THE PATRIOT'S HEART
The inside of Paulina's house was a wreck. The remains of benches
and chairs and tables mingled with fragments of vessels of
different sorts strewn upon the filth-littered floor, the windows
broken, the door between the outer and inner rooms torn from its
hinges, all this debris, together with the battered, bruised and
bloody human shapes lying amidst their filth, gave eloquent
testimony to the tempestuous character of the proceedings of the
previous night.
The scene that greeted Paulina's eyes in the early grey of the
morning might well have struck a stouter heart than hers with
dismay; for her house had the look of having been swept by a
tornado, and Paulina's heart was anything but stout that morning.
The sudden appearance of her husband had at first stricken her
with horrible fear, the fear of death; but this fear had passed
into a more dreadful horror, that of repudiation.
Seven years ago, when Michael Kalmar had condescended to make her his
wife, her whole soul had gone forth to him in a passion of adoring love
that had invested him in a halo of glory. He became her god thenceforth
to worship and to serve. Her infidelity meant no diminution of this
passion. Withdrawn from her husband's influence, left without any sign
of his existence for two years or more, subjected to the machinations
of the subtle and unscrupulous Rosenblatt, the soul in her had died,
the animal had lived and triumphed. The sound of her husband's voice
last night had summoned into vivid life her dead soul. Her god had
moved into the range of her vision, and immediately she was his again,
soul and body. Hence her sudden fury at Rosenblatt; hence, too, the
utter self-abandonment in her appeal to her husband. But now he had
cast her off. The gates of Heaven, swinging open before her ravished
eyes for a few brief moments, had closed to her forever. Small wonder
that she brought a heavy heart to the righting of her disordered home,
and well for her that Anka with her hearty, cheery courage stood at
her side that morning.
Together they set themselves to clear away the filth and the wreckage,
human and otherwise. Of the human wreckage Anka made short work.
Stepping out into the frosty air, she returned with a pail of snow.
"Here, you sluggards," she cried, bestowing generous handfuls upon
their sodden faces, "up with you, and out. The day is fine and
dinner will soon be here."
Grunting, growling, cursing, the men rose, stretched themselves
with prodigious yawning, and bundled out into the frosty air.
"Get yourselves ready for dinner," cried Anka after them.
"The best is yet to come, and then the dance."
Down into the cellar they went, stiff and sore and still growling,
dipped their hands and heads into icy water, and after a perfunctory
toilet and a mug of beer or two all round, they were ready for a
renewal of the festivities. There was no breakfast, but as the day
wore on, from the shacks about came women with provisions for the
renewal of the feast. For Anka, wise woman, had kept some of the
more special dishes for the second day. But as for the beer, though
there were still some kegs left, they were few enough to give Jacob
Wassyl concern. It would be both a misfortune and a disgrace if the
beer should fail before the marriage feast was over. The case was
serious enough. Jacob Wassyl's own money was spent, the guests had
all contributed their share, Rosenblatt would sooner surrender blood
than money, and Jacob was not yet sufficiently established as a
husband to appeal to his wife for further help.
It was through Simon Ketzel that deliverance came, or rather through
Simon's guest, who, learning that the beer was like to fail, passed
Simon a bill, saying, "It would be sad if disgrace should come to your
friends. Let there be plenty of beer. Buy what is necessary and keep
the rest in payment for my lodging. And of my part in this not a word
to any man."
As a result, in the late afternoon a dray load of beer kegs
appeared at Paulina's back door, to the unspeakable relief of
Jacob and of his guests as well, who had begun to share his
anxiety and to look forward to an evening of drouth and gloom.
As for Simon Ketzel, he found himself at once upon the very crest of
a wave of popularity, for through the driver of the dray it became
known that it was Simon that had come so splendidly to the rescue.
Relieved of anxiety, the revellers gave themselves with fresh and
reckless zest to the duty of assuring beyond all shadow of doubt,
the good health of the bride and the groom, and of every one in
general in flowing mugs of beer. Throughout the afternoon, men and
women, and even boys and girls, ate and drank, danced and sang to
the limit of their ability.
As the evening darkened, and while this carouse was at its height,
Paulina, with a shawl over her head, slipped out of the house and
through the crowd, and so on to the outskirts of the colony, where
she found her husband impatiently waiting her.
"You are late," he said harshly.
"I could not find Kalman."
"Kalman! My boy! And where would he be?" exclaimed her husband with
a shade of anxiety in his voice.
"He was with me in the house. I could not keep him from the men,
and they will give him beer."
"Beer to that child?" snarled her husband.
"Yes, they make him sing and dance, and they give him beer.
He is wonderful," said Paulina.
Even as she spoke, a boy's voice rose clear and full in a Hungarian
love song, to the wild accompaniment of the cymbal.
"Hush!" said the man holding up his hand.
At the first sound of that high, clear voice, the bacchanalian
shoutings and roarings fell silent, and the wild weird song,
throbbing with passion, rose and fell upon the still evening air.
After each verse, the whole chorus of deep, harsh voices swelled
high over the wailing violins and Arnud's clanging cymbal.
"Good," muttered the man when the song had ceased. "Now get him."
"I shall bring him to yonder house," said Paulina, pointing to the
dwelling of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, whither in a few minutes she was seen
half dragging, half carrying a boy of eight, who kept kicking and
scratching vigorously, and pouring forth a torrent of English oaths.
"Hush, Kalman," said Paulina in Galician, vainly trying to quiet
the child. "The gentleman will be ashamed of you."
"I do not care for any gentleman," screamed Kalman. "He is a black
devil," glancing at the black bearded man who stood waiting them at
the door of the Fitzpatrick dwelling.
"Hush, hush, you bad boy!" exclaimed Paulina, horrified,
laying her hand over the boy's mouth.
The man turned his back upon them, pulled off his black beard,
thrust it into his pocket, gave his mustaches a quick turn and
faced about upon them. This transformation froze the boy's fury
into silence. He shrank back to his mother's side.
"Is it the devil?" he whispered to his mother in Galician.
"Kalman," said the man quietly, in the Russian language,
"come to me. I am your father."
The boy gazed at him fearful and perplexed.
"He does not understand," said Paulina in Russian.
"Kalman," repeated his father, using the Galician speech,
"come to me. I am your father."
The boy hesitated, looking fixedly at his father. But three years
had wiped out the memory of that face.
"Come, you little Cossack," said his father, smiling at him.
"Come, have you forgotten all your rides?"
The boy suddenly started, as if waking from sleep. The words
evidently set the grey matter moving along old brain tracks.
He walked toward his father, took the hand outstretched to him,
and kissed it again and again.
"Aha, my son, you remember me," said the father exultantly.
"Yes," said the boy in English, "I remember the ride on the black
horse."
The man lifted the boy in his strong arms, kissed him again
and again, then setting him down said to Paulina, "Let us go in."
Paulina stepped forward and knocked at the door. Mrs. Fitzpatrick
answered the knock and, seeing Paulina, was about to shut the door
upon her face, when Paulina put up her hand.
"Look," she cried, pointing to the man, who stood back in the
shadow, "Irma fadder."
"What d'ye say?" enquired Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
"Irma fadder," repeated Paulina, pointing to Kalmar.
"Is my daughter Irma in your house?" said he, stepping forward.
"Yer daughter, is it?" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, looking sharply into
the foreigner's face. "An' if she's yer daughter it's yersilf that
should be ashamed av it fer the way ye've desarted the lot o' thim."
"Is it permitted that I see my daughter Irma?" said the man quietly.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick scanned his face suspiciously, then called, "Irma
darlin', come here an' tell me who this is. Give the babby to Tim
there, an' come away."
A girl of between eleven and twelve, tall for her age, with pale face,
two thick braids of yellow hair, and wonderful eyes "burnin' brown,"
as Mrs. Fitzpatrick said, came to the door and looked out upon the man.
For some time they gazed steadily each into the other's face.
"Irma, my child," said Kalmar in English, "you know me?"
But the girl stood gazing in perplexity.
"Irma! Child of my soul!" cried the man, in the Russian tongue,
"do you not remember your father?" He stepped from the shadow to
where the light from the open door could fall upon his face and
stood with arms outstretched.
At once the girl's face changed, and with a cry, "It is my fadder!"
she threw herself at him.
Her father caught her and held her fast, saying not a word,
but covering her face with kisses.
"Come in, come in to the warm," cried the kind-hearted Irish woman,
wiping her eyes. "Come in out o' the cold." And with eager
hospitality she hurried the father and children into the house.
As they passed in, Paulina turned away. Before Mrs. Fitzpatrick
shut the door, Irma caught her arm and whispered in her ear.
"Paulina, is it? Let her shtop--" She paused, looking at the Russian.
"Your pardon?" he enquired with a bow.
"It's Paulina," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, her voice carrying the full
measure of her contempt for the unhappy creature who stood half
turning away from the door.
"Ah, let her go. It is no difference. She is a sow. Let her go."
"Thin she's not your wife at all?" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, her wrath
rising at this discovery of further deception in Paulina.
He shrugged his shoulders. "She was once. I married her.
She is wife no longer. Let her go."
His contemptuous indifference turned Mrs. Fitzpatrick's wrath upon him.
"An' it's yersilf that ought to take shame to yersilf fer the way
ye've treated her, an' so ye should!"
The man waved his hand as if to brush aside a matter of quite
trifling moment.
"It matters not," he repeated. "She is only a cow."
"Let her come in," whispered Irma, laying her hand again on
Mrs. Fitzpatrick's arm.
"Sure she will," cried the Irish woman; "come in here, you poor,
spiritless craythur."
Irma sprang down the steps, spoke a few hurried words in Galician.
Poor Paulina hesitated, her eyes upon her husband's face. He made a
contemptuous motion with his hand as if calling a dog to heel.
Immediately, like a dog, the woman crept in and sat far away from
the fire in a corner of the room.
"Ye'll pardon me," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick to Kalmar, "fer not axin'
ye in at the first; but indade, an' it's more your blame than mine,
fer sorra a bit o' thim takes afther ye."
"They do not resemble me, you mean?" said the father. "No, they are
the likeness of their mother." As he spoke he pulled out a leather
case, opened it and passed it to Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
"Aw, will ye look at that now!" she cried, gazing at the beautiful
miniature. "An' the purty face av her. Sure, it's a rale queen she was,
an' that's no lie. An' the girl is goin' to be the very spit av her.
An' the bye, he's got her blue eyes an' her bright hair. It's aisy
seen where they git their looks," she added, glancing at him.
"Mind yer manners, now thin," growled Tim, who was very
considerably impressed by the military carriage and the
evident "quality" of their guest.
"Yes, the children have the likeness of their mother," said the
father in a voice soft and reminiscent. "It is in their behalf I am
here to-night, Madam--what shall I have the honour to name you?"
"Me name, is it?" cried Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "Mishtress Timothy
Fitzpatrick, Monaghan that was, the Monaghans o' Ballinghalereen,
an owld family, poor as Job's turkey, but proud as the divil,
an' wance the glory o' Mayo. An' this," she added, indicating
her spouse with a jerk of her thumb, "is Timothy Fitzpatrick,
me husband, a dacent man in his way. Timothy, where's yer manners?
Shtand up an' do yer duty."
Tim struggled to his feet, embarrassed with the burden
of Paulina's baby, and pulled his forelock.
"And my name," said the Russian, answering Timothy's salutation
with a profound bow, "is Michael Kalmar, with respect to you and
Mr. Vichpatrick."
Mrs. Fitzpatrick was evidently impressed.
"An' proud I am to see ye in me house," she said, answering his
bow with a curtsey. "Tim, ye owl ye! Why don't ye hand his honour
a chair? Did ye niver git the air o' a gintleman before?"
It took some minutes to get the company settled, owing to the
reluctance of the Russian to seat himself while the lady was
standing, and the equal reluctance of Mrs. Fitzpatrick to take
her seat until she had comfortably settled her guest.
"I come to you, Mrs. Vichpatrick, on behalf of my children."
"An' fine childer they are, barrin' the lad is a bit av a limb betimes."
In courteous and carefully studied English, Kalmar told his need.
His affairs called him to Europe. He might be gone a year, perhaps
more. He needed some one to care for his children. Paulina, though
nothing to him now, would be faithful in caring for them, as far as
food, clothing and shelter were concerned. She would dismiss her
boarders. There had never been need of her taking boarders, but
for the fraud of a wicked man. It was at this point that he needed
help. Would Mrs. Fitzpatrick permit him to send her money from time
to time which should be applied to the support of Paulina and the
children. He would also pay her for her trouble.
At this Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who had been listening impatiently for
some moments, broke forth upon him.
"Ye can kape yer money," she cried wrathfully. "What sort av a man
are ye, at all, at all, that ye sind yer helpless childer to a
strange land with a scut like that?"
"Paulina was an honest woman once," he interposed.
"An' what for," she continued wrathfully, "are ye lavin' thim now
among a pack o' haythen? Look at that girl now, what'll come to her
in that bloody pack o' thieves an' blackguards, d'ye think? Howly
Joseph! It's mesilf that kapes wakin' benights to listen fer the
screams av her. Why don't ye shtay like a man by yer childer an'
tell me that?"
"My affairs--" began the Russian, with a touch of hauteur in his tone.
"An' what affairs have ye needin' ye more than yer childer?
Tell me that, will ye?"
And truth to tell, Mrs. Fitzpatrick's indignation blazed forth not
only on behalf of the children, but on behalf of the unfortunate
Paulina as well, whom, in spite of herself, she pitied.
"What sort av a heart have ye, at all, at all?"
"A heart!" cried the Russian, rising from his chair. "Madam,
my heart is for my country. But you would not understand.
My country calls me."
"Yer counthry!" repeated Mrs. Fitzpatrick with scorn.
"An' what counthry is that?"
"Russia," said the man with dignity, "my native land."
"Rooshia! An' a bloody country it is," answered Mrs. Fitzpatrick
with scorn.
"Yes, Russia," he cried, "my bloody country! You are correct.
Red with the blood of my countrymen, the blood of my kindred this
hundred years and more." His voice was low but vibrant with passion.
"You cannot understand. Why should I tell you?"
At this juncture Timothy sprang to his feet.
"Sit ye down, dear man, sit ye down! Shut yer clapper, Nora!
Sure it's mesilf that knows a paythriot whin I sees 'im.
Tear-an-ages! Give me yer hand, me boy. Sit ye down an' tell us
about it. We're all the same kind here. Niver fear for the woman,
she's the worst o' the lot. Tell us, dear man. Be the light that
shines! it's mesilf that's thirsty to hear."
The Russian gazed at the shining eyes of the little Irishman as if
he had gone mad. Then, as if the light had broken upon him, he cried,
"Aha, you are of Ireland. You, too, are fighting the tyrant."
"Hooray, me boy!" shouted Tim, "an' it's the thrue word ye've shpoke,
an' niver a lie in the skin av it. Oireland foriver! Be the howly
St. Patrick an' all the saints, I am wid ye an' agin ivery government
that's iver robbed an honest man. Go on, me boy, tell us yer tale."
Timothy was undoubtedly excited. The traditions of a hundred years
of fierce rebellion against the oppression of the "bloody tyrant"
were beating at his brain and in his heart. The Russian caught fire
from him and launched forth upon his tale. For a full hour, now
sitting in his chair, now raging up and down the room, now in a
voice deep, calm and terrible, now broken and hoarse with sobs,
he recounted deeds of blood and fire that made Ireland's struggle
and Ireland's wrongs seem nursery rhymes.
Timothy listened to the terrible story in an ecstasy of alternating
joy and fury, according to the nature of the episode related. It was
like living again the glorious days of the moonlighters and the
rackrenters in dear old Ireland. The tale came to an abrupt end.
"An' thin what happened?" cried Timothy.
"Then," said the Russian quietly, "then it was Siberia."
"Siberia! The Hivins be about us!" said Tim in an awed voice.
"But ye got away?"
"I am here," he replied simply.
"Be the sowl of Moses, ye are! An' wud ye go back agin?"
cried Tim in horror.
"Wud he!" said Nora, with ineffable scorn. "Wud a herrin' swim?
By coorse he'll go back. An' what's more, ye can sind the money to
me an' I'll see that the childer gets the good av it, if I've to
wring the neck av that black haythen, Rosenblatt, like a chicken."
"You will take the money for my children?" enquired the Russian.
"I will that."
He stretched out his hand impulsively. She placed hers in it.
He raised it to his lips, bending low as if it had been the lily
white hand of the fairest lady in the land, instead of the fat,
rough, red hand of an old Irish washer-woman.
"Sure, it's mighty bad taste ye have," said Tim with a sly laugh.
"It's not her hand I'd be kissin'."
"Bad luck to ye! Have ye no manners?" said Nora, jerking away her
hand in confusion.
"I thank you with all my heart," said Kalmar, gravely bowing
with his hand upon his heart. "And will you now and then look
over--overlook--oversee--ah yes, oversee this little girl?"
"Listen to me now," cried Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "Can she clear out
thim men from her room?" nodding her head toward Paulina.
"There will be no men in her house."
"Can she kape thim out? She's only a wake craythur anyway."
"Paulina," said her husband.
She came forward and, taking his hand, kissed it, Mrs. Fitzpatrick
looking on in disgust.
"This woman asks can you keep the men out of your room,"
he said in Galician.
"I will keep them out," she said simply.
"Aye, but can she?" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, to whom her answer
had been translated.
"I can kill them in the night," said Paulina, in a voice of quiet
but concentrated passion.
"The saints in Hivin be above us! I belave her," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick,
with a new respect for Paulina. "But fer the love o' Hivin, tell her
there is no killin' in this counthry, an' more's the pity when ye see
some men that's left to run about."
"She will keep the children safe with her life," said Kalmar. "She
had no money before, and she was told I was dead. But it matters not.
She is nothing to me. But she will keep my children with her life."
His trust in her, his contempt for her, awakened in Mrs. Fitzpatrick
a kind of hostility toward him, and of pity for the wretched woman whom,
while he trusted, he so despised.
"Come an' take an air o' the fire, Paulina," she said not unkindly.
"It's cold forninst the door."
Paulina, while she understood not the words, caught the meaning of
the gesture, but especially of the tone. She drew near, caught the
Irish woman's hand in hers and kissed it.
"Hut!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, drawing away her hand.
"Sit down, will ye?"
The Russian rose to his feet.
"I must now depart. I have still a little work to accomplish.
To-morrow I leave the city. Permit me now to bid my children farewell."
He turned to the girl, who held Paulina's baby asleep in her arms.
"Irma," he said in Russian, "I am going to leave you."
The girl rose, placed the sleeping baby on the bed, and coming to
her father's side, stood looking up into his face, her wonderful
brown eyes shining with tears she was too brave to shed.
He drew her to him.
"I am going to leave you," he repeated in Russian. "In one year,
if all is well, at most in two, I shall return. You know I cannot
stay with you, and you know why." He took the miniature from his
pocket and opening it, held it before her face. "Your mother gave
her life for her country." For some moments he gazed upon the
beautiful face in the miniature. "She was a lady, and feared not
death. Ah! ah! such a death!" He struggled fiercely with his emotions.
"She was willing to die. Should not I? You do not grudge that I
should leave you, that I should die, if need be?" An anxious,
almost wistful tone crept into his voice.
Bravely the little girl looked up into the dark face.
"I remember my mother," she said; "I would be like her."
"Aha!" cried her father, catching her to his breast, "I judged you
rightly. You are her daughter, and you will live worthy of her.
Kalman, come hither. Irma, you will care for your brother. He is
young. He is a boy. He will need care. Kalman, heart of my life!"
"He does not understand Russian," said Paulina. "Speak in Galician."
"Ha," cried the man, turning sharply upon her as if he had
forgotten her existence. "Kalman, my son," he proceeded in
Russian, "did you not understand what I said to your sister?"
"Not well, father," said the boy; "a little."
"Alas, that you should have forgotten your mother's speech!"
"I shall learn it again from Irma," said the boy.
"Good," replied the father in Galician. "Listen then. Never forget
you are a Russian. This," putting the miniature before him, "was
your mother. She was a lady. For her country she gave up rank,
wealth, home and at last life. For her country, too, I go back
again. When my work is done I shall return."
Through the window came sounds of revelry from the house near by.
"You are not of these cattle," he said, pointing through the window.
"Your mother was a lady. Be worthy of her, boy. Now farewell."
The boy stood without word, without motion, without tear, his light
blue eyes fixed upon his father's face, his fair skin white but for
a faint spot of red on his cheek.
"Obey your sister, Kalman, and defend her. And listen, boy."
His voice deepened into a harsh snarl, his fingers sank into the
boy's shoulder, but the boy winced not. "If any man does her wrong,
you will kill him. Say it, boy? What will you do?"
"Kill him," said the boy with fierce promptitude, speaking in
the English tongue.
"Ha! yes," replied his father in English, "you bear your mother's
face, her golden hair, her eyes of blue--they are not so
beautiful--but you have your father's spirit. You would soon learn
to kill in Russia, but in this land you will not kill unless to
defend your sister from wrong."
His mood swiftly changed. He paused, looking sadly at his children;
then turning to Mrs. Fitzpatrick he said, "They should go to the
public school like Simon Ketzel's little girl. They speak not such
good English as she. She is very clever."
"Sure, they must go to school," said she. "An' go they will."
"My gratitude will be with you forever. Good-by."
He shook hands with Timothy, then with Mrs. Fitzpatrick,
kissing her hand as well. He motioned his children toward him.
"Heart of my heart," he murmured in a broken voice, straining his
daughter to his breast. "God, if God there be, and all the saints,
if saints there be, have you in their keeping. Kalman, my son,"
throwing one arm about him, "Farewell! farewell!" He was fast losing
control of himself. The stormy Slavic passions were threatening to
burst all restraint. "I give you to each other. But you will remember
that it was not for my sake, but for Russia's sake, I leave you.
My heart, my heart belongs to you, but my heart's heart is not for me,
nor for you, but for Russia, for your mother's land and ours."
By this time tears were streaming down his cheek. Sobs shook his
powerful frame. Irma was clinging to him in an abandonment of weeping.
Kalman stood holding tight to his father, rigid, tearless, white.
At length the father tore away their hands and once more crying
"Farewell!" made toward the door.
At this the boy broke forth in a loud cry, "Father! My father!
Take me with you! I would not fear! I would not fear to die. Take
me to Russia!" The boy ran after his father and clutched him hard.
"Ah, my lad, you are your mother's son and mine. Some day you may
go back. Who knows? But--no, no. Canada is your country. Go back."
The lad still clutched him. "Boy," said his father, steadying his
voice with great effort and speaking quietly, "with us, in our
country, we learn first, obedience."
The lad dropped his hold.
"Good!" said the father. "You are my own son. You will yet be a man.
And now farewell."
He kissed them again. The boy broke into passionate sobbing.
Paulina came forward and, kneeling at the father's feet, put
her face to the floor.
"I will care for the son of my lord," she murmured.
But with never a look at her, the father strode to the door and
passed out into the night.
"Be the howly prophet!" cried Tim, wiping his eyes, "it's harrd,
it's harrd! An' it's the heart av a paythriot the lad carries
inside av him! An' may Hivin be about him!"