CHAPTER I

Produced by Al Haines.

[Illustration: Cover]

[Illustration: "'My heart sank within me.'" (Page 172.) _Frontispiece_]

The Interpreter

A Tale of the War

By

G. J. Whyte-Melville

Author of "Digby Grand," "General Bounce," etc.

Illustrated by Lucy E. Kemp-Welch

New York

Longmans, Green & Co.

CONTENTS

CHAP.

I. The Old Desk

II. The Deserter

III. "Par Nobile"

IV. Father and Son

V. The Zingynies

VI. School

VII. Play

VIII. The Truants

IX. Ropsley

X. Beverley Manor

XI. Dulce Domum

XII. Alton Grange

XIII. "Lethalis Arundo"

XIV. The Picture

XV. Beverley Mere

XVI. Princess Vocqsal

XVII. The Common Lot

XVIII. Omar Pasha

XIX. "'Skender Bey"

XX. The Beloochee

XXI. Zuleika

XXII. Valerie

XXIII. Forewarned

XXIV. "Arcades Ambo"

XXV. "Dark and Dreary"

XXVI. "Surveillance"

XXVII. Ghosts of the Past

XXVIII. La Dame aux Camellias

XXIX. "A Merry Masque"

XXX. The Golden Horn

XXXI. The Seraskerat

XXXII. A Turk's Harem

XXXIII. My Patient

XXXIV. "Messirie's"

XXXV. "The Wolf and the Lamb"

XXXVI. "The Front"

XXXVII. "A Quiet Night"

XXXVIII. The Grotto

XXXIX. The Redan

XL. The War-Minister at Home

XLI. Wheels within Wheels

XLII. "Too Late"

XLIII. "The Skeleton"

XLIV. The Gipsy's Dream

XLV. Retribution

XLVI. Vae Victis!

XLVII. The Return of Spring

THE INTERPRETER

_A TALE OF THE WAR_

CHAPTER I

THE OLD DESK

Not one of my keys will fit it: the old desk has been laid aside for

years, and is covered with dust and rust. We do not make such strong

boxes nowadays, for brass hinges and secret drawers have given place to

flimsy morocco and russian leather; so we clap a Bramah lock, that

Bramah himself cannot pick, on a black bag that the veriest bungler can

rip open in five seconds with a penknife, and entrust our notes, bank

and otherwise, our valuables, and our secrets, to this faithless

repository with a confidence that deserves to be respected. But in the

days when George the Third was king, our substantial ancestors rejoiced

in more substantial workmanship: so the old desk that I cannot succeed

in unlocking, is of shining rosewood, clamped with brass, and I shall

spoil it sadly with the mallet and the chisel.

What a medley it holds! Thank Heaven I am no speculative philosopher,

or I might moralise for hours over its contents. First, out flies a

withered leaf of geranium. It must have been dearly prized once, or it

would never have been here; maybe it represented the hopes, the wealth,

the all-in-all of two aching hearts: and they are dust and ashes now.

To think that the flower should have outlasted them! the symbol less

perishable than the faith! Then I come to a piece of much-begrimed and

yellow paper, carefully folded, and indorsed with a date,--a receipt for

an embrocation warranted specific in all cases of bruises, sprains, or

lumbago; next a gold pencil-case, with a head of Socrates for a seal;

lastly, much of that substance which is generated in all waste places,

and which the vulgar call "flue." How it comes there puzzles equally

the naturalist and the philosopher; but you shall find it in empty

corners, empty drawers, empty pockets, nay, we believe in its existence

in the empty heads of our fellow-creatures.

In my thirst for acquisition, regardless of dusty fingers, I press the

inner sides of the desk in hopes of discovering secret springs and

hoarded repositories: so have poor men ere now found thousand-pound

notes hid away in chinks and crannies, and straightway, giddy with the

possession of boundless wealth, have gone to the Devil at a pace such as

none but the beggar on horseback can command; so have old wills been

fished out, and frauds discovered, and rightful heirs re-established,

and society in general disgusted, and all concerned made discontented

and uncomfortable--so shall I, perhaps--but the springs work, a false

lid flies open, and I do discover a packet of letters, written on thin

foreign paper, in the free straggling characters I remember so well.

They are addressed to Sir H. Beverley, and the hand that penned them has

been cold for years. So will yours and mine be some day, perhaps ere

the flowers are out again; _O beate Sexti!_ will you drink a glass less

claret on that account? Buxom Mrs. Lalage, shall the dressmaker

therefore put unbecoming trimmings in your bonnet? The "shining hours"

are few, and soon past; make the best of them, each in your own way,

only try and choose the right way:--

For the day will soon be over, and the minutes are of gold,

And the wicket shuts at sundown, and the shepherd leaves the

fold.

LETTER I

"Those were merry days, my dear Hal, when we used to hear the 'chimes at

midnight' with poor Brummell and Sir Benjamin;[#] very jolly times they

were, and I often think, if health and pockets could have stood it, I

should like to be going the pace amongst you all still. And yet how few

of us are left. They have dropped off one by one, as they did the night

we dyed the white rose red at the old place; and you, and I, and stanch

old 'Ben,' were the only three left that could walk straight. Do you

remember the corner of King-street, and 'Ben' stripped 'to the buff,' as

he called it himself, 'going-in' right royally at the tall fellow with

the red head? I never saw such right-and-lefters, I never thought he

had so much 'fight' in him; and you don't remember, Hal, but I do, how

'the lass with the long locks' bent over you when you were floored, like

Andromache over a debauched Hector, and stanched the claret that was

flowing freely from your nostrils, and gave you gin in a

smelling-bottle, which you sucked down as though it were mother's milk,

like a young reprobate as you were; nor do you remember, nor do I very

clearly, how we all got back to 'The Cottage,' and finished with burnt

curagoa, and a dance on the table by daylight. And now you and I are

about the only two left, and I am as near ruined as a gentleman can be;

and you must have lost your pen-feathers, Hal, I should think, though

you were a goose that always could pick a living off a common, be it

never so bare. Well, we have had our fun; and after all, I for one have

been far happier since than I ever was in those roystering days; but of

this I cannot bear to speak."

[#] The dandy's nickname for the Prince Regent.

"Nor am I so much to be pitied now. I have got my colours and my

sketch-book, after all; and there never was such a country as this for a

man who has half an eye in his head. On these magnificent plains the

lights and shades are glorious. Glorious, Hal, with a little red jagged

in here and there towards sunset, and the ghostly maize waving and

whispering, and the feathery acacias trembling in the lightest air, the

russet tinge of the one and the fawn-coloured stems of the other melting

so softly into the neutral tints of the sandy soil. I could paint a

picture here that should be perfectly true to Nature--nay, more natural

than the old dame herself--and never use but two colours to do it all!

I am not going to tell you what they are: and this reminds me of my boy,

and of a want in his organisation that is a sad distress to me. The

child has not a notion of colour. I was painting out of doors

yesterday, and he was standing by--bless him! he never leaves me for an

instant--and I tried to explain to him some of the simplest rudiments of

the godlike art. 'Vere,' said I, 'do you see those red tints on the tops

of the far acacias, and the golden tinge along the back of that brown ox

in the foreground?' 'Yes, papa!' was the child's answer, with a

bewildered look. 'How should you paint them, my boy?' 'Well, papa, I

should paint the acacias green, because they _are_ green, and'--here he

thought he had made a decided hit--'I should put the red into the ox,

for he is almost more red than brown.' Dear child! he has not a

glimmering of colour; but composition, that's his forte; and drawing,

drawing, you know, which is the highest form of the art. His drawing is

extraordinary--careless, but great breadth and freedom; and I am certain

he could compose a wonderful picture, from his singular sensibility to

beauty. Young as he is, I have seen the tears stand in his eyes when

contemplating a fine view, or a really exquisite 'bit,' such as one sees

in this climate every day. His raptures at his first glimpse of the

Danube I shall never forget; and if I can only instil into him the

principles of colour, you will see Vere will become the first painter of

the age. The boy learns languages readily enough. He has picked up a

good deal of Hungarian from his nurse. Such a woman, Hal! magnificent!

Such colouring: deep brown tones, and masses of the richest grey hair,

with superb, solemn, sunken eyes, and a throat and forehead tanned and

wrinkled into the very ideal of a Canidia, or a Witch of Endor, or any

fine old sorceress, 'all of the olden time.' I have done her in chalks,

and in sepia, and in oils. I adore her in the former. She is, I fancy,

a good, careful woman, and much attached to Vere, who promises to be an

excellent linguist; but of this I cannot see the advantage. There is

but one pursuit, in my opinion, for an intellectual being who is not

obliged to labour in the fields for his daily bread, and that is Art. I

have wooed the heavenly maid all my life. To me she has been sparing of

her favours; and yet a single smile from her has gilded my path for many

a long and weary day. She has beckoned me on and on till I feel I could

follow her to the end of the world; she shielded me _in the dark hour_;

she has brightened my lot ever since; she led me to nature, her grand

reflection--for you know my theory, that art is reality, and nature but

the embodiment of art; she has made me independent of the frowns of that

other jade, Fortune, and taught me the most difficult lesson of all--to

be content. What is wealth? You and I have seen it lavished with both

hands, and its possessor weary, satiate, languid, and disgusted. What

is rank? a mark for envy, an idol but for fools. Fame? a few orders on

a tight uniform; a craving for more and more; even when we know the

tastelessness of the food, to be still hungry for applause. Love? a

sting of joy and a heartache for ever. Are they not all vanity of

vanities? But your artist is your true creator. He can embody the

noblest aspirations of his mind, and give them a reality and a name.

You, Hal, who are the most practical, unimaginative, business-like

fellow that ever hedged a bet or drove a bargain, have had such dreams

betwixt sleeping and waking as have given you a taste of heaven, and

taught you the existence of a fairy-land of which, to such as you, is

only granted a far-away and occasional glimpse. What would you give to

be able to embody such blissful visions and call them up at will? Let

me have a camel's-hair brush, a few dabs of clay, and, behold! I am the

magician before whose wand these dreams shall reappear tangibly,

substantially, enduringly: alas! for mortal shortcomings, sometimes a

little out of drawing, sometimes a little hard and cold; but still, Hal,

I can make my own world, such as it is, and people it for myself; nor do

I envy any man on earth, except, perhaps, a sculptor. To have perfected

and wrought out in the imperishable marble the ideal of one's whole

life, to walk round it, and smoke one's cigar and say, 'This will last

as long as St. Paul's Cathedral or the National Debt, and this is mine,

I made it'--must be a sensation of delight that even we poor painters,

with our works comparatively of a day, can hardly imagine; but then,

what we lose in durability we gain in reproduction: and so once more I

repeat, let who will be statesman, warrior, stock-jobber, or voluptuary,

but give me the pallet and the easel, the _delire d'un peintre_, the

line of beauty and the brush!

"Can you wonder that I should wish my boy to tread the same path? Had I

but begun at his age, and worked as I _should_ have worked, what might I

have been now? Could I but make amends to him by leading him up the path

to real fame, and see Vere the regenerator of modern art, I should die

happy.

"And now, Hal, I must ask you of your own pursuits and your own

successes. I do not often see an English paper; but these are a fine

sporting people, with a dash of our English tastes and love of

horseflesh; and in a small pothouse where we put up last week, in the

very heart of the Banat, I found a print of Flying Childers, and a

_Bell's Life_ of the month before last. In this I read that your

Marigold colt was first favourite for the Derby, and I can only say that

I hope he will win, as fervently as I should have done some years back,

when he would have carried a large portion of my money, or at least of

my credit, on his back. I have also gathered that your shorthorns won

the prize at the great cattle-show. 'Who drives fat oxen must himself

be fat.' I trust, therefore, that you are flourishing and thriving;

also, that Constance, the most stately little lady I ever beheld at two

years old, still queens it at the Manor-house. I will write again

shortly, but must leave off now, as my boy is calling me to go out. He

grows more like his poor mother every day, especially about the

eyes.--Adieu, Hal; ever yours,

"PHILIP EGERTON."

LETTER II

"The longer I linger here the more I become wedded to the land in which,

after all, I have known the few hours of real happiness I ever spent.

Yes, Hal, with all its guilt, with all its anxieties, with everything

and everybody battling against me--that was my golden year, such as I

shall never see again. She was so generous, so gentle, and so true; she

sacrificed all so willingly for me, and never looked back. Such

courage, such patience, and oh! such beauty; and to lose her after one

short year. Well, it is my punishment, and I bear it; but if it had to

be done again I would do it. Surely I was not so much to blame. Had

she but lived I would have made her such amends. And after all she is

mine--mine in her lonely grave under the acacias, and I shall meet her

again. If the universe holds her I shall meet her again. Wearily the

years have dragged on since I lost her, but every birthday is a

milestone nearer home; and in the meantime I have Vere and my art. And

we wander about this wild country, and scamper across its boundless

plains, and I paint and smoke, and try to be happy.

"We arrived here last night, and I need scarcely tell you that Edeldorf

is as English as any place out of England can be, and my old friend but

little altered during the last twenty years. You remember De Rohan at

Melton and Newmarket, at Rome and at Paris. Wherever he lived he was

quite the Englishman, and always rode a thoroughbred horse. It would

indeed be ungrateful on your part to forget him. Need I remind you of

the dinner at the old Club, and the procession afterwards, with some

fourteen wax candles, to inspect The Switcher in your stables, at the

risk of burning down the greater part of the town, and converting some

of the best horses in England into an exceedingly tough grill. I can

see the Count's face of drunken gravity now, as he felt carefully down

the horse's forelegs, undeterred by the respectful stare of your groom,

or the undisguised astonishment of the animal itself. 'Vat is his

name?' was the only question he asked of the polite Mr. Topthorn. 'The

Switcher, my lord,' was the reply. 'Ver' nice name,' said the Count,

and bought him forthwith at a price that you yourself can best

appreciate; but from that day to this he never could pronounce the

animal's appellation; and although he rode 'The Svishare' both in

England and here, and has got prints and pictures of him all over the

house, 'The Svishare' he will continue to be till the end of time.

"All this Anglo-mania, however, is not much appreciated in high places;

and I can see enough without looking much below the surface to satisfy

me that the Count is eyed jealously by the authorities, and that if ever

they catch him tripping they will not spare his fortunes or his person.

I fear there will be a row before long, and I would not trust the wild

blood of my friends here if once they get the upper hand. Only

yesterday an incident occurred that gave me a pretty correct idea of the

state of feeling in this country, and the disaffection of the peasant to

his imperial rulers. Vere and I were travelling along in our usual

manner, occupying the front seat of a most dilapidated carriage, which I

purchased at Bucharest for twenty ducats, with the nurse and the baggage

behind. We had stopped for me to sketch an animated group, in the shape

of a drove of wild horses being drafted and chosen by their respective

owners, and Vere was clapping his hands and shouting with delight at the

hurry-skurry of the scene (by the way, there was a white horse that I

caught in a beautiful attitude, who comes out admirably and lights up

the whole sketch), when an officer and a couple of Austrian dragoons

rode into the midst of the busy horse-tamers, and very rudely proceeded

to subject them to certain inquiries, which seemed to meet with sulky

and evasive answers enough. After a time the Austrian officer, a

handsome boy of twenty, stroking an incipient moustache, ordered the

oldest man of the party to be pinioned; and placing him between his two

soldiers, began to interrogate him in a most offensive and supercilious

manner. The old man, who was what we should call in England a better

sort of yeoman farmer, of course immediately affected utter ignorance of

German; and as the young Austrian was no great proficient in Hungarian,

I was compelled most unwillingly to interpret between them, Vere looking

on meanwhile with his mouth wide open, in a state of intense

bewilderment. The following is a specimen of the conversation:--

"_Austrian Sub-Lieutenant_, in German--'Thou hast been hiding deserters;

and so shalt thou be imprisoned, and fined, and suffer punishment.' I

have to modify these threats into Hungarian.--'Brother, this noble

officer seeks a deserter. Knowest thou of such an one?'

"_Old Man_--'My father, I know nothing.'

"_Austrian Officer_, with many expletives, modified as before by your

humble servant--'You shall be punished with the utmost rigour if you do

not give him up.'

"_Old Man_, again--'My father, I know nothing.'

"_Officer_, losing all patience, and gesticulating wildly with his

sword--'Slave, brute, dog, tell me this instant which way he took, or I

will have you hanged to that nearest tree, your family shall be

imprisoned, and your village burnt to the ground.'

"_Old Man_, as before--'My father, I know nothing.'

"The case was getting hopeless; but the young officer had now thoroughly

lost his temper, and ordered his men to tie the peasant up, and flog him

soundly with a stirrup-leather. Here I thought it high time to

interpose; I saw the wild Hungarian blood beginning to boil in the veins

of some dozen dark scowling fellows, who had been occupied tending the

horses. Eyes were flashing at the Austrians, and hands clutching under

the sheepskin where the long knife lies. Fortunately the officer was a

gentleman and an admirer of the English. With much difficulty I

persuaded him to abandon his cruel intention, and to ride on in

prosecution of his search; but it was when his back was turned that the

tide of indignation against himself and his country swelled to the

highest. The peasants' faces actually became convulsed with rage, their

voices shook with fury, and threats and maledictions were poured on

their masters enough to make one's very blood run cold. If ever they do

get the upper hand, woe to the oppressor! There is nothing on earth so

fearful as a Jacquerie. God forbid this fair land should ever see one.

"We journeyed on in a different direction from the dragoons, but we

caught occasional glimpses of their white coats as they gleamed through

the acacias that skirted the road; and I was just thinking how well I

could put them in with a dab or two of chalk against a thunder-storm, or

a dark wood in the midst of summer, when the bright sun makes the

foliage almost black, and debating in my own mind whether the officer

would not have made a better sketch if his horse had been a light grey,

when my postilion pulled up with a jerk that nearly chucked Vere out of

the carriage, and, pointing to something in the road, assured 'my

Excellency' that the horse was dying, and the rider, in all probability,

lying killed under his beast. Sure enough, an over-ridden horse was

prostrate in the middle of the road, and a young man vainly endeavouring

to raise him by the bridle, and calling him by all the terms of

endearment and abuse in the Hungarian vocabulary, without the slightest

effect. Seeing our carriage, he addressed me in German, and with a

gentlemanlike voice and manner begged to know in what direction I was

travelling. 'I hope to get to Edeldorf to-night,' was my answer. He

started at the name. 'Edeldorf!' said he; 'I, too, am bound for

Edeldorf; can you favour me with a seat in your carriage?' Of course I

immediately complied; and Vere and I soon had the stranger between us,

journeying amicably on towards my old friend's chateau. You know my

failing, Hal, so I need not tell you how it was that I immediately began

to study my new acquaintance's physiognomy, somewhat, I thought, to his

discomfiture, for at first he turned his head away, but after a while

seemed to think better of it, and entered into conversation with much

frankness and vivacity. The sun was getting low, and I think I could

have sketched him very satisfactorily in that warm, soft light. His

head was essentially that of a soldier; the brow deficient in ideality,

but with the bold outlines which betoken penetration and forethought.

Constructiveness fully developed, combativeness moderate, but firmness

very strongly marked; the eye deep set, and, though small, remarkably

brilliant; the jaw that of a strong, bold man, while the lines about the

mouth showed great energy of character and decision. From the general

conformation of his head I should have placed forethought as the

distinguishing quality of his character, and I should have painted the

rich brown tones of his complexion on a system of my own, which such a

portrait would be admirably calculated to bring out. However, I could

not well ask him to sit to me upon so short an acquaintance; so, while

he and Vere chatted on--for they soon became great friends, and my new

acquaintance seemed charmed to find a child speaking German so

fluently--I began to speculate on the trade and character of this

mysterious addition to our party. 'Hair cut short, moustache close

clipped,' thought I, 'perfect German accent, and the broad Viennese

dialect of the aristocracy, all this looks like a soldier; but the rough

frieze coat, and huge shapeless riding boots could never belong to an

officer of that neatest of armies--"the Imperial and Kingly." Then his

muscular figure, and light active gait, which I remarked as he sprang

into the carriage, would argue him one who was in the habit of

practising feats of strength and agility. There is no mistaking the

effects of the gymnasium. Stay, I have it, he is a fencing-master; that

accounts for the military appearance, the quick glance, the somewhat

worn look of the countenance, and he is going to Edeldorf, to teach De

Rohan's boy the polite art of self-defence. So much the better. I,

too, love dearly a turn with the foils, so I can have a glorious

"set-to" with him to-morrow or the next day; and then, when we are more

intimate, I can paint him. I think I shall do him in oils. I wish he

would turn his head the least thing further this way.' I had got as far

as this when my new friend did indeed turn his head round, and looking

me full in the face, thus addressed me:--'Sir, you are an Englishman,

and an honourable man. I have no right to deceive you. You incur great

danger by being seen with me. I have no right to implicate you; set me

down, and let me walk.' Vere looked more astonished than ever. I

begged him to explain himself. 'I tell you,' said he, 'that I am a

thief and a deserter. My name is posted at every barrack-gate in the

empire. I am liable to be hanged, if taken. Are you not afraid of me

now?' 'No,' exclaimed Vere, his colour heightening and his eyes

glistening (oh! so like her). 'Papa and I will take care of you; don't

be afraid.' My boy had anticipated what I was going to say; but I

assured him that as I had taken him into my carriage I considered him as

my guest, and come what would I never could think of abandoning him till

we reached our destination. 'Of course,' I added, 'you are then free to

come and go as you please. If you have done anything disgraceful, we

need never know each other again. I do not wish to hear of it. You are

to me only a belated traveller; permit me to add, a gentleman, to whom I

am delighted to be of service. Will you smoke? Let me offer you a

cigar.' The blood rushed to his face as he declined the proffered

courtesy; for an instant he looked half offended, and then, seizing my

hand, he exclaimed, 'If you knew all, you would pity me--nay, more, you

would approve of what I have done.' He turned suddenly to Vere, and

rather startled him by abruptly exclaiming, 'Boy, do you love your

father? is he all the world to you?' 'Yes,' said Vere, colouring up

again, 'of course I love papa, and Nurse "Nettich" too.' That worthy

woman was fast asleep in the rumble. 'Well,' said the stranger, more

composedly, 'I love my father, too; he is all I have in the world, and

for his sake I would do the same thing again. I will tell you all about

it, and you shall judge between me and my crime.' But my new friend's

story I must defer, my dear Hal, to another letter. So for the present,

_Vive valeque_."