THE POLISH WOMAN.
"Who is at home here?" inquired a strong sonorous voice at the door of
the headsman's dwelling, and immediately afterwards a shape huddled up
in a grey mantle passed through the kitchen door.
By the hearth were sitting Ivan and the woman of the house, it was a
dark tempestuous night outside; it might have been about ten o'clock and
every door was closed.
The youth and the woman gazed stupidly at the stranger and said nothing.
"Who is at home here?" repeated he, drawing nearer to the fire, in whose
flickering light his smooth handsome young face seemed transparent with
its sharply defined eyebrows, soft but masterful lips and courageous
eagle eyes which gazed fixedly before them.
The youth and the woman exchanged glances. Instead of answering, Ivan
fell to questioning:
"How could anyone possibly enter here?"
"I leaped over the fence," replied the stranger, sitting down beside the
fire without the least ceremony. "The door was bolted and barred;
twice, thrice did I knock, but nobody opened to me. I was forced to get
in somehow."
"How about the dog?" inquired the woman of the house much perplexed.
"I didn't mind him. I know how to talk to dogs. It is a way I have.
There's a plaguey bad tempest roaring outside, the rain is falling in
torrents. I could not wait outside any longer."
"But what do you want here?" inquired the woman, looking into the face
of the stranger with some timidity.
"That is just what I am going to tell you, my dear! But first give me a
glass of water, for I am perishing with thirst."
The woman was involuntarily constrained to obey without more ado.
"And you, my friend, spread out my mantle before the fire!" said the
stranger turning towards Ivan, and stripping from his neck and shoulders
the heavy mantle which was dripping with rain.
The youth and the woman incontinently obeyed his commands as if they
were under a spell.
The mantle was removed, the slim, muscular figure of the stranger was
clearly visible, it seemed too soft for a man's. His hands as they
grasped the beaker seemed white and delicate.
"That is certainly a woman," murmured the headsman's wife to Ivan,
staring suspiciously at the stranger from beneath her thick contracted
bushy eyebrows. Then approaching him and looking him full in the face
she said: "My Dovey! It seems to me that you are in no good way. Whom do
you seek?"
"The master," replied the stranger curtly, resting his elbows on the
hearth.
"Possibly you may suppose this house to be an inn because it lies at the
extreme end of the town?"
"I think nothing of the sort, my pretty mistress. I know that here
dwells Master Zudar, the worthy ferry-master."
"Ferry-master?"
"Yes, ferry-master! Does he not transport men from this world to the
next?"
"How come you to know the master?"
"I have never seen him, yet I know him well for all that. It is not
possible to speak to him now because he is a-praying. He prays regularly
for a whole hour at a time, and then it is not well then to disturb him.
That is why you two are crouching in the kitchen here. You, my pretty
mistress, are Master Zudar's wife, and this young man is his 'prentice.
I know you very well also."
"But who are you yourself then? Speak! What do you want?" asked the
woman much puzzled.
"I shall tell that to the master himself, inside there, when he has
quite finished his devotions. It is his habit every night, before he
lies down, to fire off his gun, then I will approach him. Meanwhile sit
down beside me! Look ye, this bench can very well hold the pair of us,
let us have a little talk together."
The stranger thereupon doffed his little round furred cap and his long
black trussed-up locks fell in curling ringlets about his shoulders.
"'Tis a woman, a woman indeed!" whispered Ivan and the dame of the house
to each other.
The latter now approached the enigmatical shape a little more boldly,
and sitting down beside him, opened a conversation with him.
"What, pray, is your business with my husband?"
"Come, come, my dear creature! You have no right to put such questions
to me. You ought rather to ask me whether I am hungry and would like
some supper. You would not have to ask me that twice I can assure you."
The woman, at this hint, arose sullenly and took from a wainscot
cupboard a plate of hearth cakes which she set before the stranger.
"I suppose, sir, you don't mind eating off the headsman's platter?" said
she.
"Stuff! What if I am of the same profession!"
"Oh, of course! I can see that from those soft white little hands of
yours which are not such as the hands of a man ought to be."
But the words were scarce out of her mouth when the virago uttered a
loud scream, for the little white paws she had just tapped suddenly
pressed her huge fleshy palm so vigorously that every bone in it
cracked.
"Satan take him!--'tis a man, not a doubt of it!" whispered the woman to
Ivan. "He has a hand like an iron vice."
The stranger had an excellent appetite. There was absolutely nothing at
the bottom of the platter when he had finished eating.
"Pardon!" cried he at last, "perhaps I ought not to have gobbled up
everything. Perchance this was set aside for someone who does not happen
to be at home just now."
"Oh, don't be uneasy on that score, we have all had our suppers."
"But this is not the whole family I suppose? Have you no children?"
"Yes," replied the woman, and as she spoke she durst not lift her eyes
to the stranger's face. "I have a daughter."
"Really your own child?"
The woman looked hesitatingly at the stranger, twice she attempted to
speak and twice the words seemed to stick in her throat.
"Yes, my own child," she said at last.
"And have you no other 'prentice but this one, Dame Zudar?"
"No, why should I?"
"And are you two able to carry on the business?--for I suppose there are
all sorts of things to be done?"
"Good heart alive! The less you say about the headsman's trade the
better."
"But why should I not talk about it? It is a regular profession, is it
not, like any other? And just as respectable too, eh? Nay, it is more
profitable than most trades, because there is less of competition in
it. Now, as for me, I have a perfect passion for it. Why, the only
reason why I am here is to come to some arrangement with Master Zudar. I
want to buy of him, my pretty dame, the business which you loathe so
much."
The headsman's wife regarded the stranger with eyes full of doubt and
astonishment.
"You are a very young man for the business," said she suspiciously.
"Oh, as for that, my dear, pray don't imagine that I am going to put up
with all the disagreeables of the profession for the fun of the thing. I
mean to have lots of help I can tell you. I shall live in town and
frequent the best taverns and coffee houses. I shall live like a
gentleman and nobody will know who I am. I shall only appear on the
scene officially when an execution worthy of my skill awaits me--a nice
beheading or something of that sort, you know. Oh! I shall have a fine
time of it I can tell you."
Dame Zudar felt a shudder run all down her back. She durst not look
again at the stranger.
"It is a pity you have not more than one 'prentice now. It looks as if
you had very much neglected the business. I am annoyed at that. It will
be difficult to give it a fresh start. Had you not more than one
apprentice a little time ago?"
"Yes, there used to be another," stammered Dame Zudar involuntarily.
"Then why did you pack him off?" inquired the unknown, picking from the
fire with his delicate index-finger a burning ember, tossing it lightly
on to his soft palm, and thence chucking it adroitly into the bowl of
his little pipe.
The woman and Ivan exchanged a look as if deliberating together what
answer they should give, and then the woman hastily replied:
"He went away of his own accord; the business is a pretty one, but he
got disgusted with it."
"Oh--ho! what a rum 'un the fellow must have been. And has he a better
time of it now?"
"I don't know," replied the virago defiantly. "It is not my business to
find out what has become of my discharged apprentices. He got sick of
this trade and took to another--that is the whole thing."
"You are quite right, my pretty dame, not everyone is fit for this
business. A man must have a natural liking for it. I, for instance,
would never take as an apprentice a man who had not spent some time in a
dungeon, or cooled his heels in jail two or three times running in five
or six years, for all the others are for ever wishing themselves back in
polite society, and want to live in town. And then, too, they are always
sighing and groaning and trying to make out that they are too good for
the business. I don't like such people myself. Those who are likely to
excel in this business show their teeth betimes. Those children who put
out the eyes of birds, nail bats to barn doors, and love to shoot at
little dogs, those are the sort of fellows from which apt pupils can be
trained."
"That is quite true. Why you, yourself, must be the son of a headsman,
or else you would not know all the conditions of the trade so well."
"You've hit it, that is just what I am. My father was an executioner and
my grandfather before him, the business has steadily descended from
father to son."
"Where do you live then?"
"In Poland. Rochow is where my father dwells. You must have guessed
already from my accent that I was a Pole."
"Yes, and from your face too."
"My brother and I divided our heritage between us. He got the Rochow
business and paid me out in cash that I might set up for myself
elsewhere. I heard that the executioner of Hetfalu was getting sick of
his office, for of course he is not growing younger, is he? Come, now!
you silly little thing, you must not be angry with me for saying that!
You know very well that your husband _is_ an old man, and there are lots
of old men who have pretty young wives. There is no great harm in that.
I only asked you whether he _was_ old, because in that case he would be
more likely to seek for repose."
"Yes, young sir, my husband loathes the business with all his soul."
"But there's a great deal of fun in it too, if only you look at it
properly. I have often gone to Lemberg togged up like a swell, with a
fine jewelled pin in my scarf, a gold chain and a little whalebone stick
in my hand. I have turned the heads of two or three fine ladies and
insinuated myself into the best society--and what a joke it was when
they found out who I really was. How pale they all went, and how their
hair stood on end. Ha, ha, ha!"
"But didn't they make you pay for it afterwards?"
"Well, once I was called out by a young cadet. Officers of higher rank
thought it beneath their dignity to fight with me, the utmost they did
was to pitch me out of the window. The lad who challenged me was a
Hungarian, and I promised to appear at the rendezvous. I am afraid,
however, that he waited for me a very long time. I like to shed blood,
but only when I run no risk myself."
All three laughed heartily at this witticism.
"But listen to the sequel of my story. My father has an amiable whim of
his own--he always prefers to have deserters from the army as his
assistants. He is well aware that men of that kidney have practically
renounced the world. Now who do you think rushed into his house one
evening all ragged and travel-stained? Why the very soldier-youngster
who had wanted to fight a duel with me! To avenge his sweetheart he had
shot his captain and had to make a bolt of it."
The woman and Ivan involuntarily looked at each other with terror.
"You may imagine how I laughed the poor youth out of countenance when I
recognised him. Every time I met him I used to say to him: 'Well, what
do you say to our fighting our duel now?' He could not stand such
heckling long. On the third day he skedaddled, and I don't know what
became of the poor fellow. I have little doubt, however, that since then
he has been shot dead."
"If they have not done it yet it won't be very long before they do,"
observed Ivan.
"Hush!"--hissed the woman with a warning gesture.
The unknown did not seem, however, to have noticed this little piece of
by-play.
At that moment the report of a gun was heard from the headsman's window.
At night he used regularly to discharge his firearms and load them again
immediately afterwards. He was afraid that someone might have got at
them in the course of the day and either extracted the bullets or damped
the powder. He did not feel himself safe in his own house, and always
locked the door of his room before he lay down to sleep.
"Now you will be able to have a talk with him if you like," said the
virago. "The girl will come down presently, as usual, to fetch him his
water for the night, you can let her know that you are here and want to
speak to him."
Shortly afterwards the door opened and, with a lighted taper in one hand
and a ewer in the other, the moon-pale little maid entered the room. She
came very quietly, as if afraid of making the slightest noise. Her
beautiful blonde locks had been unloosed, for it was bedtime, and
strayed freely over her smooth snow-white shoulders, her tiny bare feet
seemed to kiss rather than touch the ground.
The stranger gazed at the gentle creature with rapt delight. She did not
appear to notice him in the semi-darkness, as she glided past him
through the vestibule on her way to the well.
"Is that your own child, my fair dame?" asked the unknown, flashing his
eagle eyes full upon the woman.
"Yes, my own child!"
"How fair she is, and how pale!"
The woman laughed.
"While I am so brown and ruddy, eh?"
And again she laughed aloud.
The face of the unknown blushed deeply. One could have sworn it was a
woman. It was the blush of shame that covered his face.
In a few moments the child returned with the filled ewer in her hands.
"Come hither, my little girl!" said the stranger, in a tender,
affectionate voice.
The child started violently.
"Don't be alarmed!" growled the virago. "Don't you hear that this
gentleman wants to speak to you? Are you afraid he will bite your nose
off?"
And with these words she seized the child's hand roughly and pushed her
towards the stranger.
The stranger softly patted the child's little head.
"Don't be afraid of me, my little girl! You have no reason to fear me.
What is your name?"
"Betsey!" replied the virago.
"Ah, why Betsey? Such a coarse, common name for such a tender child! I
would call her Elise, that is far prettier. Besides, the two names mean
one and the same thing."
"Nay, nay, you will spoil the child, sir. As if she was not spoilt
enough by her father already. Peasant folks call their daughters Betsey
or Polly; Elise and Lisetta are the names of gentlefolks' children. You
must not listen to such nonsense, child; but go and tell your father
that there is a gentleman here from Poland who wants to speak to him
immediately before he lies down."
The child timidly withdrew her little hand from the stranger's, who
seemed very disinclined to let it go, and hastened to her father's room.
The stranger thereupon tidied up his clothing, smoothed back his hair on
both sides of his forehead, thereby giving to his features a gentle
amiable expression, and softly tapped at the headsman's door.
"Come in!" resounded a deep melancholy voice from within.
The unknown youth entered and carefully closed the door behind him.
The moment he was well within the room, the smile of frivolous
braggadocio he had lately assumed entirely disappeared from his face;
the defiantly thrown back head bent meekly down; a look of devout
inspiration was visible on the thin lips and in the veiled eyes; the
whole figure of the man seemed to have grown smaller, the shoulders
contracted, the breast receded; he had now the air of a gracious and
benignant missionary.
And a benignant missionary indeed it was who now stood face to face with
the headsman.
The herculean figure of the headsman arose slowly and tremulously, and
while his hand with furtive anxiety sought the hand of the little girl,
he asked the stranger in a scarcely audible voice what he required of
him. Perchance the latter did not catch what he said, he spoke so low.
"Peace and blessing be upon this house!" said the unknown in a voice
full of tender unction.
"Amen, amen!" the headsman hastened to reply.
"Heaven's blessing descend upon thy heart, my son!" said the youth to
the old man raising his hand in blessing.
"He is a pastor, a priest," said the headsman to himself, "he has all
the appearance of it."
Peter Zudar stooped down towards the youth's hand and kissed it. He
durst not touch it with his own hand but with his lips only.
"A priest in _my_ house, forsooth! My child! take the gentleman by the
hand and lead him to the arm-chair, make him sit down! Thy hands are
clean, they may touch him. Oh! a man of God in _my_ house! I never dared
to hope so much."
"I come from afar," said the unknown youth, sitting down in the
arm-chair provided for him, while the old executioner stood before him
bare-headed, with his large muscular arms folded across his bosom. The
little girl wound her hands round his arm and stood beside him.
"I come from afar, I say. I do not belong to your nation, though I
understand your language well enough to be able to converse in it
intelligibly. In olden times the Apostles of our Holy Faith received
direct from Heaven the gift of tongues, we, their unworthy successors,
must, with great labour and weariness, acquire the languages of those to
whom we have to preach the Gospel. I am the member of an English
religious society whose mission it is to seek out those who are
suffering, in whatever rank of life they may be, and endeavour to
administer to them, so far as we are able, those divine consolations
which God so freely distributes to the broken-hearted. We have our
special missionaries for every section of humanity, and we send them
forth continually to minister to their sufferings, and bring them peace
and healing. Some of us are sent to the palaces of the mighty, others to
the hovels of the poor. For everyone on earth has his own particular
sorrow, and everyone finds his own sorrow very hard to bear. Some of us
have chosen the dungeons and jails as our spheres of consolation, others
prefer to comfort the secret woes of family life, others again visit the
needy masses of the work-people. To me has been assigned the task of
ministering to those terrors of evil doers, the public executioners."
At these words the youth looked steadily at the face of the man, who was
standing there before him, with downcast eyes and quivering lips.
"For the last nine years I have been going about in this strange world
of mine," continued the youth. "I have learnt something of the deepest
wounds and of the sublimest woe. All the suffering in this department of
sorrow is very much alike. Some can hide their wounds better than
others--that is the sole difference. There are amongst these headsmen
cold impenetrable natures, hearts closed against the world, whom it is
very difficult to get at. And then again there are devil-may-care,
extravagant, passionate dispositions who fancy they can find oblivion in
wine, excitement, and other external delights. And then, too, there are
defiant, haughty souls, who mock and jeer at those things which ordinary
people are afraid of--but at the bottom of all their hearts it is the
same worm that is ever gnaw-gnawing. Some of them die young, others grow
grey, and have a late old age before them. And it is the selfsame worm
which kills the one and will not let the other die. I have known among
them men who, drink as they would, could never get drunk. I have known
others who loathed the sight of wine and yet have been haunted by
phantoms in broad daylight. The evil was always one and the same. Yes,
and the mercy of God is always one and the same likewise."
"God's mercy is indeed over all!" stammered the headsman.
"And if this endless mercy did not cover the earth what could defend all
living beings from judgment? If the Lord were one day to proclaim: 'Let
Justice prevail in the world instead of Mercy!' must not we all be
instantly consumed by the divine vengeance? The Lord does not look at
the outward appearance of men but at their hearts. He judges him who
charitably distributes alms at the church door to make up for the secret
sins that he has carefully concealed at the bottom of his heart, and
raises once more the broken-hearted sinner who has fallen beneath the
stress of temptation."
The headsman slowly sank down upon his knees before the chair of the
unknown, and rested his folded arms against it.
"What are we after all? Impotent tools in the hands of all creative
Power. Greater in the eyes of God is humble weakness than haughty
strength; dearer to Him is the repentant sinner than the man who boasts
of his virtues. All that is power is His gift, and His gift must needs
return to Him again. Strength will turn to dust, merit will become but
as an empty sound, God's mercy alone will endure for ever. Heaven is
always open to him who seeks it."
The youth tenderly stroked the old man's hands whilst he tried,
tremulously, to draw them away.
"Oh, sir, touch not my hands!"
The youth seized one of the executioner's hands by force and drew it
towards him, looking as he did so, now at the old man's hand and now at
his face. Then with his delicate index-finger he pointed at the
headsman's forehead.
"I see here a whole network of wrinkles," said he, "and this cross of
ill-omen here betokens the anguish of a heavy heart. Thy hand trembles
in mine because it feels upon it spots of innocent blood."
"True, true!" groaned the strong man, hiding his face in his hands.
"Thou hast executed a death sentence upon a man whose innocence shortly
afterwards became as clear as noonday."
"So it is. You can read right into my heart. It is even as you say."
"This thought haunts thy mind continually and the mark of it is on thy
forehead."
And at that moment could be plainly seen on the old man's forehead the
deep cruciform mark of the intersecting furrows.
The youth laid his fresh cold hand on the man's forehead.
"Who can tell why the Lord hath ordered it so? Who can tell whether the
blindly executed convict did not deserve his punishment after all? Who
knows whether he was not worse at heart than he who actually committed
the bloody deed? What if he wished his father's death, and therefore was
guiltier than he who carried out that wish? A wise monarch in the East
once hung up twelve robbers by the roadside, and placed watchers there
at night to guard the bodies. While the watchers slept, the comrades of
the robbers cut down the body of their leader and made off with it. The
awakened watchers, full of the fear of punishment, hung up a wayfaring
peasant in the place of the missing body. An innocent man!--And behold
when they searched the baggage of the peasant's mule they found the
bloody limbs of a freshly murdered traveller! 'Twas the judgment of God.
But suppose that the youth whom thou didst execute was really innocent?
Who shall dare to say, even then, that Heaven distributes death by way
of punishment? What if it were sent as a favour, as a reward?--Once, in
the olden times, a God-fearing couple prayed Heaven to bestow its
greatest reward upon their twin sons for their filial piety, and next
morning they were found dead.--Who knows from what calamity Heaven may
have saved him by dealing him that blow? Might he not have grown base
and vile had he been spared? Might he not have been plunged in misery
and ruin? Might he not have become a murderer or a suicide? Might he not
ultimately have come to die on the selfsame scaffold, aye, and deserved
it too? Only He is able to answer all these questions before Whom the
future lies clear and open. We can only see through a glass darkly; we
do not even know when we ought to laugh or when we ought to weep."
The youth removed his hand from the old man's forehead, and, lo! that
ugly wrinkle had been smoothed away, and the headsman could raise aloft
eyes full of comfort, and folding his hands across his huge heaving
breast, he began to stammer softly:
"Our Father...!"
When he had pronounced the "Amen!" the unknown youth raised him
tenderly from his knees, and the pale little girl embraced the old man's
arm and leaned her head against it.
"Hast thou not always had about thee here Heaven's messenger of mercy?"
said the youth, pointing to the fair child. "Has not Heaven sent her to
thee without any effort or foreknowledge on thy part, so that even to
this day thou canst not tell from whence she came?"
The man tapped his bosom:
"Sir," said he, "read into my heart. You know everything."
The stranger thereupon turned to the little girl and addressed her in a
gentle tone which instantly inspired confidence.
"My good little child, go downstairs and tell them to put my horse,
which I have left standing outside the gate, under cover, lest it be
drenched by the storm."
"I myself will lead it to the stable and give it food and water."
"Thank you, my little girl."
Little Elise sought for something in the wardrobe, and, concealing it in
her apron, went out.
The stranger looked after her till she had closed the door behind her. A
solemn silence then prevailed in the room, the youth looked at the old
man in silence as if he expected him to speak.
In a short time Peter Zudar approached the door and opened it--in the
kitchen all was now dark.
"They are asleep now," he muttered, partly speaking to himself, partly
addressing his words to the stranger. "The woman has gone to rest, the
lad is with the horses, the child will remain in the kitchen, she has
something to do there I know. This, my good sir, is the time for us to
talk. Outside there is nought but storm and darkness, I cannot let you
go further on your way while it is like this."
It was only after much persuasion that the old man consented to sit down
beside the youth and began to speak.
"I am an old man, sir, my hoary hair speaks the truth. I have gone
through a great deal. My father also was an executioner, and my
grandfather before him. I inherited 'the business' so to speak. In my
younger years I was wild and frivolous. I loved racket, wine, and
boisterous mirth. A sort of heavy indescribable load oppressed my heart
continually, a sort of blinding darkness enveloped me which I would
gladly have chased away had I only known how. This heavy mental
oppression, this black weariness tortured me more and more, according as
my sad reminiscences multiplied with my advancing years, and I drank
more and more wine, and plunged all the more recklessly into vile
debauchery in order that I might not hear all round me those faint sighs
and moans which troubled and terrified me most when there was not a
sound in my room, and I was all alone. My acquaintances used to laugh at
me because I sat all alone drinking silently till far into the night,
just as they used to laugh at me afterwards for sitting by myself and
singing hymns."
The fellow sighed deeply and was silent for a time, as if he were trying
to gather up again the threads of his scattering thoughts.
"You may perhaps have noticed a woman outside there. That is my wife. I
married because I fancied that I should thereby find rest for my soul. I
imagined how happy I should be if I were to have a child. I should then
have something to knit me to life, to the world again. No, I said to
myself, he shall not inherit the curse of my abhorred existence. I will
choose for him a career in which he will be happy, honoured, and
respected. I will provide him with a comfortable maintenance and have
him educated far from me and my house. I will make a worthy, honest,
sensible man of him. For two years I comforted myself with such visions
and was happy. My mind shook off its horrors and became bright and
cheerful. And then--then I began drinking heavily again. Evil memories
commenced assailing me worse than ever, and my fair hopes abandoned
me--for life and death, sir, are both lodged in a woman's heart, and
some find the one and some the other. Once more I was visited by that
midnight sighing, by that speechless moaning, by those voices that
terrified my solitude and pursued me sleeping and waking, and I began to
drink and run riot again once more."
The man hid his drooping head in his hands. Even now those dreadful
memories weighed him down when he thought upon them.
"Suddenly I began to be deaf. A continuous humming sounded in my ears
which kept me in a perpetual whirl. I did not understand a single word
unless I looked at the lips of the speaker. I never noticed anyone
coming into my room until I suddenly caught sight of him. Oh! deafness
is indeed a horrible torture. The deaf man is far more completely shut
off from the world than the blind. At first I hid my wretchedness lest
they should make sport of me. Nobody is merciful to the deaf. Whenever
two people talked to each other in my presence I fancied they were
plotting against me. I feared to go to sleep lest I should be murdered
without hearing my door burst open. And then, too, in the night, in the
darkness, in my lonely deafness, I had an ear all the keener for those
sighs and moans which nobody could hear but myself. And in vain I drank,
in vain I sang riotously. After every bumper of wine it seemed to me as
if I was plunged more and more deeply into a roaring bottomless sea, and
at last I could not even hear my own howling. Then my soul died away
within me, I cast myself despairingly on my bed, and then for the first
time in my life it occurred to me to pray. The only thing I could think
of to say was: 'My God! my God!' as I wrung my hands, and the tears ran
down my cheeks."
And at these words tears stood once more in the headsman's eyes.
"That night I slept quietly, nothing disturbed me. Thus I slumbered for
many hours like one dead, and was only awakened at last by a feeling of
moisture all over my face. I had been lying face downwards, and a rush
of blood had come through my nose and mouth and wetted my couch. I
arose, douched my face in a large tub of water, and felt that my head
was very much relieved. I no longer heard that roaring sound as of a
deep sea rolling over me; there was no more whispering and moaning
around me; but, instead of that, I heard through the deep stillness of
the night the crying of a child. The crying of a child in my own house!
I fancied it was but a dream-voice--for was I not deaf?--and that
instead of a pursuing, the voice of an enticing spectre was now sounding
in my ear. But again the crying of a child penetrated to me from the
room where my wife usually slept. What could it be? I walked thither,
and lo! I could hear the soft pattering of my own footsteps. I must walk
more softly, thought I. And I did walk more softly, and then I also
heard distinctly the light cracking of the boards beneath my feet. And
through it all the weeping of that child sounded continuously. The door
was only closed by a bolt. I slipped it softly aside so that not a sound
should be heard. Softly I opened the door. And behold! on the table in
the middle of the room was a tiny babe. The night-lamp flung a
flickering flame across its face, it could not have been more than a
couple of months old. It was wrapped up in fine swaddling clothes, a
tiny embroidered chemise covered its little body, and its wee round head
was covered by a deep cap trimmed with pearls, from underneath which
welled forth tiny little ringlets like fine gold thread. Just like those
little painted angels of whom you only see the heads peeping out of the
sky."
The unknown smiled so sympathetically at the childish simile of the old
headsman.
Then Peter Zudar's face again grew clouded, he drew his chair closer to
his guest's and thus continued:
"My wife was not in the room. Her bed was empty and I could see through
the door, which she had left open behind her, that a large fire was
flickering in the kitchen. My wife was busy with something at the hearth
and with her was her mother, a sly, wicked old woman, whom all the
people hereabouts look upon as a witch. What were they doing there so
late at night I asked myself? The younger woman was holding a pan over
the fire and the elder was casting into it all sorts of herbs. There was
nothing to be afraid of, and yet they were speaking to each other in
whispers and peering timorously around. I know not how the thought
occurred to me, but I suddenly thrust into my bosom the little suckling
lying on the table and carried it off into my own room. There I laid it
down upon my bed and put into its hands again its plaything of little
bells which it had dropped, whereupon it ceased to cry. Then I returned
to watch and see what the two women would do next. The contents of the
pan were already frizzling. Now and then it boiled over into the fire
and the flames shot up all round it. Then the old woman would skim it
carefully with a spoon. And all the time they were muttering together:
"'Are you sure nobody is awake?'
"'No, everyone is asleep.'
"'How about the old Knacker?'
"'He is drunk by this time and so deaf besides that he could not even
hear the blast of a trumpet.'
"At last they finished what they were about, poured the mess into a
large dish, and the pair of them came back again into the room. And
there was I standing in the midst of it! It had the effect upon them of
a thunderbolt. The old woman let fall the dish and the young one rushed
at me like a maniac:
"'You deaf hog, you! what have you done with the child?'
"'Don't bawl so loudly, my good woman,' I said. 'I can hear you just as
well if you speak softly.'
"'What have you done with the child?'
"'Don't be uneasy about it, it is in a safe place.'
"'You old fool, you; you will bring the whole lot of us to ruin. Do you
know what you are doing?'
"'I know this much, that however you may have got hold of the child it
shall not fall into _your_ hands again. I will take it and care for it
myself, and whoever dares to come into my room after it shall have good
cause to remember that I am the public executioner!'
"And with that I went into my room and locked it behind me. The women
cursed aloud and hammered at my door, and the old witch threatened to
undo me in all sorts of ways; but I quietly and comfortably got out my
milk-warming machine and heated a mash of breadcrumbs and milk over my
spirit lamp. When it was ready I took the little child upon my lap and
fed it nicely myself. Then I made a cradle for it out of my coverlet,
which I slung upon a beam, and rocked it to sleep, and when I looked at
it in the morning it was still slumbering."
After saying these words the headsman took out of a little cabinet a
small bundle, carefully wrapped up in paper, and, unwinding it gradually
from its manifold wrappings, set out its contents before the stranger.
In the parcel was a dainty little child's smock, a pair of socks, and a
baby's cap trimmed with pearls. Everyone of these items was marked with
a red "E."
"I keep these things as souvenirs," he continued. "This crisp little
smock, this baby's bonnet embroidered with rosebuds and forget-me-nots,
are more precious to me than all the treasures of life, for to them I
owe the soothing moments which poured balm into my soul. It was by the
side of this child, sir, that I learnt to pray. Something whispered to
me that this child was sent to me from Heaven. And so it must have
been. Nobody under heaven loves me save she, and I love nobody, nothing
else in the world. I have never tried to find out who the child might
be, nay, rather I have trembled lest she might one day be discovered and
demanded back from me. But all these years nobody has inquired after
her. I fancy she must have had a bad mother whom they told she was dead,
and she was glad to hear it. Perhaps she even wished it to be killed.
Ah! sir, there are those born outside the headsman's house who ought to
end their lives on the headsman's threshold. Never for one hour's time
have I quitted that child. I taught her to walk, to talk, I prepared all
her food for her, and now she prepares mine for me. I have eaten no
cooked food which her hand has not made ready. While she was still but a
wee thing I watched by her bed while she slept, now she watches over me
while I sleep. When I go a journey she comes with me, I never leave her
behind. Only one thing troubles me when I think of her: What will become
of her when I die? what will become of her when she grows up?"
The youth tenderly pressed the old man's hand, and said to him with a
voice betraying some emotion:
"Don't be uneasy! Thou hast been a good father to the child, if thou
shouldst die I will find a good mother for her. Make a note of this name
and address: 'Maria Kamienszka, Lemberg.' Whenever thou dost write to
the above address on this subject thou shalt receive an answer with
full information. Nay, perhaps thou mayest hear sooner from that quarter
than thou desirest."
The old man kissed the youth's hand and stammered some unintelligible
words of blessing.
At that moment the door opened, and little Elise came in with two
glasses of wine-soup on a platter from the kitchen.
She placed the fragrant steaming drink on the table, spread beneath it a
snow-white diaper, and with her sweet gracious voice invited the
stranger to partake thereof, as it would warm and comfort him.
The stranger gently stroked her sweet pretty face, kissed her fair head,
and touching glasses with his host, emptied his own at one manly gulp.
"And right good it is, my little hostess! It has made quite a man of
me."
The old man needed far more pressing. The little girl had to taste it
first to put him in the humour for it. It was quite clear that this
adopted father ran a great risk of being spoiled.
Peter Zudar's face was now quite bright and cheerful.
"Ah, sir!" said he to the stranger, "I have never felt before as I feel
now. My heart feels as light as if no load had ever lain upon it. I feel
myself a man. How long will you remain with me? I hope it will be for a
long time."
"It cannot be, my worthy fellow, my vocation summons me elsewhere. By
the way, hast thou any apprentices or assistants who require spiritual
consolations?"
Peter Zudar's face grew dark at these words.
"I have only one 'prentice," said he at last, "and, sir, waste not any
words of the Lord upon him--one must not cast bread before dogs."
"Hast thou no other?"
"Not long ago this 'prentice of mine brought a stranger to my house.
Early next morning, before I could see him, he escaped through the loft
and over the fence, why or whither I know not to this day. This was not
the first case of the kind."
"Then my mission to this house is ended," said the stranger, sighing
involuntarily. "Accept from me this little Prayer Book as a souvenir; as
often as thou dost read it thou wilt find consolation. On its cover is
the name of that lady whom thou must not forget."
The old man pressed the little book to his lips and concealed it in his
coffer.
"And I, what shall I give, what can I give to you, my spiritual
benefactor, and, after God, my regenerator, as a token of my gratitude;
what can I give you, I say?"
The stranger hastily replied:
"If I might be so bold as to ask for something, give me the half of thy
treasures, the little embroidered baby's cap."
For a moment the headsman was overpowered with astonishment, then he
quickly undid once more the little bundle of clothes, drew forth, the
pearl-trimmed cap, regarded it steadily, and a tear fell from his eye
as he did so, then he kissed it, and handed it to the stranger without a
word.
"If thou dost find it so hard to part with it I will not take it."
"Nay, it will be well disposed of," whispered the old man, and he
pressed it into the hand of the youth, who thrust the little relic into
his bosom.
"And now God be with thee, and go and lie down, for it is late. As for
me, I have a long journey to make before daybreak."
The headsman would have gone with him to help him to saddle his horse,
but the stranger restrained him.
"I will arouse thy lad," said he, "I have a word for his ear."
"But the watch-dogs are vicious."
"They will do me no harm."
The stranger would not be persuaded. On reaching the kitchen he wrapped
himself in his mantle, and after inquiring whereabouts near the stables
the 'prentice usually slept, took a lighted lamp in his hand and went
forth into the courtyard.
The mastiffs when they beheld him slunk away, growling timidly and
uneasily, and only began to bark with all their throats when they found
themselves safely behind the house. Those strange eyes had the effect of
a spell on man and beast. Meanwhile the headsman could be heard singing
within his room the hymn:
"Ere slumber fall upon mine eyes."
The youth hastened towards the night-quarters of the headsman's
'prentice. On the way thither he encountered the young woman. He pinched
her ear and tapped her on the shoulder.
"Get along with you, you naughty boy!" said she.
And then the virago sauntered back into the kitchen, leaving her guest
to go where he liked.
His quest was an easy one now. He had only to proceed in the direction
from whence the woman had come. Ivan feigned to be asleep.
"Hie! my little brother! up! up!" cried the stranger, and tugged at the
fellow's hair till he opened his eyes in terror.
"Well! what's the row? what do you want with me?"
"What do I want? I'll very soon let you know, you rascal, get up, I
say!"
Ivan made no very great haste to obey.
The stranger wasted no more words upon him but began buffeting him right
and left, till his head waggled on his shoulders.
Full of fury Ivan started up from his couch and fell upon his tormentor;
but the latter, with serpentine agility, clutched the fellow's throat
tightly with his right hand and pressed his head against the wall, while
with his left he held a large pistol in front of his nose.
"You dare to move, you rogue, that's all, and I'll spread you out over
the wall like a painted picture."
The lad was awed by the unexpected strength of that fist and the
threatening proximity of the pistol.
"But, sir, what in heaven's name have I done?" he babbled. "Who are you,
and what do you want of me?"
"Who am I, eh? I am a police-sergeant, you rascal. I am pursuing a
deserter, whom you have concealed. Come, speak, what have you done with
him?"
Ivan had already begun to recover himself a little.
"I'll tell you the truth, I will indeed, only let me go. It is true that
I enticed a deserter hither, but it was not to conceal him."
"You did not bring him hither to conceal him, eh? You lie, you dog.
Another falsehood, and I'll tie you to my horse's tail and drag you all
the way to Dukla. What did you do with him?"
"I'll tell you everything, Mr. Sergeant, I am a man of my word. It is
true that I enticed a young gentleman here, at one time I was his
lackey. Later on we became soldiers together. I was subsequently
discharged because I was growing blind. I am speaking the truth, I was
blind then. The young man had confidence in me, and one day, when he saw
me in the street at Dukla, he implored me to hide him."
"What were you doing in Galicia?"
"My master sent me to buy horses, but I could not get any fit for us. I
am speaking the truth, I assure you I am."
"Do you know why that man deserted?"
"Yes, he shot his captain because of a woman."
"Did you hear the woman's name?"
"I heard it, but I have forgotten it."
"You lie. You know it now. Come, out with it!"
"I'll say it then--Oh! my throat!--the Countess Kamienszka."
"Did you hear it from him?"
"No, it is my own idea, for he wrote her a letter while about to fly and
sent me to the post with it, that is what put them on his track, I
should think."
"That is none of your business, where is the man now? Don't lie! I shall
know if you do, and in that case I will make an end of you at once."
"He is safe enough now, Mr. Officer, I assure you. He escaped before
daybreak, but I denounced him, and he was arrested at the house of his
own father."
The stranger dashed the fellow's head furiously against the wall, then
flung him on the floor and kicked him.
"You denounced him, eh? Oh! you detestable dog!"
"But what is the matter, sir? Why do you strike me again? Surely I did
right? I had him arrested, and they locked him up. He is in the pillory
already, I daresay. What harm have I done?"
The stranger made an effort to master his passion, and, controlling his
rage, answered coldly,
"What harm have you done, you fool! Haven't you made me take all my
trouble in vain, and done me out of the promised reward to those who
ferret out and hand over deserters. You dare to meddle with my affairs
again, that's all!"
Gnashing his teeth, he kept his pistol grasped firmly in his hand; he
would very much have liked to have beaten the fellow's shaggy poll about
with the butt end of it.
"Go and saddle my horse this instant!"
Ivan was only too delighted to get clear of the narrow little room where
he was so close to this dangerous visitor's muscular fists, and went to
saddle the horse. While so employed, he could not help reflecting that
the nag was just a trifle too good to be bestridden by a secret
police-agent.
The stranger did not wait till he was ready, but hurried after him. Then
he quickly mounted his horse, and presented something to Ivan.
"Here, take that!"
The fellow dodged his head, thinking he was about to get another buffet.
Then the stranger flung a thaler at his feet.
"Take that, you dog, for your trouble. And now open the gate!"
The horse splashed the 'prentice's eyes and mouth full of mud as the
stranger galloped away.
At the sound of the rapidly retreating hoofs the headsman thought to
himself: "That was Heaven's own gracious messenger." The headsman's
young wife, however, sighed: "Ah! that _was_ a gay gentleman." But the
'prentice growled furiously: "It was old Nick himself."
And with that he picked up the thaler, wiped the mud off it, put it in
his pocket, and then turned furiously upon the watch-dog and kicked out
one of its teeth.
"Take that for not barking!" cried he.
* * * * *
The whole house of Hetfalu was still in mourning. The doctor from town
looked in every day. There were two invalids to be seen to. Young
Szephalmi was able indeed to go about, but he was like a worm-eaten
plant, there seemed to be but little life within him. Old Hetfalusy, on
the other hand, had altogether succumbed to his woe, he had taken to his
bed, and was frequently tormented by epileptic fits.
The doctor, worthy Mr. Laurence Sarkantyus, regularly every day
deposited his round-headed bamboo cane in the doorway, rubbed his
short-cropped grey hair all over with his pocket handkerchief for a
minute or two, felt the respective pulses, wrote out prescriptions for
unguents and syrups; ordered baths, blisters, clysters, and cold
douches--and all to no purpose, as both patients seemed to dwindle away
more and more day by day. The only really doubtful point seemed to be,
which of the two would bury the other?
One day, when Dr. Sarkantyus was superintending the preparation of a hot
bath, a light chaise drove into the courtyard of the castle, from which
our unknown friend descended, dressed in a stylish black frock coat,
and shod with elegant calfskin shoes. His long hair was combed back and
smoothed down behind his ears on both sides, and he had an eyeglass
cocked knowingly in one eye. Altogether he looked very different from
what he was when we last saw him. His characteristic _sang froid_, that
peculiar rigidity of the lips, that faint furrow in the middle of the
forehead between the eyebrows, and the gravity of the somewhat languid
face, made the metamorphosis complete. A savant, a scholar of practical
experience, a cosmopolitan physician stands before us.
He inquired for Mr. Szephalmi. The servants at once announced his
arrival, and presently a broken-down, prematurely aged man appeared,
with sunken cheeks, pale withered lips, and staring eyes starting from
their sockets, and with but the ghost of their former brilliance and
expressiveness.
After the first greetings the stranger handed him a letter. Szephalmi
broke it open and read it with an apology for so doing, and all the time
his hands trembled.
The letter was from his friend, Ambrose Ligety, who informed him that
the bearer of the letter was a famous physician, who had just come from
France, and cured maladies by means of magnetism. Would he allow this
doctor to make experiments upon the old squire? He had reason to believe
that such experiments would not be thrown away.
Szephalmi sighed deeply, and conducted the stranger into the parlour
where he beckoned him to take a seat. As yet they had not exchanged a
single word professionally.
Then Szephalmi went into an adjoining chamber, where he encountered Dr.
Sarkantyus, and showed him the letter.
Dr. Sarkantyus thereupon told him that his honour, Judge Ligety, was a
big donkey, that the French doctor was a still bigger one, but that the
old gentleman would be the biggest one of all if he allowed himself to
be meddled with. Let them try it, however, by all means, if they choose,
he added.
Nevertheless, he could not help going out to have a look at this
miraculous _Scaraboeus_ that professed to be able to cure men with the
tips of its antennae.
The young man greeted him with refined courtesy, and the Doctor anxious
to show him that he understood French, addressed him in what he supposed
to be that language, a smattering of which he had picked up as far back
as the time of the Emperor Napoleon I.
"Vooz-ate oon medesen, monshoo?"
"Oui, monsieur, mon collegue."
"The Devil is your collegue, I am not!--Vooe-ate oon magnetizoor,
monshoo?"
"Oui mon cher bonhomme."
"Zate--oon--sharlatanery, monshoo!"
"Comme toute la medecine, monsieur."
Dr. Sarkantyus put both hands behind his back, measured the young man
first from head to foot, and then from foot to head, scratched his own
head violently, and retreated precipitately.
And now Szephalmi rejoined the stranger, and begged him to come in and
see the invalid.
In the adjoining chamber where old Hetfalusy was lying, the curtains
were drawn and the floor was covered with carpets, so that no light and
no noise should disturb the sufferer.
On the lofty bed lay a motionless figure, with closed eyes and hands
folded across his breast, a motionless, helpless bit of earth, worse off
indeed than other bits of earth, because it had the consciousness of
existence.
The stranger approached the bed, seized one of the cold bony hands,
tested the pulse and laid his hand on the invalid's forehead. It might
have been a corpse that lay there. The eyes did not open, the blood
scarce seemed to flow through the veins, the respiration was hardly
perceptible.
"He lies like that all day long," said Szephalmi to the stranger.
The youth took his rings from his hands, asked for a glass of water, and
drew the tips of his fingers first round the rim of the glass and then
along the eyeballs and the temples of the old man in a downward
direction.
Szephalmi stood beside him with a dubious expression. The young man at
once observed it.
"You, sir, are also a sufferer," said he; "my method can cure you also."
Szephalmi smiled bitterly--galvanised corpses may smile in the same
way.
"The balm that is to cure me does not exist," said he.
"My method does not depend on material substances. You shall see. In an
hour's time you shall have actual experience of my treatment. Your cases
are very much alike."
"How so?"
"They are due to the same cause. The hidden seat of the evil in both
your cases is the mind, both of you are suffering from terrible
bereavements, you have lost your wife and two children, the old man his
daughter and two grandchildren."
The sick old man drew a long and deep sigh at these words, but his eyes
still remained closed. Szephalmi sat down on a chair beside him, hid his
face in his hands, and fell a weeping.
The young unknown continued to draw his fingers softly round the rim of
the glass, producing a ghostly sort of low wailing sound.
"The water will become magnetic before long," said he, "and then we
shall see."
"Yet," pursued he, "there is an even more evil malady than the sorrow of
bereavement, and that is--remorse. You are both troubled by the bitter
memories of an irrevocable past. You did not always love your children,
your grandchildren, as you do now that they are both dead--and this is
the greatest affliction of all."
At these words the sick Hetfalusy opened his eyes and gazed at the
speaker in astonishment.
Szephalmi stammered sorrowfully:
"Oh, sir! why do you torture us with these words? They make the poor old
man's heart bleed."
"I see. Already he begins to revive. The medicine is a violent one, no
doubt, but for that very reason all the more efficacious. Suffering
supervenes, and in suffering lies the very crisis of the malady. But a
few more drops of this water. So! The reaction will be still more
violent presently, as you shall see. The sick man will groan and have
convulsions. Cold drops of sweat will exude from his temples. After
that, however, he will grow calmer, and the cure will be complete if God
help us."
The youth continued to magnetise the water.
"The sick man's greatest pain proceeds from the recollection of those
years when first you made the acquaintance of his recently deceased
daughter."
"What do you know, sir, of those years?" stammered Szephalmi, much
surprised.
"As much as a doctor ought to know whose business it is to cure the
hearts of his patients. He strongly opposed the marriage of the girl
with you. He was wrong in so doing. True affection when excluded from
the right road seeks out secret paths for itself. You discovered for
yourselves some such secret path."
"Sir!"
"Hush! The patient is groaning. The cure is operating. These secret
relations had consequences which could not be hidden. Your wife became
a mother before she was yet your wife. Pardon me, sir, but it is as a
doctor that I address you."
"How do you come to know all this?" faltered Szephalmi, in a scarcely
audible voice. "And when it was kept so secret too!" he thought to
himself. The same instant the old man made a violent effort to rise from
his bed and compel the speaker to be silent.
"It is having a strong effect, a very strong effect," said the youth,
feeling the sick man's pulse. "His pulse is beating ten strikes more a
minute than it did just now. Squire Hetfalusy," he resumed, "on hearing
these evil tidings flew into a violent temper; he was always a very
passionate man. He told his daughter that if she did not kill her child,
he himself would kill the pair of them. He would have married her to
someone else, to a rich man of high rank. This unlucky accident must be
kept secret. The girl was very miserable. Her brother stood forth in her
defence, and took her part against his own father, and his father cursed
him in consequence, expelled him from the house, and forbade him ever to
show his face there again. And the uninvited guest, the little suckling
who had no right to be born, also atoned for its fault; they said that
it was dead. Oh, how the sick man is pressing my hand with his cramped
fingers! This method of treatment is working wonders."
Szephalmi sank back into the depths of his arm-chair and shivered as if
with an ague fit.
"The rich man, however, abandoned the bride on the very day of the
wedding, and in that same year the elder Hetfalusy suddenly grew grey.
You see, sir, I am well informed. A doctor ought to know every little
detail relating to a case if he is to cure the patient. The father was
now ready to let his daughter marry her former lover, but you were no
longer inclined for such a marriage. One day, however, the girl went to
you of her own accord, with the face of a lunatic, and threatened..."
"Hush, sir! for Heaven's sake!"
"Ah! how much more rapidly his blood is circulating. His muscles are
twitching, his lips are convulsed, his arteries begin to throb--the girl
threatened to reveal the fact that she had killed her child and so mount
the scaffold, unless you made her your wife."
The sick man began to throw about his arms, and cold drops of sweat,
like transparent pearls, welled forth from his forehead. Szephalmi arose
and walked about the room wringing his hands.
"Who told you that?" he asked the stranger, suddenly planting himself
right in front of him.
"Softly, sir, you are disturbing me. The patient is about to take a
favourable turn, look how he is sweating. His sufferings are violent,
and I am glad to see them, it shows that his vital energy is returning.
Repose is a symptom of death, pain is a sign of life. Let us go on with
our magnetising. These long passes from the temples to the shoulders
work wonders. The whole soul of the sick man now clings to the thought
that just because he himself cast forth his first grandchild, which he
hated, therefore God took from him the other two which he loved. Notice,
sir! that heaving bosom, those fiery red eyes, those swelling lips--all
of them are in their way the interpreters of that one thought. God has
punished him and you, the father and the grandfather; He has removed
from you the blessing which you rejected of your own accord, and now you
stand by yourselves in the world, so lonely, so comfortless, joined to
each other by nothing but the recollection of a terrible loss."
Szephalmi buried his head among the pillows of the speechless invalid
and sobbed bitterly.
Then the youth arose and took the old man's hand in his hand, gazed
steadily into his burning eyes with his eyes, and with a voice of
exaltation thus addressed the unhappy wretch, who seemed to be bearing
in his bosom all the torments of Hell:
"Suppose someone were to come here to you now and say, 'Behold! that
outcast child, whom you wished to think of as dead, nay, or murdered!
whose birth you cursed, and whose death you prayed for, I now give her
back to you!'--how would you feel?"
The sick man there and then drew the youth's hand up to his lips, and
with an effort raised himself up in his bed. His lips were wide open,
his tongue babbled something unintelligible, while Szephalmi regarded
him with amazement, and tugged away at his own hair like one possessed.
The youth put his hand into his bosom and drew forth the little baby's
cap embroidered with rosebuds and forget-me-nots, and held it up before
the two men.
"What if someone were to restore to you the darling wearer of that
little cap? What if I were to tell you that a single consolation still
remained to you, an angel sent from Heaven in whom you could learn to
rejoice once more? What if I were to tell you that she had grown up as
gentle and as beautiful as those angels who are permitted to minister to
the earth?"
At these words the father knelt down at the stranger's feet and kissed
his hands in a transport of joy, while old Hetfalusy, in a sort of
paroxysm threw himself off the bed, made a snatch at the little
pearl-embroidered cap, and exclaimed in a piercing voice:
"Elise!"
The remedy had indeed been efficacious. The old man was actually sitting
up and had recovered the use of his tongue.
The broken-down old man, who had been in a state of collapse, now
violently seized the youth's arm with his still tremulous hand, and
groped his way along it till he was able to touch the little cap with
his lips.
"Elise, Elise, wore that! How beautiful she was!" he cried.
"Where is she?" sobbed Szephalmi, hiding his face in his hands.
"Now she is indeed beautiful. She is in safe hands too. She has found a
loving father who guards her as the apple of his eye. And she is wise as
well as beautiful. Her glorious eyes are as blue as the expanse of
heaven, and radiant with innocence and goodness. Her lips are as small
as wild strawberries, and when she smiles her pretty little face is full
of dimples."
"Yes, yes, she promised to be like that!" stammered Szephalmi, pressing
the stranger's hand to his heart.
But old Hetfalusy was sitting up in bed and insisted upon getting up.
"I am going. I am going for her. Lead me to her. I will fetch her."
"Softly, softly, sir. Lie down again! Remember that I am a doctor, and I
have still to cure you. You must continue to lie in bed for some time,
and cannot yet see your grandchild. The girl is with folks who love her.
Her adopted father is all love, you have been all hatred. You must first
be cured of that evil sickness."
"Of what sickness? I am no longer sick. I am quite cured."
"Of hatred. You have a cast-off son who perhaps at this very moment is
standing on the threshold of destruction. You have no thought for him.
You have still some hard stones in your heart. Those stones must first
of all be pulverized and dissolved. Now if this son of yours were
standing here, and you were to stretch out your arms to him and say, 'My
child!' then you would be cured, then you might very well say, 'I am no
longer sick.'"
"And shall I not see my child till then?" wailed Szephalmi.
"Sir, you are very exacting."
"Ask of me what you will, I place all my property at your disposal. If
you will not bring my child hither, at least take me where I may see
her. You need not tell her I am her father, I only want to exchange a
word or two with her. Whatever price you may put on such a service I
shall not consider it too great."
"Sir, I am no impostor who wants to make money out of you. The only
recompense I claim for restoring to you your lost child is that you
welcome back the youth who was driven from this home. I have odd desires
sometimes, but I stick to them."
The young man shrugged his shoulders, refolded the little pearl-trimmed
cap, thrust it into his bosom again, and coldly replied:
"And if we cannot save this young man?"
"Then I shall keep my secret and you will never know where the girl is."
Old Hetfalusy sighed deeply.
"Bring me pen and paper," said he to his son-in-law.
The latter looked at him as if he did not understand.
The old man insisted impatiently.
"Place the table here and give me writing-materials, I say."
When he had got what he wanted he beckoned to the stranger.
"Listen, sir, to what I write," said he. Then he arose from his bed,
took up the pen, and wrote with a trembling hand the following letter:
"TO GENERAL VERTESSY,
"SIR,--By a divine miracle I have recovered within the last hour
my power of speech, and the use of my fingers. The very first
word I am able to speak and to write I address to you who have
such good cause to hate me, and that word is--mercy!
I ask of you mercy towards that son of mine to whom I myself have
never shown mercy. I ask for mercy from you who in your judicial
capacity have never shown mercy to anyone. You know full well
that all the faults of this child of mine are due entirely to me.
You know that my cruelty has made life a wilderness to him and
filled him with cynical bitterness--he who was always so
tender-hearted that even an angry look was pain to him. Behold,
sir! the one man who could venture to insult you with impunity
now lies in the dust before you, and begs for your compassion.
And in order that such compassion may not appear as rust on your
iron character, show this letter to the world and say: 'My mortal
enemy has wept before me in the dust in order that I might
condescend to stoop down and raise him up.' Your humbled,
eternally faithful servant,
"BENJAMIN HETFALUSY."
"Would you look at this letter, sir?" asked the old man, turning
towards the stranger--and there were tears in his eyes.
"I thank you," faltered the stranger, and he himself hastened to fold up
the letter and seal it.
"Szephalmi will deliver it."
"Nay, sir, I will see to that myself."
"_You_ will? But who, then, are you?"
"That I will tell you--perhaps--some day."
The old man took the youth's hand in both his, and pressing them warmly,
said in a voice that trembled with emotion:
"God help you!"
At that moment Dr. Sarkantyus peeped in at the door, and was amazed to
see the old man talking and writing the address on a letter with his own
right hand, while his whole countenance was warm with feeling. This
magnetic cure was truly marvellous.
He approached the youth and, bowing respectfully, remarked,
"Mossoo! vooz ate oon anshantoor!"
"Possibly, but why should we not speak Hungarian?" replied the other
smiling.
"Then you are not French?" asked the dumfounded doctor.
"Why should I be? It does not follow because a person may have just come
from France that therefore he is a Frenchman, does it?"
"All the better pleased, I am sure, my dear colleague!"--and then it
suddenly occurred to him that only a short time ago he had said to him
in Hungarian: "The Devil may be your colleague, I'm not!"
"All you have to do now is to give the patient tonics; that won't
interfere with my cure. I shall come back again in a few days, and by
that time I hope he will be quite strong. Till then, let us trust in
God!"
The young unknown then hastened to his carriage, Szephalmi accompanying
him the whole way.
Everyone who had recently seen the old man apparently on the verge of
the grave, and now beheld him completely changed, going about with a
lively irritable temper and rosy cheeks, were amazed at this
wonder-doctor who could perform cures by the mere touch of his
finger-tips.
"He must be a magician!" said they.
* * * * *
The unknown next presented himself at the residence of General Vertessy.
They told him this was not the official hour for being received; at such
times the General was wont to be with his wife. He replied:
"So much the better; what I have to tell him will be better told in the
presence of his wife."
The General was informed of this odd wish, and took to the idea so
kindly that he ordered the young man to be instantly admitted.
And, in a few moments, a handsome, courtly youth stood before him, who
greeted the General frankly and the General's wife ceremoniously. In
his hands he carried a small forage-cap with a border of thin gold
thread round it, and his whole style and bearing testified to the fact
that, somewhere or other, he had been brought up as a soldier.
"I beg your pardon, General, for disturbing you so unconscionably, and
robbing you of your most precious moments, but the business on which I
have come admits of no delay. My name is Count Kamienszky, I come from
Poland, and I bring a petition in favour of young Hetfalusy, who
deserted in the belief that he had shot his captain."
The General's face grew suddenly cold. He had become a cast-iron statue,
just as he was wont to be when on parade.
"From whom is your petition?"
"From the very officer for whom his bullet was intended. That bullet did
not strike home, but stuck fast in his laced jacket; yet it was well
aimed too at thirty paces, just in the middle of the heart."
"And what does the officer want?"
"Pardon for the deserter. He admits that he was in the wrong. He
insulted a woman--I speak with absolute certainty, for I am that woman's
relation--and he would now make good his fault by imploring pardon for
the man who stood forth to wipe out that insult."
"To implore pardon is not enough. What can he say in the man's defence?"
"He certifies that the youth was a pattern of soldierly honour, valour,
and discipline, that his comrades idolized him, his superiors liked
him, and they now unanimously unite in this petition for his pardon. I
have brought letters with me to prove all that I say; be so good as to
peruse them!"
The General took the letters and read them through. He discovered more
than one old comrade, more than one dear friend among the names written
there. The young man had spoken the truth. But what was the use of it
all. The claims of duty only became the more urgent.
"Sir," said the General coldly, folding up the letters again and placing
them on the table, "I gather from your manner and bearing that you were
brought up as a soldier."
"You are right, General. I passed the years of my childhood at a
military institution, and a little time ago I was a soldier myself."
"In that case you must have some notion of the absolute necessity of the
strictest discipline so long as the soldier is under arms."
"I am well aware of it, and it was not that which made me abandon a
military career. If he whom I am now addressing were to say to me, 'I
stand here as a judge,' I should simply withdraw, knowing that my cause
was lost. But, sir, I am now addressing the man that is in you, a man
with a heart, a being blessed with human feeling, 'tis to him that I
would speak."
And the large black eyes of the stranger had such a heart-searching
expression in them that the General turned away from him.
Then, as if still in search of hope and confidence, the youth glanced in
the direction of the General's wife, and her bright eyes gave him in
return such a look of encouragement, as if to bid him not to fear, for
they two were certainly at one in the matter.
But now the General turned sharply round upon the stranger again.
"Do you know what I am commonly called, whether from fear, or fun, or
respect, I will not say, that is all one to me, but do you know what
they commonly call me?"
"Yes, they call you 'the man of iron,' yet even iron melts in a
smelting-furnace."
"Do you fancy there in such a smelting-furnace in the world?"
"I hope so. I have got one more letter for you. I ought to have given it
to you first of all, but I have kept it till last. The handwriting will
be familiar to you. Take it and read it through."
The General was dumfounded when he recognised the handwriting in which
the address was written. The hand which had penned those lines had been
somewhat tremulous, that was plain from the irregularity of the script,
but he recognised it perfectly all the same.
As he regarded it he grew a shade paler.
He opened the letter, and his eyes remained riveted on the very first
line as if he were too astonished to proceed any further.
"Read on, General, I beg. Read it out aloud," murmured the youth; "we
shall see whether the iron will melt or not."
The General stared stiffly for a time at the young man, then he read the
letter through in silence, finally refolding it and thrusting it into
his breast-pocket.
Then he turned to the window, and remained for a long time in a brown
study.
Suddenly he turned once more towards the youth and said:
"Sir, devise some means whereby I may save this man. Find, I say, some
way or mode of salvation compatible with soldierly honour, and I will
pursue it."
The youth, surprised, overcome, rushed towards the General, seized his
muscular hand, and would certainly have kissed it had not the General
drawn it back.
Vertessy was very near losing his composure.
"Stay here!" said he. "There you have," pointing at Cornelia, "a
confederate who would also take the stronghold by assault. Deliberate
together, and devise some expedient. I leave you to yourselves."
And with that he quitted the room, leaving the young man alone with his
wife.
And when he had gone, when the door had closed to behind him, the figure
of the strange youth lost its soldierly bearing, and his limbs with a
painful spasm subsided into that picturesque pose in which artists
generally represent Niobe, or the Daughters of Sion mourning by the
willows of Babylon. Every trace of energy and vigour vanished from his
face, his eyelids closed over his tearful eyes, and his lips parted with
an expression of the deepest emotion. Once more he raised his
languishing head to show his strength of mind, but the effort was
useless. In the presence of a woman such affectation was no longer
possible, and when his eyes met those of Cornelia, he suddenly burst
into tears, fell sobbing on his knees before her, seized her hand,
pressed it convulsively to his breast, and trembling and gasping, said
to her in a voice full of agony:
"Oh, madame, by the tender mercies of God, I implore you to help me and
not forsake me."
Cornelia regarded him with wondering eyes, her shrewd intellect had
already deciphered the enigma, but her eyes still looked doubtful.
"Who are you?" she asked.
The stranger covered his blushing face with both hands and sobbed forth:
"A woman, an unhappy woman, who loves, who is beside herself, who is
ready to die for him she loves."