Pesth, and I was therefore obliged to pass a crucifix erected at the
corner where Kreuzgasse opens into Tabakgasse. It was a weather-beaten,
insignificant affair, such as is rarely seen in the cities, but more
frequently met with on country roads and in poor villages, and was
evidently as old as the quarter of the city in whose midst it stood;
Kreuzgasse undoubtedly took its name from it. A century and a half
before, when the “inner city” became too small for the population, and
a few bold colonists built the first houses outside the wall upon the
loose sand of the Rákos, the founders of the Theresienstadt erected at
the same time this crucifix, probably to place the new quarter of the
city under the special protection of the Crucified One.
The artless piety of these people required no external stimulation by
works of art. Their religious feeling did not demand a beautiful and
monumental form for the object of their reverence, and was sufficiently
intense to be satisfied even with a badly-colored image, a shapeless
wooden cross. The crucifix just mentioned was a proof of that touching
power of faith, which understands how to transfigure even the rude and
ugly with the nimbus of reverence. It is difficult to imagine a less
beautiful and imposing structure than this crucifix. Two rough beams,
fastened into the form of a cross, on which was nailed a piece of iron
shaped into the outlines of a human figure, that was all. The hand of
some Beotian, doubtless very devout, but totally ignorant of the beauty
of oak blackened by age, had smeared the cross with a coat of the most
hideous shade of brick-red, and painted on the iron, with much
goodwill, but very little art, the image of the Saviour.
A hundred and fifty years do not pass over so primitive a work of art
without some trace. In many spots on the iron, now half corroded with
rust, the color had come off entirely; the Redeemer’s image lacked an
eye, only a small portion of the crown of thorns remained, the legs
showed especially comprehensive damages, the face and breast were
covered with rust stains, which looked like dried drops of blood and
produced effects which the “artist” certainly had not intended. Even
the wood had not been left untouched by the tooth of time; countless
cracks and crevices intersected the entire length of the beams; one
could not expect them to continue to oppose the invincible tenacity and
defiance of the oak to the attacks of the drenching autumn rains, the
parching heat of summer, and the fierce blasts of the tempest. When, at
a late hour of the silent night, I walked through the empty street and
passed the cross, I heard distinctly the monotonous tapping of the
wood-beetle, whose jaws vied with decay and disintegration to
accomplish the destruction of the crucifix.
This description has probably convinced everyone that the cross in
itself was neither remarkable nor valuable; yet the sight of it always
made me thoughtful, nay filled me with a certain emotion. Poor, iron
Saviour! There he stood, deserted by God and man. No one prayed to Him,
no one offered vows, He was in everyone’s way. The generation that
placed Him here, the other generations, whose hearts He had filled with
devotion, had died long ago; in this age and environment He was alien
and desolate. Most people passed the crucifix without vouchsafing it a
single glance. True, in rainy weather it attracted a certain degree of
attention, but this was wholly profane. As it stood exactly in the
center of the narrow sidewalk, no one carrying an open umbrella could
pass between it and the wall, so there was only the choice of shutting
the umbrella and walking several paces under the streaming eaves, or
keeping it open and leaving the sidewalk, that is, wading several paces
through mire a foot deep. Both equally aroused the wrath of pedestrians
against the obstacle in their path, and they complained that the
magistrates allowed such hindrances to traffic.
A crucifix degraded to be a hindrance to traffic! Could it fail to lose
its sanctity in the eyes of the populace? No one raised his hat, no one
made the sign of the cross in passing. Only plain peasants still knelt
devoutly before it, and the birds used it as a welcome resting-place.
The swallow, seeking food for her nestlings, wearied by the busy
exercise of her maternal duties, perched for a moment’s rest on the
Saviour’s outstretched arm and, at the foot of the crucifix, an old
beggar woman frequently crouched, letting the worn, distorted features
of the Crucified One plead for sympathy and alms for herself.
At a certain time a momentous change suddenly occurred. Workmen began
to demolish the corner-house, whose faithful Eckart the crucifix had
been for a century. And in fact it was not too soon. The low structure,
built of unbaked bricks, which looked as if it had sunk to its knees in
the earth, its windowless wall facing the street, its mouldering,
moss-grown shingle roof, and horribly dirty courtyard, no longer suited
the modern city with its fashionable boulevards. As at that time I
expected to be obliged to pass through this street for a considerable
time longer, I followed every change for the better in its physiognomy
with very natural interest. I watched with satisfaction the rise of
lofty scaffoldings, which indicated the erection of a new building
several stories high, the piles of brick, heaps of sand and building
stones, and the throngs of masons and hod-carriers. Only when, one
morning, I again passed by and noticed the rapid progress of the
demolition, I suddenly observed that the crucifix was missing. It had
been there the evening before, now it had vanished. It had been torn
from the ground in the night, a rude hand had hacked the wood and
broken the iron, the cross at the corner no longer existed.
I will not deny that its disappearance grieved me. I was so accustomed
to see it several times a day as I hurried by. A beggar at the corner,
a swallow’s nest under the cornice, a flower seller in front of the
door, may gain importance in a man’s habits of life; why not also a
crucifix at the crossing of two streets? The thought that I should
never again see that shabby old iron image, the rude red cross, filled
me with regret. I involuntarily asked myself whether anybody in the
world would miss the poor old crucifix. Hardly. And yet, forgotten and
forsaken as it was, it must still have had one faithful friend. Traces
of a care-taking hand were often visible on the cross; many signs
showed that now and then some one still remembered it. The thick layers
of dust and dirt which usually darkened the Saviour’s painted face were
often carefully washed off, though the wind soon renewed them; on many
feast days a modest wreath, a little bunch of flowers, adorned the
cross, and on the great festivals of the Catholic Church an ancient
lantern, behind whose red panes glimmered a dim little light, hung
before it.
While still thinking of the unknown person who had addressed me through
the attentions lavished upon the ancient crucifix, a new figure that
appeared on the scene aroused my interest. An old woman, shabbily but
neatly dressed, came up the street and suddenly stopped, as if rooted
to the earth, when she noticed the absence of the cross. With an
emotion which she was unable to subdue, she clasped her hands and gazed
fixedly at the hole in the ground where, for a century and a half, the
cross had been set. Several minutes passed ere she recovered herself
and hastily approached a man who was giving the workmen directions—he
was evidently the overseer of the building operations.
“Sir,” she said in a trembling voice, “the cross has been taken away.
Could you tell me what has been done with it?”
The person addressed stared at her a moment, then, with a rude laugh,
answered: “What has been done with the cross? Why, what should be done
with it? Somebody used it to cook his supper!”
With these words he turned from the old woman and continued his orders
to the workmen.
I approached the aged dame and asked sympathizingly why she had
inquired about the fate of the cross? At first she did not reply, then,
after a short pause, she said in an agitated tone:
“If I should tell you, perhaps you would laugh, like yonder fellow.”
I assured her of the contrary, and my expression probably confirmed the
truth of my words, for she allowed herself to be persuaded to open her
heart to me.
“You see,” she began, “I am an old woman—seventy-five years—and I have
no relatives left in the world. All my kindred, all the friends of my
youth are dead, and this old cross was the sole object which reminded
me of the happy days of my childhood. What do I say—object? It was a
friend, a living being that could speak to me. I was born in the house
which they are tearing down. I played at the foot of the crucifix when
I was a little child. Later, when I grew older and began to go to
school, my mother told me to kiss the cross whenever I passed it,
because then God would help me and I should repeat my lessons well at
school.
“In those days the cross was not so old and unsightly as it became
afterward. The image of the Christ was kept freshly painted, and had a
beautiful gilt halo around its head. And the people showed great
reverence for it. You know,” she added, glancing with a peculiar
expression upward to the steeples of the neighboring synagogue, “at
that time this neighborhood was almost exclusively Catholic, and not
one of these men would have passed without at least lifting his hat and
crossing himself. The crucifix was always adorned with flowers, images
of the saints, and wreaths, and the master of the house kept a light
burning before it. Corpus Christi Day was the most beautiful holiday in
the year to the girls in the house. Then the procession passed, and we
adorned the cross with flowers, leaves and ribbons. It was our task,
and we performed it so gladly.
“Don’t laugh at me, but from my earliest childhood I regarded ‘our’
crucifix as my friend and patron. If, when a little girl, I wished for
anything, I slipped out of the door, late at night, when there was no
one in the street, went to the cross, clasped my arms around it, and
said softly: ‘Dear Jesus, I pray Thee, give me this or that!’ If I
received it, I went out again and thanked the crucifix for it.
“I grew up and people said that I was a pretty girl. Then I made the
acquaintance of a young student, who visited me two years—and afterward
married me,” she added hastily. “He always spent the evening with me,
and, when he went away, I accompanied him first to the gate, where we
lingered a while, and then to the corner, where we paused again. If he
wanted to kiss me when we parted I would not permit it—the presence of
the crucifix shamed me.”
“But not always!” I interrupted, smiling.
The old dame pretended not to hear my remark and hurriedly continued:
“My lover obtained an appointment in the city and married me. On my
wedding day my girl friends adorned the crucifix as beautifully as if
the Corpus Christi procession was to pass. A year later a son was born,
a beautiful child, fair, blue-eyed and chubby; when I went out,
carrying him in my arms, people stopped, took him from me, and never
wearied of kissing him. He grew finely and learned to walk and to talk,
then he suddenly fell sick and the doctors said he would die.
“One night”—the old woman’s eyes filled with tears at the memory—“I was
watching beside his little bed. The physician had told me that he would
scarcely live until the next morning. I thought my heart would break,
and I should go mad. Toward midnight the child grew quieter and fell
asleep. An irresistible yearning, to which I could not help yielding,
seized upon me. I lived near; opening the door, I rushed hither through
the darkness and did as I had always done. Weeping, I embraced the
cross and prayed: ‘Dear Jesus, I beseech Thee, save my child!’ I
returned home greatly relieved—the child was still asleep, it slept
until the morning, grew better, and in a fortnight was well.
“I have already detained you a long time with my talk—to be brief, I
was destined to survive my parents, my husband, my only son, all my
relatives and friends; the single remaining friend of my childhood was
the cross at the corner, and now that, too, is gone——”
I understood the old woman’s feelings, and, deeply moved, bowed and
silently left her.
MEMORIES OF HUNGARY.
III.
THE ALTAR PAINTING.
Who among my readers has ever heard the name of Péteri? Very few,
certainly, and it is no wonder, for one may be a good geographer
without knowing that Péteri is a pleasant little village, four miles
from Pesth, secluded from all intercourse with the world, in the midst
of a charming plain, still untrodden by the iron steed which imposes
upon the earth, wherever he directs his victorious course, fetters
which are very willingly endured.
This quiet hamlet was the goal of an excursion, which I took with a
small party the first of October in the year 1867.
We had started early and were rolling over the boundless Rákos plain.
The landscape presented a marvelously beautiful aspect. In the
background rose the Ofner Mountains, covered with a gray hood of mist;
here and there a single peak was illumined by the rising sun,
displaying a peculiar blending of shades of purple and violet, which
produced the most magnificent effect. The course of the Danube was
marked by a broad mass of vapor, hovering over the stream, as if the
spirits of the ancient Ister, shrouded in clouds, were floating above
their watery domain. Before us the sun was just rising, revealing the
historic plain of Rákos, with its undulating sand-hills, meadows, and
stubble fields, sparsely scattered with solitary, straw-thatched
houses, a few groups of trees, and clattering mills. On both sides of
the dusty high road cows were grazing, which stared at us with scarcely
less curiosity than the little barefooted boy who tramped after them.
The tinkling of the cow-bells blended musically with the notes of the
matin-bells, borne in low, subdued tones by the keen morning air.
Our horses moved so swiftly that the tall clumps of straw, and the
still taller poles of the wells in the pastures flitted past us like
ghosts, and after a drive of barely an hour we reached Keresstur, where
we breakfasted in a tavern which, considering its proximity to the
capital, was incredibly primitive. The hamlet has no remarkable sights
except an old castle where the Emperor Joseph II. once spent the night,
and a little tavern-keeper with an enormous beard. After a short rest
we set out on our journey again. If the road had formerly been
uncomfortable, it now began to be actually bad. The surrounding country
still retained the monotonous character of a plain, but the road
supplied a tolerable alternation of mountain and valley; cliffs and
lakes, owing to the limited space, were represented by huge stones and
deep puddles, between which obstacles the driver zig-zagged with
marvelous skill. It was about nine o’clock when we saw, in the
distance, the little houses and slender, beautiful church-spire of
Péteri.
Péteri, the goal of our excursion, is a very small village, inhabited
by Slovaks, which consists of two parallel streets and a few dozen
insignificant peasant houses, all built with the gable in front. A
stranger must be a very rare spectacle in its streets, for great was
the excitement which we awakened among the inhabitants. Accompanied by
the barking of dogs and the cries of children, we drove slowly on
between the straw-thatched huts, and stopped before the house of the
Protestant pastor, whom we found engaged in the patriarchal occupation
of whipping a large, shaggy black dog, which had been accused by his
wife of the crime of killing chickens.
When the man of God saw us, he let the dog go, and, casting an
embarrassed glance at his coat, which bore numerous traces of rural
labor, he conducted us into his room, which was destitute of a floor.
After exchanging a few civil speeches, we told him that we had come to
see the village church, which, we had heard, was the handsomest in the
neighborhood. The pastor looked astonished, but at once expressed his
readiness to open the sacred edifice, if we were really interested in
it. Clanking several huge keys, he led the way and we followed. A large
open square, with a fountain in the center, surrounded by several
majestic oaks, occupied the space in front of it. Several steps led to
the entrance of this house of God, which, judging from the exterior,
was tolerably plain. The upper one afforded a view of the entire length
of the two streets of which Péteri consists.
The doors creaked on their hinges. We entered, walked directly to the
communion table, which was totally devoid of ornament, and at the first
glance we were irresistibly attracted by a picture hung above the
pulpit between two pillars. The brilliant coloring of the painting
contrasted strangely with the bare, austere appearance of the spacious
interior, which threw it into still stronger relief.
The picture represented the Sermon on the Mount. Christ, attired in
flowing robes, with an ample mantle draped over them, stands upon a
boulder, his indescribably beautiful face illumined by divine
enthusiasm, his radiant eyes most expressively proclaim to us the words
of love and divine wisdom which are flowing from his half-parted lips.
Around him, extending to the distant background, we see a throng of
people in picturesque groups, evidently hanging on the Saviour’s lips;
but only a few figures, immediately surrounding the rock, are executed
in detail. Behind the divine preacher we behold an ascetic, clad in a
garment of skins, his brows contracted in a gloomy frown, and his
bearded chin propped on his hand, evidently pondering over the words he
has heard. Beside him stands a youth, with his arms folded across his
breast, uplifting his clear brow and dark eyes to Christ with fervent
devotion, unheeding the words of a third figure, a doubter, who stands
by his side, and, with the mocking expression of a Mephistopheles,
appears to be whispering something into his ear, while his hand
secretly points to the Saviour. In the foreground two female figures
rivet our attention; one, a large, voluptuous woman, is lying at the
feet of the divine preacher, her face, drenched with tears, expresses
infinite suffering and the deepest contrition; the other, a most
wonderful contrast, possessing supernatural beauty, as with divine
calmness she raises her beaming eyes and, with clasped hands, her whole
figure breathing angelic innocence, listens to the sermon of the Son of
God. The picture is completed by two lovely naked children, who, with
their little round faces turned toward the spectator, are carelessly
playing with a shell which they have found. It is the most magnificent
and yet the most charming scene imaginable. The divine, glorified form
of the inspired preacher; the gloomy ascetic, examining ere he
believes; the devout youth, who hears revelations in every word; the
doubter, who has come to listen and to scoff; the sinful woman, whose
heart is shaken and crushed to its depths by every word of mercy and
heavenly love; the chaste, pure angel, with the gloriously beautiful
face, to whom Christ speaks a kindred language—and, in contrast with
all this, the unsuspecting, ignorant children who, unconcerned about
the great events, the mighty passions and overmastering emotions astir
around them, play quietly with their shell—the impression which this
poetic composition, glowing with the vivid colors of a Titian, produced
upon us is not easily described. We stood a long time before the
painting, unable to express in words our admiration of the masterpiece.
At last I asked the pastor, who had remained modestly at the back of
the church, busying himself with various trifles, if he could not tell
us the name of the artist who had created this beautiful work.
“I really cannot give you his name, I know only that he was a young
Italian. But I see that the painting has deeply impressed you, so you
will probably be interested in hearing some particulars of its origin.”
Accepting the kind clergyman’s invitation, we went back with him to his
house, and, over a glass of wine, he related the following story:
“Péteri formerly belonged to an old count, the last scion of an ancient
noble family, who died, childless, about thirty years ago. His estates
went to a distant relative and, in this way, our village passed into
the possession of a young married couple, who came here soon after the
death of the old lord, to make it their permanent residence. Herr von
F., our new lord, had been an officer for several years, but after his
marriage had retired to private life. His wife was young, bright,
gracious, and possessed beauty unrivaled far or near. They had scarcely
moved here before Frau von F. noticed the dilapidated condition of the
little church, and determined to have a new and handsome building
erected at her own expense. The fact that she was a Catholic, while the
parish was Protestant, did not disturb her in the least.
“It happened about this time that a carriage passing through the
village was overturned, and the traveler within had his foot severely
injured. Herr von F., who had heard of the accident, went himself to
the injured man and invited him to be his guest until he was able to
continue his journey. The offer was gratefully accepted, and the
gentleman was carried to the castle. He introduced himself to his
hostess as an Italian artist, on the way to visit his friend, the owner
of an estate a few miles away, but who had been prevented from carrying
out his plan by the upsetting of his carriage and the wounds received.
The artist probably found his stay here very pleasant, for, though at
the end of a few days he could walk without assistance, he made no
preparations for departure. Under the pretext that he wished to express
his gratitude in this way, he begged his charming hostess to allow him
to paint her; he wished to leave the portrait in the castle as a
memento. After some little reluctance, the proposal was accepted, and
the young artist now had an opportunity to gaze into the lovely woman’s
eyes an hour a day. She was, as has been said, a rare beauty, he was
young and ardent—what marvel that he became passionately in love with
her?
“The farther he progressed toward recovery, the more his depression
increased; this, and the numerous sittings, aroused Herr von F.’s
suspicions and one day he entered unexpectedly when the artist and his
wife were alone together. He saw the youth on his knees before her,
weeping bitterly, while she, bending over him, was trying to comfort
him. The scene which followed was brief but terrible. F. rushed upon
the Italian and dealt him a blow in the face. The insulted youth seized
a rapier hanging on the wall, pressed furiously upon his host, and
would have killed him if the unhappy wife had not thrown herself
between them. At the noise servants rushed in, who seized the raging
artist, thrust him into the traveling carriage into which the horses
had been hastily harnessed, and advised his coachman to drive to his
destination, wherever that might be.
“The affair caused great excitement at the time; Herr von F. refused to
accept a challenge sent to him from Pesth, and his wife, for a long
period, sought refuge on a secluded estate.
“About five months after the scene just described, a box arrived
containing the altar painting and a letter, in which the artist
entreated Frau von F. to think often of him as an unfortunate man, who
had seen the sun of his life rise once for a moment only to lose it
forever. He also asked that the picture might be placed in the
newly-built church, which, after much opposition from the owner of the
estate, was done. The beautiful woman whom you saw in the foreground of
the picture is Frau von F., the youth with the folded arms is the
artist himself.