VENUS AND HER SON.
Idalia was the baptismal name of the Lady of Madocsany; her other name
was Venus. This name is often found in calendars even at the present
day, and was quite customary in this part of the country. With this name
at her baptism, a fatal ban was pronounced upon her. The Lady did not
know that she had inherited not only the beauty of the goddess, but also
her nature too. When she loved, she loved with mad passion, and when she
ceased to love, she hated in the same way, and her hate was deadly.
"Venus armicida." Her passion never cooled. It only changed its flame,
but always burned in one way or another. She had married early the man
of her choice, a handsome hero when he married her, a broken-down old
man when he left her a widow, though the number of years between was
only eight. It was said he had drunk himself to death. Perhaps there was
a magic drink mingled with his wine.
Idalia had so thrown herself into the Olympic life her name justified
that she had her little son baptized Cupid. The poor Slavic priest was
made to believe that this was only the childish name for Cupa, who was
known to be a national saint and martyr. In one house lived Venus and
Cupid. The lady cherished her son with truly animal love; everything was
allowed him. She never let him out of her sight even in her love
adventures. The child could remember several such instances when they
had galloped off three in the saddle,--the knight, the child, and the
mother. Lady Idalia had run away from her husband, but every time had
cajoled her way back. Tihamer Csorbai was the last object of her
passion, and because this remained unanswered, she had been most
furious. She destroyed every hindrance between the two. Blood must flow
to separate Tihamer from his first beloved. Idalia's husband must sink
into his grave that Tihamer might be more closely united to her, and now
the whole plan had been made futile; she had found Tihamer again, but as
Father Peter. The man she had adored was now a permanent guest within
her house, but farther from her than ever before. Not earthly hands, but
heavenly fields, separated them; and how many projects of insurrection
did her heated brain plan against hated Heaven. In the warm, starlit
nights of summer, from the room of the monk below, rang forth the
mournful psalms with which he stormed Heaven. At the same time, the lady
sat in her balcony and struck her harp and sang enticing songs, telling
all the secrets of a passion-torn soul. The song was intended for a
confession of love. Did Father Peter hear? He must have heard them. Is
every feeling in his heart turned to stone that he cannot feel nor
awake?
"Sit down on the edge of my bed, Father Peter," whispered the child,
uneasily tossing about on his sleepless couch "I have something to say
to you. Either the devils or the good spirits brought you here."
"Why do you say that, my child?"
"Before you came, my mother was very fond of me; she always called me,
'my diamond,' 'my ruby,' 'my saint,' 'my little dove,' or 'my little
angel.' When she took me in her lap, she kissed me to the very finger
tips; whatever I asked her for, she gave me at once, or if she did not,
I pulled her hair, and then she would laugh and kiss me again. She never
looked cross at me, but now that you are here, I am of no further value
to her. I am no more her 'diamond' or 'golden treasure;' when she looks
at me, she makes such a face that I have to run away. If I ask my
prettiest for something, she puts out her tongue at me. If I make the
smallest mistake, she whips me with rods and threatens me with the lash.
If I try to kiss her, she spits like a cat. This makes me think that the
devils brought you here."
The monk answered nothing, but stroked the boy's head with his hands,
and the child prattled on.
"But when I stop to think how good you are to me, that you won't let my
mother abuse me, that you make excuses for me when she scolds me, that
you take the lash right out of her hand; when I make a mistake, you
don't tell her anything about it; when she gets angry with me, you
soothe her with gentle words; that you never hurt me, never get angry at
me, always entreat me kindly, and warn me gently; then I think it must
be the good spirits brought you to this house."
The monk took the boy's cold hands in his and warmed them.
"Now, day before yesterday, I begged her so prettily to take me up in
her lap, because my head hurt me very badly, and if she would just kiss
it once the pain would go right away, she scolded me for it. She said my
head pained me because I ate so many unripe peaches and honeycakes, and
she took away the honeycake that you brought me,--would not let me taste
it even, but threw it to the little dog Joli,--how could I help crying?
That made her very angry, and she made a face at me like those she makes
at her maid when she pulls her hair, or at the haiduk when he pours the
sauce over her gown; and when I knelt before her, begging her not to be
angry, she took a large buckle out of her cap and threatened me with it,
and then she hissed at me through her teeth, 'You bastard! Oh, if you
were not in the world!' I was afraid she would murder me. I begged her
to put that cruel thing back into her hair. 'You'd better pray God, or
you'll go the way of the Cseiteburg children. Go, get the Fool to tell
you why the dead weep nights in the Cseiteburg.' So to-night, when I
went to bed, while you were singing psalms in the next room, I begged
the Fool to tell me the story of the Cseiteburg children, until he
finally consented, and told me."
The child still trembled under the impression of the story, and his
teeth chattered.
"Now come close to me, so that nobody can hear. I don't dare say it out
loud. Now then! Once upon a time, there lived in the Cseiteburg a
beautiful lady, a widow who had two little children just my age, twins
that came into the world together, and always played together. The
beautiful lady fell in love with a handsome knight who came often to the
castle, and whom she wished to marry. Once the knight said to her, he
would like to marry her if there were not 'four eyes in the way.' The
beautiful woman thought he must mean the four eyes of her two children,
and that he would not marry her because there were these two children of
her first marriage. So she called Mistress Dorko, the old nurse of the
children, and said to her 'Take these two pins,' and with that she drew
two long gold pins out of her cap, 'and go lead the children out to play
in the forest; when they have played enough, and grow weary, put them to
sleep in your lap and thrust these long pins through their temples. The
handsome knight shall not say that there are "four eyes in the way" of
our love.' The bad old Dorko did as her lady commanded. She took the two
little boys out into the wood to play, waited until they had grown
tired, then took them in her lap and told them about the fairy Helen
until they fell asleep: then she drew out both the big pins and stuck
one of them through the head of one of the boys. The other boy woke at
his cry, and when he saw what old Dorko had done to his brother, he
began to cry and beg her not to stick the pin through him. He promised
her a cloak with buckles, horses, carriage, and a piece of land, if she
would spare him. He promised her the whole of Cseiteburg, as soon as he
inherited it. But the wicked nurse could not be moved by his tears and
prayers, she pierced the second one through with the big gold pin, and
then she left them in the depths of the forest, covered with dry leaves;
the cuckoos sounded their funeral knell, and the nightingale sang their
death dirge. The same day came the handsome knight to the beautiful lady
in the castle. And the beautiful lady said to him, full of joy, '"The
four eyes" are no longer in our way, the two children lie out there
covered with leaves, the cuckoo has tolled them to the grave, the
nightingales have sung for them. Now you can make me your wife.' The
handsome knight was beside himself at these words. 'Alas, beautiful
lady, beautiful widow! I did not mean "the four eyes" of the children,
but our own four eyes were in the way of our love.' And thereupon he
fled out of the castle, and never came back again. Since then, the
ghosts weep all night long at Cseiteburg. This is true, isn't it, Father
Peter?"
"A foolish story, sprung from a Fool's brain. Don't believe it, my
little one."
"But I do believe it, for I've seen the beautiful lady myself. Her eyes
rolled so wildly, she drew her lips together, she gnashed her teeth, and
her hair streamed down her back, and as her cap fell back, she seized
the pin in her hand--and I almost felt its point in my temples!"
"Don't think of it any more. Don't give way to your fancies."
The child seized the monk's hand in both of his:
"You won't leave me, will you? You won't let anything happen?"
"Don't be afraid, my son; I will stay with you always, no one shall do
you any harm. I will take care of you, and protect you."
"But why do you not love her, then? My two eyes are not in your way. How
often have we fled from this house together on horseback, my mother and
I with a knight; she never would let me go from her side. And then when
we came back in a carriage, she fairly wore me out with her kisses,
called me her sweet child, and when we came back to my father, she would
hold me out, and I must beg him in his anger not to draw his sword
against her. I caressed his cheeks, that he might be cajoled into
forgiving. I never failed her, and why is she angry with me? Why?
Because you do not love her. Do love her. Throw off your monk's cowl.
Marry my mother. Be my real father. Do as she demands. Love her! Love
her! Then will she be as sweet as honey, and as beautiful as a fairy.
But when she does not love, she is as bitter as gall and as hateful as a
witch."
Father Peter quieted the child in his wild imaginations, until he fell
asleep again.
The sound of a harp and passionate songs of love floated through the
night air. Father Peter left the child's room with agitated feelings,
and hurried along the corridors to the balcony where Idalia confided her
heart's sorrow to the forest and the stars. The sound of his step
aroused the lady from her dreams. She looked at him in surprise as he
approached. Father Peter took her by the hand, and drew her into the
room. Idalia's heart began to beat violently. She thought that the hand
which he now laid on her shoulder would draw her to his breast, until
now ice, now melted by the volcanic glow of her love.
"Kneel down," said the priest, "Confess your sin at once."
"What sin? You know all," murmured the woman, while she sank down under
the iron pressure of his hand.
"Your past that as yet has no name--what you carry about in your
heart--that monster must be stifled while it still exists only as a
thought. What is this thought of yours?"
The woman was silent for a time, meditating contradiction and crafty
evasion, but at length she yielded and said in a whisper, "I intended to
kill my child."
"Cursed be the heart in which such a thought could arise."
"If my heart is the mother of this monster, yours is the father; such
devils result when fire and frost come together."
"Are you mindful of God and the future life?"
"Don't speak to me of God or of the future life! When I go there, and
see God face to face, I shall say: I am the one--I did it! Hadst Thou
given me cold blood, I might have been a frog, but thou gavest me warm
blood, and I became a human being. Hadst Thou created me man, I might
have been a Cain; Thou hast made me a woman, and I have become an Eve.
In this way didst Thou fashion my woman's heart; it was Thou that didst
create my passions, that didst make my eye a magnet, that didst give my
lips their charm; it is Thou that dost send thoughts to the wakeful, and
dreams to the sleeping; and now wilt Thou condemn Thy own creation
unheard? If Thou art my Creator, Thou didst create me thus; if Thou art
all-knowing, Thou knewest this before."
"Woman, blaspheme not God!"
"Is then truth blasphemy of God? What is my crime,--that I love you?
What then are you in the sight of God, that you are surrounded by such
enkindling darts? Are you His archangel--His cherub? Turn not away from
me; I am not going to reproach you--not you, nor the saints, nor God. It
was not Satan taught me all this. I have read the great book that you
call Holy Scriptures through from beginning to end. I have tried to find
a place in it which counts the love of woman as a sin, but I have found
none such. It was only a human being who could hit upon the unnatural
thought that there were human beings who could not love. Let the cowl
cover the man who could impose such a covering--whose heart dared not
beat under it. Is not such an act a sin against God? Is not this the
murder of a human being--this slow killing of one in the likeness of
God? Does the poisoner do anything worse when he gives his victims the
means of passing away slowly? Have not other men discovered the antidote
for it? You do not know this perhaps. See! As easy as it is to put on
this sable cowl, this shroud for a living body, just so easy is it to
strip it off. Do not flee! Stay here--listen to me. I might have a sin
to confess. I promise you I will not kill, but I will call back into
life a dead man, and that is indeed a sin heavy enough. You are this
dead man. I have mourned you hundreds of times. Allow me to call you
forth from your cold tomb by my tears. Listen to me. We will go from
here right to Transylvania, where the Hungarian belief flourishes. We
will go out to the Protestant church. Many are doing it already, you
know. A third of the land is Protestant; I am sure they cannot all go to
Hell. Nobody can persecute us there. See! I have two iron chests full of
treasure; there we can live like lords in luxury and splendor, such as
you were accustomed to before you gave over your lands to the Jesuits.
We'll snap our fingers at the world. Or, if it pleases you better to be
poor and God-fearing, I am willing. I will go with you to the poorest
village, where there is a tower with a weather-vane; there you shall
become a Calvinist preacher, a rector, or a Levite; I will be your
faithful wife; will wash and weave, spin flax, and endure misery; I will
become God-fearing, my lips shall forget to scold and curse, and shall
learn to sing psalms. If I should become quarrelsome, you may beat me,
shut me up, and make me fast, and I will be always faithful to you;
only throw aside this cloak of death."
The temptation was strong. When passion and sorrow blend together in one
flame, then perhaps the heart of a dead man may withstand. But the youth
was protected by his talisman--that other face on the other side of the
Waag. The monk's cowl alone would not have protected his heart against
these darts; his ascetic vows, the sacred oil, would have been a weak
safeguard against the charm of this Circe. But the loving, suffering
face of the maid of Mitosin stood between them like Heaven. The sunbeam
smites in vain on the summit of the Alps, for this is already in Heaven,
and Heaven is cold. Tihamer had left his heart before the altar in
Mitosin,--it was not to be found.
"Return, poor sinner," he said with the gentleness of a confessor, "God
will pardon your rebellious thoughts, and will set you free from this
evil spirit that has possessed you. Learn to pray."
"I will not learn to pray!" cried the woman excitedly. "When you read
the liturgy at mass, I always say to myself: It is not true! It is not
true! It is not true! When you sing the hymn of praise to the Holy
Mother, I murmur to myself, Love me, and not the Virgin Mother; You are
my life! you are my death! you are my devil! you are my idol! if you
wish to make me blessed, make me blessed here below, and in the future I
will be condemned in your stead."
"Then let your condemnation begin here below," said Father Peter,
aroused from his monastic calm. "For if it is true that you can love a
man to the extent of despising the whole world and renouncing the
blessedness of Heaven, then indeed will it be the torments of Hell for
you to see the man you love passing daily before you like the vision of
one dead, like a ghost in the clear daylight, like a phantom in a living
body--to see him, and to say to yourself, 'You put to death this man,
you threw this shroud over him, you closed the grave upon him, and
neither violence nor prayer nor the magic of Hell can wake him up
again!' It was you who killed me. I am your victim. I am the ghost that
pursues you. I am your judgment from God!"
Idalia shuddered convulsively as she lay on the ground, and bit her bare
arms.
"When I was sent here to you," continued Father Peter, "I begged the
Prior to send me into the desert of Arabia among the wild Druses rather
than to your house: he left me only one choice, I might go as servant of
the Holy Inquisition in Spain, or come here. I made my choice. I
preferred to endure torture rather than to torture others. But believe
me, he who endures the touch of hot oil does not suffer such torment as
I do when your hot breath touches me; and the Spanish boot does not so
crush the bones of the victim, as my heart is crushed under your
accursed passion; and yet I came here although I knew that you would
pursue me with this frightful love of yours: and I shall stay here,
although I know that you will very soon torture me to death with your
still more frightful hatred. Your house is my torture-chamber--I am here
to suffer to the end."
Idalia fell lifeless upon the cold marble.
"May God pardon you," whispered the youth, "I pardon you. May you be
able to pardon yourself."
With that he raised her up from the floor, held her firmly with his
strong hands by the shoulder, and so compelled her to remain seated and
look him in the eye.
"Finally, rest assured that I will accomplish what I was sent here for;
your son will I guard, protect, and train to good. Let no one venture to
do him any harm. The Fool I shall drive from his side, and shall no
longer suffer him to poison the child's dreams with his frightful tales.
You have cast him off. I will adopt him; and from this time he shall be
my son, and shall never again come near you. I am prepared to have you
deal with his spiritual father as you did with his father in the flesh."
With these words, he let go his grasp and withdrew. Idalia stood for
some time like a living statue in her white gown, while her flowing hair
enveloped her bare arms. Then she shuddered and dragged herself to the
wall, like a wild beast fatally shot; there she found a support on which
she laid her head--it was cold marble, the base of the statue of her
dead husband. The cold stone cooled her, perhaps,--the fever that
throbbed in her temples.
Father Peter went back to his lonely quarters, and found the child still
resting quietly as he had left him. The child was sleeping sweetly and
smiling in his dreams.