in which was
concealed a _billet-doux_ of the following purport: If Fanny were
inclined to reward the devotion of a loving heart, she was to leave the
back door of the garden open in the evening. There are cases, he argued,
in which similar proposals lead most rapidly to the end desired.
The inexperienced girl, in the innocence of her astonishment, accepted
the proffered bouquet. This was adroitly calculated upon by the sender.
Any other missive might have aroused her suspicion and made her more
cautious, but flowers harmonize so well with a young girl's disposition
that how could she refuse them?
Only when the bearer of the missive had withdrawn did Fanny observe a
letter concealed among the flowers, and immediately, just as if she had
caught sight of a venomous spider, she threw away the bouquet, and ran
weeping to Dame Kramm, and sobbing bitterly, related the incident. She
fancied she was disgraced already.
Shortly afterwards Teresa returned home, and she and Dame Kramm held a
consultation over the sealed letter. Fanny was inconsolable when Dame
Kramm confided to her its contents. She seriously believed that the bare
receiving such a letter had dishonoured her for ever and ever, and
despite the consolations of the two worthy old spinsters, she lay in a
fever the whole night.
Meanwhile the two old ladies were concocting a plan of vengeance against
the originator of all this trouble, and, believe me, ancient spinsters
know how to be revengeful! They left the back door of the garden wide
open, laid in wait till the cavalier had entered, and then closed it
again. Then they took it in turns to watch from the garret window how
the valiant young woman-hunter, the would-be seducer, who had himself
fallen into the pit, cooled his heels for hours in the mouse-trap they
had prepared for him, and when at last the rain began to fall, they went
to bed full of malicious joy, with the house-keys tucked snugly beneath
their pillows, and listening with delight to the rain pattering against
the window-panes.
This very considerable defeat only raised the ardour of the huntsman
still higher. What, to surrender to an inexperienced child! to be
worsted by a pair of old women! Why, _l'esprit de corps_ could not let
matters rest there; and Abellino, who was the leader of the band, took
upon himself to rehabilitate their _renommée_, as he called it, and with
proud self-confidence laid a bet to a very considerable amount that,
within twelve months' time, he would induce this beauty to quit her
paradise and come and live with him--naturally not as his consort.
On the following Sunday Fanny sang the "Stabat Mater Dolorosa" in the
cathedral sublimely, and the heart of every worshipper was filled with
devotion. Dame Kramm, decked out in all her Sabbath finery, was sitting
by one of the side altars, enjoying in her own way the child's beautiful
singing, when she heard an enraptured voice close beside her sigh, "Oh,
what splendid, what sublime singing!"
She immediately felt bound to turn round and see who it was that was
pouring forth the rapture of his soul so abundantly.
She saw before her a modestly attired gentleman, who wore mourning on
his hat, and had just dried a tear from his upturned eye. It was
Abellino Kárpáthy.
"She sings beautifully, sir, does she not?" said the good spinster,
proudly.
"Like an angel! Ah, madam, every time I hear such singing the tears
start from my eyes." And the sensitive youth put his handkerchief to his
eyes again. Then he departed without saying another word to Dame Kramm.
The whole week through Dame Kramm was tortured by curiosity. What could
be amiss with this mysterious youth? Would he come again on the
following Sunday?
And come again he did, and now they greeted one another like old
acquaintances.
"Look ye, madam," said the young gentleman, with a mournful countenance,
"ten years ago I had a sweetheart, a betrothed, who used to sing the
'Stabat Mater' with just such a beautiful voice; it makes me actually
think that I can hear her now. She died on the very day fixed for our
wedding. On her death-bed she made me promise that if ever I found a
poor young lady who could sing these divine canticles with just such a
beautiful voice as she had, I was, in memory of her, to devote every
year the sum of three thousand florins to enable such young lady to
cultivate to the utmost her noble art, and thus secure for herself a
happy future. I only imposed one condition before consenting to my
betrothed's desire: I insisted that the young lady in question should be
just as pure, just as innocent, as was my beloved, my
never-to-be-forgotten Maria!" And the young man again applied his
pocket-handkerchief to his eyes.
"What genuine grief!" thought the old lady to herself.
"I must regretfully confess, madam," pursued the young dandy, in a shaky
voice, "that I have not been able to carry out the desire of my deceased
bride. So far as natural gifts are concerned, there were heaps and heaps
of candidates, but in the way of virtue they all failed me. I think of
them with shame, and yet there are some among them whom the world has
loaded with its applause. And every fresh attempt has proved a fresh
illusion."
And here he again broke off the conversation, and left Madam Kramm to
cogitate upon this strange story for another week. She said not a word
about it to any one.
On the following Sunday, Abellino again made his appearance. He kept
silence till the singing was quite over, but it was clear from his face
that there was something he would very much have liked to ask, had he
not been too shy to do so. At last, however, he constrained himself to
speak.
"Pardon me for troubling you with such a question, madam, and do not
take it ill of me; but do you not know the singer personally? I have so
many times been deceived in my benevolent intentions that I scarce dare
to approach any one without making preliminary inquiries. I have heard
the most astonishing reports of this young woman's family, which seem to
prove that virtue is in no very great request there."
At this Dame Kramm also became loquacious. "Whatever this young woman's
relations may be, sir, she has had absolutely nothing to do with them
since she was a child. Her heart is as pure as a child's, and her
education has been so austere that, even if she were now to be abandoned
entirely to herself, not the shadow of a vice could possibly find
admittance in her breast."
"Ah, madam, you have made me altogether happy!"
"How so, sir?"
"The soul of my Maria will at length be able to rest in peace."
And off he went again, leaving Dame Kramm to think the matter over for
another week.
On the following Sunday he honoured the worthy spinster with his entire
confidence.
"Madam," said he, "I am convinced that your young charge is quite worthy
of my protection. That girl will one day become a famous _artiste_, and
her rare virginal modesty will raise her far above all her fellows. But
a strict watch must be kept upon her. I am well aware that sundry rich
young men are lying in wait for her. Be careful, madam, and warn the
young woman's guardians to look well after her! Excessive light blinds
the greatest characters; but I have determined to save her from their
nefarious intrigues. She _shall_ be an _artiste_. In her voice she
possesses such a treasure that, if only it be properly cultivated, all
these cavaliers, with all their wealth to boot, will seem but beggars
beside her; and then, if she preserve within herself the source of her
riches, she will escape the danger with which wealth always threatens
innocence."
Madam Kramm thoroughly believed him. Her thoughts now began to turn from
the church to the theatre, and she looked forward to the day when she
should applaud Fanny's singing.
"A couple of years will make a thorough _artiste_ of her. Great care,
and a very trifling expenditure is all that is wanted. I will take upon
myself the rest, for my dead bride's sake. I will make no presents, I
will give nothing gratis; what I advance will be only as a loan. When
she has grown rich she shall repay me, so that I may be able to make
others happy also. I will give you three thousand florins every month,
that the young woman may be able to pay for the necessary tuition; but
pray do not let her know that the money comes from a young man, or she
might possibly refuse it. Use the name of my dead bride, Maria Darvai,
to designate the mysterious benefactor; and, indeed, she does send it,
even if it be from Heaven. I impose but one condition: she must remain
virtuous. If I should ascertain the contrary, my patronage will
instantly cease. Be so good, then, as to now accept from me the first
monthly instalment, and employ it conformably to my wishes; and, once
more, I beg of you to say nothing about me. I ask it simply for the
girl's sake. You know what an evil tongue the world has."
Dame Kramm took the money. Why, indeed, should she not have taken it?
Any one else, in her place, would have done the same thing. The secret
benefactor had given her no cause for suspicion. He remained unknown to
her, and insisted on remaining unknown; but he had forewarned her of the
machinations of others, and acted himself as the guardian of defenceless
virtue. What more could he do?
Madam Kramm took the money, I say, and secretly hired music and singing
masters for Fanny, to whom alone she told anything about the matter. Of
course, it was a mistake on her part not to have admitted Teresa into
her confidence; but, perhaps, she surmised--and no doubt her surmise was
correct--that that austere old lady would have incontinently pitched the
money out of the window, with the remark that a virtuous girl ought,
under no pretext whatever, to accept money which she has not honestly
earned. And then, too, that other point--an artistic career? That would
certainly have encountered vigorous opposition on the part of Teresa.
Why, it was a subject which could not even be broached in her presence.
But the affair was no secret to Teresa, after all. From the very first
she noticed the change that had taken place in Fanny's disposition. In
the girl's mind the idea that she possessed a treasure which would raise
her far above her competitors on the path of glory had already taken
root. She had no longer any heart for the simple tasks, the humble
pastimes, in which she had rejoiced heretofore. She no longer conversed
as openly as before with the young journeyman. She would sit and brood
for hours together, and after such broodings she would frequently say to
her aunt that one day she would richly requite her for her labour and
trouble.
How Teresa used to tremble at these words!
The girl was dreaming of riches. The Evil One had shown her the whole
world and said, "All this I will give thee: worship me." And it never
occurred to her to reply, "Get thee hence, Satan!"
The huntsman had laid his snare right well.
A feeling of gratitude often urged the girl to beg Dame Kramm to take
her to this unknown benefactor, that she might express her burning
thanks to her, and take further counsel of her. She also wished to tell
her aunt of the unselfish kindness of which she was the object. These
repeated entreaties drove the worthy old spinster at last into such a
corner that she, one day, suddenly blurted out that this mysterious
benefactor was not a woman, but a man, who wished to remain for ever in
the background.
This discovery at first terrified Fanny greatly; but subsequently it
tickled her fancy all the more. Who could this man be who wished to make
her happy without ever appearing to have a hand in it, and who was so
anxious, so fearful, lest his honest gifts should cast the slightest
slur on her reputation that he would not so much as allow his name to be
mentioned?
What more natural, then, that the girl should draw, in her imagination,
an ideal picture of her unknown defender? She represented him to herself
as a tall, gloomy, pale-faced youth, who never smiled except when doing
good, and his gentle look frequently followed her into her dreams.
Whenever she went for a walk in the streets and encountered young
cavaliers there she would steal glances at them and say to herself, "I
wonder if that one is he, or that?" But not one of them fitted into the
place that she held vacant in her heart.
At last, one day, she did meet with a face with eyes and features and
looks similar to the ideal of her dreams. Yes, she had pictured him just
like that. Yes, this must be her secret tutelary deity, who did not want
himself to be known to her. Yes, yes, this was the hero she was wont to
dream of, with the beautiful blue eyes, the noble features, and the
handsome figure!
Poor girl! That was not her benefactor. That was Rudolf Szentirmay, one
of the noblest and most patriotic of the younger noblemen of Hungary,
already happily married to the lady of his choice, the Countess Flora.
He had no thought of her whatever. But she had got the idea into her
head that he _was_ her benefactor, and nobody could drive it out again.
She begged and prayed Dame Kramm repeatedly to show her, if even at a
distance, the man who had so mysteriously taken charge of her fate. But
when, at last, the good-natured lady had resolved to satisfy her desire,
it was not in her power to do so; for Abellino no longer appeared in
church on Sundays. Nay, he had not, as usual, given her the three
thousand florins for the coming month personally, but had sent it to her
in advance by an old lackey.
What fine calculation!
Dame Kramm could only believe that the unknown gentleman was determined
at all hazards not to approach the girl, and that an effort would have
to be made to find him. She therefore humbly asked the lackey whether it
was not possible to catch a glimpse of his master in a public place,
even if only at a distance and but for a moment.
The lackey replied that his master would be visible at the public
session of the Upper House of the Diet on the morrow, and that he would
be sitting opposite the fifth pillar.
Oh ho! So he was a great nobleman, then--one of the fathers of the
Fatherland who are occupied day and night with the thought of how to
make the realm and the nation happier! And still greater confidence
arose in her heart. He to whom the destiny of the realm is entrusted
could scarcely be a fribbler!
Dame Kramm informed Fanny that she would be able to see her unknown
benefactor on the morrow in the Diet; that she could pick him out from
among the throng without anybody being the wiser, and that the whole
affair would only take a moment or two.
So Fanny went to the gallery of the Diet, where Dame Kramm pointed out
to her her mysterious benefactor.
Fanny fell down from heaven forthwith. She had expected to see some one
quite different. The face which Dame Kramm pointed out had no attraction
for her. On the contrary, it filled her heart with a feeling of distrust
and consternation. She hurried Dame Kramm away from the gallery, and
carried her poor disillusioned heart home. There she took her aunt into
her confidence, and revealed everything--her dreams, her ambitious
longings, and her disappointment. She confessed that now she
loved--yes, loved--a man who was her ideal, whose name she knew not, and
she begged to be defended against herself, for she felt tottering on the
edge of an abyss. She was mistress of her own heart no longer.
Next day, when Dame Kramm came for Fanny to take her to the
singing-master, she found Teresa's house deserted. The doors and windows
were shut, and the furniture had been removed. Nobody could tell where
she had gone.
She had taken it into her head to flit in the night-time. Her rent she
had deposited with the caretaker, unknown porters had removed
everything, and she had left no address behind for kind inquirers.