The Most Interesting Stories of All Nations

J >> Julian Hawthorne >> The Most Interesting Stories of All Nations

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"No!"

He caught the Hebrew by his shroud and held him back. There was a
long knife in his hand. Without another word, the professor
pierced the Hebrew through the heart.

He put the limp body on the straw mattress, then went out of the
chamber toward the studio. In a few minutes he came back with
father. Father was pale and did not speak. They covered the dead
Hebrew with a rug, and then, one after the other, crept out through
the window, lifted the corpse out, and carried it away. In a
quarter of an hour they came back. They exchanged a few words,
from which I learned that they had succeeded in putting the dead
Hebrew back on his bier without having been observed.

They shut the window. The professor drank a glass of wine and
again stretched out his legs on the chair.

"It is impossible to go back," he said. "It is not allowed."

Father went away. I did not see him any more. I staggered up to
my room, went to bed, and slept immediately. The next day I got up
at ten o'clock. I left the city at noon.

Since that time, my dear sisters, you have not seen me. I don't
know anything more. At this minute I say to myself that what I
know, what I have set down here, is not true. Maybe it never
happened, maybe I have dreamed it all. I am not clear in my mind.
I have a fever.

But I am not afraid of death. Here, on my hospital bed, I see the
professor's feverish but calm and wise face. When he grasped the
Hebrew by the throat he looked like a lover of Death, like one who
has a secret relation with the passing of life, who advocates the
claims of Death, and who punishes him who would cheat Death.

Now Death urges his claim upon me. I have no desire to cheat him--
I am so tired, so very tired.

God be with you, my dear sisters.

Maurus Jokai

Thirteen at Table

We are far amidst the snow-clad mountains of Transylvania.

The scenery is magnificent. In clear weather, the plains of
Hungary as far as the Rez promontory may be seen from the summit of
the mountains. Groups of hills rise one above the other, covered
with thick forest, which, at the period when our tale commences,
had just begun to assume the first light green of spring.

Toward sunset, a slight purple mist overspread the farther
pinnacles, leaving their ridges still tinged with gold. On the
side of one of these hills the white turrets of an ancient family
mansion gleamed from amid the trees.

Its situation was peculiarly romantic. A steep rock descended on
one side, on whose pinnacle rose a simple cross. In the depth of
the valley beneath lay a scattered village, whose evening bells
melodiously broke the stillness of nature.

Farther off, some broken roofs arose among the trees, from whence
the sound of the mill, and the yellow-tinted stream, betrayed the
miners' dwellings.

Through the meadows in the valley beneath a serpentine rivulet
wound its silvery way, interrupted by numerous falls and huge
blocks of stone, which had been carried down in bygone ages from
the mountains during the melting of the snows.

A little path, cut in the side of the rock, ascended to the castle;
while higher up, a broad road, somewhat broken by the mountain
streams, conducted across the hills to more distant regions.

The castle itself was an old family mansion, which had received
many additions at different periods, as the wealth or necessities
of the family suggested.

It was surrounded by groups of ancient chestnut trees, and the
terrace before the court was laid out in gardens, which were now
filled with anemones, hyacinths, and other early flowers. Now and
then the head of a joyous child appeared at the windows, which were
opened to admit the evening breeze; while various members of the
household retinue were seen hastening through the corridors, or
standing at the doors in their embroidered liveries.

The castle was completely surrounded by a strong rail-work of iron,
the stone pillars were overgrown by the evergreen leaves of the
gobea and epomoea.

It was the early spring of 1848.

A party, consisting of thirteen persons, had assembled in the
dining-room. They were all members of one family, and all bore the
name of Bardy.

At the head of the board sat the grandmother, an old lady of eighty
years of age, whose snow-white hair was dressed according to the
fashion of her times beneath her high white cap. Her face was pale
and much wrinkled, and the eyes turned constantly upwards, as is
the case with persons who have lost their sight. Her hand and
voice trembled with age, and there was something peculiarly
striking in the thick snow-white eyebrows.

On her right hand sat her eldest son, Thomas Bardy, a man of
between fifty and sixty. With a haughty and commanding
countenance, penetrating glance, lofty figure, and noble mien, he
was a true type of that ancient aristocracy which is now beginning
to die out.

Opposite to him, at the old lady's left hand, sat the darling of
the family--a lovely girl of about fifteen. Her golden hair fell
in luxuriant tresses round a countenance of singular beauty and
sweetness. The large and lustrous deep-blue eyes were shaded by
long dark lashes, and her complexion was pale as the lily,
excepting when she smiled or spoke, and a slight flush like the
dawn of morning overspread her cheeks.

Jolanka was the orphan child of a distant relative, whom the Bardys
had adopted. They could not allow one who bore their name to
suffer want; and it seemed as if each member of the family had
united to heap affection and endearment on the orphan girl, and
thus prevented her from feeling herself a stranger among them.

There were still two other female members of the family: Katalin,
the old lady's daughter, who had been for many years a widow; and
the wife of one of her sons, a pretty young woman, who was trying
to teach a little prattler at her side to use the golden spoon
which she had placed in his small, fat hand, while he laughed and
crowed, and the family did their best to guess what he said, or
what he most preferred.

Opposite to them there sat two gentlemen. One of them was the
husband of the young mother. Jozsef Bardy--a handsome man of about
thirty-five, with regular features, and black hair and beard; a
constant smile beamed on his gay countenance, while he playfully
addressed his little son and gentle wife across the table. The
other was his brother, Barnabas--a man of herculean form and
strength. His face was marked by smallpox; he wore neither beard
or mustache, and his hair was combed smoothly back, like a
peasant's. His disposition was melancholy and taciturn; but he
seemed constantly striving to atone, by the amiability of his
manners, for an unprepossessing exterior.

Next to him sat a little cripple, whose pale countenance bore that
expression of suffering sweetness so peculiar to the deformed,
while his lank hair, bony hands, and misshapen shoulders awakened
the beholder's pity. He, too, was an orphan--a grandchild of the
old lady's; his parents had died some years before.

Two little boys of about five years old sat opposite to him. They
were dressed alike, and the resemblance between them was so
striking that they were constantly mistaken. They were twin-
children of the young couple.

At the lower end of the table sat Imre Bardy, a young man of
twenty, whose handsome countenance was full of life and
intelligence, his figure manly and graceful, and his manner
courteous and agreeable. A slight moustache was beginning to shade
his upper lip, and his dark hair fell in natural ringlets around
his head. He was the only son of the majoresco, Tamas Bardy, and
resembled him much in form and feature.

Beside him sat an old gentleman, with white hair and ruddy
complexion. This was Simon Bardy, an ancient relative, who had
grown old with the grandmother of the family.

The same peculiarity characterized every countenance in the Bardy
family--namely the lofty forehead and marked brows, and the large
deep-blue eyes, shaded by their heavy dark lashes.*

* There is a race of the Hungarians in the Carpath who, unlike the
Hungarians of the plain, have blue eyes and often fair hair.

"How singular!" exclaimed one of the party; "we are thirteen at
table to-day."

"One of us will surely die," said the old lady; and there was a
mournful conviction in the faint, trembling tones.

"Oh, no, grandmother, we are only twelve and a half!" exclaimed the
young mother, taking the little one on her knee.

"This little fellow only counts half on the railroad."

All the party laughed at this remark, even the little cripple's
countenance relaxed into a sickly smile.

"Ay, ay," continued the old lady, "the trees are now putting forth
their verdure, but at the fall of the leaf who knows if all of us,
or any of us, may still be sitting here?"

Several months had passed since this slight incident.

In one of the apartments of the castle, the eldest Bardy and his
son were engaged in earnest conversation.

The father paced hastily up and down the apartment, now and then
stopping short to address his son, who stood in the embrasure of
one of the windows. The latter wore the dress of the Matyas
Hussars*--a gray dolmany, with crimson cord; he held a crimson
esako, with a tricolored cockade, in his hand.

* Part of the free corps raised in 1848.

"Go," said the father, speaking in broken accents; "the sooner the
better; let me not see you! Do not think I speak in anger, but I
cannot bear to look at you, and think where you are going. You are
my only son, and you know how I have loved you--how all my hopes
have been concentrated in you. But do not think that these tears,
which you see me shed for the first time, are on your account; for
if I knew I should lose you,--if your blood were to flow at the
next battle,--I should only bow my head in dust and say, 'The Lord
gave, and the Lord takes away, blessed be His holy name!' Yes, if
I heard that you and your infatuated companions were cut to pieces,
I could stifle the burning tears; but to know that your blood, when
it flows, will be a curse upon the earth, and your death will be
the death of two kingdoms--"

"They may die now; but they will regenerate--"

"This is not true; you only deceive yourselves with the idea that
you can build up a new edifice when you have overthrown the old
one. Great God, what sacrilege! Who had intrusted you with the
fate of our country, to tempt the Almighty? Who authorized you to
lose all there is for the hope of what may be? For centuries past
have so many honorable men fought in vain to uphold the old
tottering constitution, as you call it? Or were they not true
patriots and heroes? Your companions have hissed their persecuted
countrymen in the Diet; but do they love their country better than
we do, who have shed our blood and sacrificed our interests for her
from generation to generation, and even suffered disgrace, if
necessary, to keep her in life?--for though that life has been
gradually weakened, still it is life. You promise her glory; but
the name of glory is death!"

"It may be so, father; we may lose our country as regards
ourselves, but we give one instead of ten millions, who were
hitherto our own people, and yet strangers in their native land."

"Chimera! The people will not understand you. They never even
dreamt of what you wish to give them. The true way to seek the
people's welfare is to give them what they need.

"Ask my dependents! Is there one among them whom I have allowed to
suffer want or ruin, whom I have not assisted in times of need?--or
have I ever treated them unjustly? You will not hear a murmur.
Tell them that I am unjust notwithstanding, because I do not call
the peasant from his plow to give his opinions on forming the laws
and constitution,--and what will be the consequence? They will
stare at you in astonishment; and yet, in their mistaken wrath,
they will come down some night and burn this house over my head."

"That is the unnatural state of the times. It is all the fault of
the past bad management, if the people have no better idea. But
let the peasant once be free, let him be a man, and he will
understand all that is now strange to him."

"But that freedom will cost the lives of thousands!"

"I do not deny it. Indeed, I believe that neither I nor any of the
present generation will reap the fruits of this movement. I think
it probable that in a few years not one of those whose names we now
hear spoken of may still be living; and what is more, disgrace and
curses may be heaped upon their dust. But a time will come when
the great institutions of which they have laid the foundation will
arise and render justice to the memory of those who sacrificed
themselves for the happiness of future generations. To die for our
country is a glorious death, but to carry with us the curses of
thousands, to die despised and hated for the salvation of future
millions, oh! that is sublime--it is Messiah-like!"

"My son--my only son!" cried his father, throwing himself
passionately on the young man's neck and sobbing bitterly. "Do you
see these tears?"

"For the first time in my life I see them, father--I see you weep;
my heart can scarcely bear the weight of these tears--and yet I go!
You have reason to weep, for I bring neither joy nor glory on your
head--and yet I go! A feeling stronger than the desire of glory,
stronger than the love of my country, inspires my soul; and it is a
proof of the strength of my faith that I see your tears, my father--
and yet I go!"

"Go!" murmured his father, in a voice of despair. "You may never
return again, or, when you do, you may find neither your father's
house nor the grave in which he is laid! But know, even then, in
the hour of your death, or in the hour of mine, I do not curse you--
and now, leave me." With these words he turned away and motioned
to his son to depart.

Imre silently left the apartment, and as soon as he had closed the
door the tears streamed from his eyes; but before his sword had
struck the last step his countenance had regained its former
determination, and the fire of enthusiasm had kindled in his eye.

He then went to take leave of his Uncle Jozsef, whom he found
surrounded by his family. The twins were sitting at his feet,
while his wife was playing bo-peep with the little one, who laughed
and shouted, while his mother hid herself behind his father's
armchair.

Imre's entrance interrupted the general mirth. The little boy ran
over to examine the sword and golden tassels, while the little one
began to cry in alarm at the sight of the strange dress.

"Csitt, baba!" said his mother, taking him from his father's arms;
"your cousin is going to wars, and will bring you a golden horse."

Jozsef wrung his nephew's hand. "God be with you!" he exclaimed,
and added in a lower voice, "You are the noblest of us all--you
have done well!"

They then all embraced him in turns, and Imre left them, amidst
clamors of the little ones, and proceeded to his grandmother's
apartments.

On the way, he met his Uncle Barnabas, who embraced him again and
again in silence, and then tore himself away without saying a word.

The old lady sat in her great armchair, which she seldom quitted,
and as she heard the clash of Imre's sword, she looked up and asked
who was coming.

"It is Imre!" said the fair-haired maiden, blushing, and her heart
beat quickly as she pronounced his name.

Jolanka felt that Imre was more than a brother to her, and the
feeling with which she had learnt to return his affection was
warmer than even a sister's love.

The widow lady and the cripple were also in the grandmother's
apartment; the child sat on a stool at the old lady's feet, and
smiled sadly as the young man entered.

"Why that sword at your side, Imre?" asked the old lady in a feeble
voice. "Ah, this is no good world--no good world! But if God is
against us, who can resist His hand? I have spoken with the dead
again in dreams. I thought they all came around me and beckoned me
to follow them; but I am ready to go, and place my life with
gratitude and confidence in the hands of the Lord. Last night I
saw the year 1848 written in the skies in letters of fire. Who
knows what may come over us yet? This is no good world--no good
world!"

Imre bent silently over the old lady's hand and kissed it.

"And so you are going? Well, God bless and speed you, if you go
beneath the cross, and never forget in life or in death to raise
your heart to the Lord;" and the old lady placed her withered hand
upon her grandson's head, and murmured, "God Almighty bless you!"

"My husband was just such a handsome youth when I lost him," sighed
the widow lady as she embraced her nephew. "God bless you!"

The little cripple threw his arms around his cousin's knees and,
sobbing, entreated him not to stay long away.

The last who bade farewell was Jolanka. She approached with
downcast eyes, holding in her small white hands an embroidered
cockade, which she placed on his breast. It was composed of five
colors--blue and gold, red, white, and green.*

* Blue and gold are the colors of Transylvania.

"I understand," said the young man, in a tone of joyful surprise,
as he pressed the sweet girl to his heart, "Erdely* and Hungary
united! I shall win glory for your colors!"

* Transylvania.

The maiden yielded to his warm embrace, murmuring, as he released
her, "Remember me!"

"When I cease to remember you, I shall be no more," replied the
youth fervently.

And then he kissed the young girl's brow, and once more bidding
farewell, he hurried from the apartment.

Old Simon Bardy lived on the first floor: Imre did not forget him.

"Well, nephew," said the old man cheerfully, "God speed you, and
give you strength to cut down many Turks!"

"It is not with the Turks that we shall have to do," replied the
young man, smiling.

"Well, with the French," said the old soldier of the past century,
correcting himself.

A page waited at the gate with two horses saddled and bridled.

"I shall not require you--you may remain at home," said Imre, as,
taking the bridle of one of the horses, vaulting lightly into the
saddle, he pressed his csako over his brow and galloped from the
castle.

As he rode under the cross, he checked his horse and looked back.
Was it of his grandmother's words, or of the golden-haired Jolanka
that he thought?

A white handkerchief waved from the window. "Farewell, light of my
soul!" murmured the youth; and kissing his hand, he once more
dashed his spurs into his horse's flank, and turned down the steep
hill.

Those were strange times. All at once the villages began to be
depopulated; the inhabitants disappeared, none knew whither. The
doors of the houses were closed.

The bells were no longer heard in the evening, nor the maiden's
song as she returned from her work. The barking of dogs which had
lost their masters alone interrupted the silence of the streets,
where the grass began to grow.

Imre Bardy rode through the streets of the village without meeting
a soul; few of the chimneys had smoke, and no fires gleamed through
the kitchen windows.

Evening was drawing on, and a slight transparent mist had
overspread the valley. Imre was desirous of reaching Kolozsvar*
early on the next morning, and continued his route all night.

* Klausenburg.

About midnight the moon rose behind the trees, shedding her silvery
light over the forest. All was still, excepting the echo of the
miner's hammer, and the monotonous sound of his horse's step along
the rocky path. He rode on, lost in thought; when suddenly the
horse stopped short, and pricked his ears.

"Come, come," said Imre, stroking his neck, "you have not heard the
cannon yet."

The animal at last proceeded, turning his head impatiently from
side to side, and snorting and neighing with fear.

The road now led through a narrow pass between two rocks, whose
summits almost met, and a slight bridge, formed of one or two
rotten planks, was thrown across the dry channel of a mountain
stream which cut up the path.

As Imre reached the bridge, the horse backed, and no spurring could
induce him to cross. Imre at last pressed his knee angrily against
the trembling animal, striking him at the same time across the neck
with the bridle, on which the horse suddenly cleared the chasm at
one bound and then again turned and began to back.

At that instant a fearful cry arose from beneath, which was echoed
from the rocks around, and ten or fifteen savage-looking beings
climbed from under the bridge, with lances formed of upright
scythes.

Even then there would have been time for the horseman to turn back,
and dash through a handful of men behind him, but either he was
ashamed of turning from the first conflict, or he was desirous, at
any risk, to reach Kolozsvar at the appointed time, and instead of
retreating by the bridge, he galloped towards the other end of the
pass, where the enemy rushed upon him from every side, yelling
hideously.

"Back, Wallachian dogs!" cried Imre, cutting two of them down,
while several others sprang forward with the scythes.

Two shots whistled by, and Imre, letting go the bridle, cut right
and left, his sword gleaming rapidly among the awkward weapons; and
taking advantage of a moment in which the enemy's charge began to
slacken, he suddenly dashed through the crowd towards the outlet of
the rock, without perceiving that another party awaited him above
the rocks with great stones, with which they prepared to crush him
as he passed.

He was only a few paces from the spot, when a gigantic figure,
armed with a short broad-axe, and with a Roman helmet on his head,
descended from the rock in front of him, and seizing the reins of
the horse forced him to halt. The young man aimed a blow at his
enemy's head, and the helmet fell back, cut through the middle, but
the force of the blow had broken his sword in two; and the horse
lifted by his giant foe, reared, so that the rider, losing his
balance, was thrown against the side of the rock, and fell
senseless to the ground.

At the same instant a shot was fired toward them from the top of
the rock.

"Who fired there?" cried the giant, in a voice of thunder. The
bloodthirsty Wallachians would have rushed madly on their
defenseless prey, had not the giant stood between him and them.

"Who fired on me?" he sternly exclaimed. The Wallachians stood
back in terror.

"It was not on you, Decurio, that I fired, but on the hussar,"
stammered out one of the men, on whom the giant had fixed his eye.

"You lie, traitor! Your ball struck my armor, and had I not worn a
shirt of mail, it would have pierced my heart."

The man turned deadly pale, trembling from head to foot. "My
enemies have paid you to murder me?" The savage tried to speak, but
words died upon his lips.

"Hang him instantly--he is a traitor!"

The rest of the gang immediately seized the culprit and carried him
to the nearest tree, from whence his shrieks soon testified that
his sentence was being put in execution.

The Decurio remained alone with the young man; and hastily lifting
him, still senseless, from the ground, he mounted his horse, and
placing him before him ere the savage horde had returned, he had
galloped some distance along the road from whence the youth had
come, covering him with his mantle as he passed the bridge, to
conceal him from several of the gang who stood there, and
exclaiming, "Follow me to the Tapanfalva."

As soon as they were out of sight, he suddenly turned to the left,
down a steep, hilly path, and struck into the depth of the forest.

The morning sun had just shot its first beams across the hills,
tinting with golden hue the reddening autumn leaves, when the young
hussar began to move in his fevered dreams, and murmured the name
"Jolanka."

In a few moments he opened his eyes. He was lying in a small
chamber, through the only window of which the sunbeams shone upon
his face.

The bed on which he lay was made of lime-boughs, simply woven
together, and covered with wolves' skins. A gigantic form was
leaning against the foot of the bed with his arms folded, and as
the young man awoke, he turned round. It was the Decurio.

"Where am I?" asked the young man, vaguely endeavoring to recall
the events of the past night.

"In my house," replied Decurio.

"And who are you?"

"I am Numa, Decurio of the Roumin* Legion, your foe in battle, but
now your host and protector."

* The Wallachians were, in the days of Trajan, subdued by the
Romans, with whom they became intermixed, and are also called
Roumi.

"And why did you save me from your men?" asked the young man, after
a short silence.

"Because the strife was unequal--a hundred against one."

"But had it not been for you, I could have freed myself from them."

"Without me you had been lost. Ten paces from where I stopped your
horse, you would inevitably have been dashed to pieces by huge
stones which they were preparing to throw down upon you from the
rock."

"And you did not desire my death?"

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