The Witch of Prague
The Witch of PragueCHAPTER ICHAPTER IICHAPTER IIICHAPTER IVCHAPTER VCHAPTER VICHAPTER VIICHAPTER VIIICHAPTER IXCHAPTER XCHAPTER XICHAPTER XIICHAPTER XIIICHAPTER XIVCHAPTER XV[*]CHAPTER XVICHAPTER XVIICHAPTER XVIIICHAPTER XIXCHAPTER XX[*]CHAPTER XXICHAPTER XXIICHAPTER XXIIICHAPTER XXIVCHAPTER XXVCHAPTER XXVICHAPTER XXVIICopyright
The Witch of Prague
F. Marion Crawford
CHAPTER I
A great multitude of people filled the church, crowded
together in the old black pews, standing closely thronged in the
nave and aisles, pressing shoulder to shoulder even in the two
chapels on the right and left of the apse, a vast gathering of pale
men and women whose eyes were sad and in whose faces was written
the history of their nation. The mighty shafts and pilasters of the
Gothic edifice rose like the stems of giant trees in a primeval
forest from a dusky undergrowth, spreading out and uniting their
stony branches far above in the upper gloom. From the clerestory
windows of the nave an uncertain light descended halfway to the
depths and seemed to float upon the darkness below as oil upon the
water of a well. Over the western entrance the huge fantastic organ
bristled with blackened pipes and dusty gilded ornaments of
colossal size, like some enormous kingly crown long forgotten in
the lumber room of the universe, tarnished and overlaid with the
dust of ages. Eastwards, before the rail which separated the high
altar from the people, wax torches, so thick that a man might not
span one of them with both his hands, were set up at irregular
intervals, some taller, some shorter, burning with steady, golden
flames, each one surrounded with heavy funeral wreaths, and each
having a tablet below it, whereon were set forth in the Bohemian
idiom, the names, titles, and qualities of him or her in whose
memory it was lighted. Innumerable lamps and tapers before the side
altars and under the strange canopied shrines at the bases of the
pillars, struggled ineffectually with the gloom, shedding but a few
sickly yellow rays upon the pallid faces of the persons nearest to
their light.Suddenly the heavy vibration of a single pedal note burst
from the organ upon the breathing silence, long drawn out, rich,
voluminous, and imposing. Presently, upon the massive bass, great
chords grew up, succeeding each other in a simple modulation,
rising then with the blare of trumpets and the simultaneous crash
of mixtures, fifteenths and coupled pedals to a deafening peal,
then subsiding quickly again and terminating in one long sustained
common chord. And now, as the celebrant bowed at the lowest step
before the high altar, the voices of the innumerable congregation
joined the harmony of the organ, ringing up to the groined roof in
an ancient Slavonic melody, melancholy and beautiful, and rendered
yet more unlike all other music by the undefinable character of the
Bohemian language, in which tones softer than those of the softest
southern tongue alternate so oddly with rough gutturals and
strident sibilants.The Wanderer stood in the midst of the throng, erect, taller
than the men near him, holding his head high, so that a little of
the light from the memorial torches reached his thoughtful, manly
face, making the noble and passionate features to stand out
clearly, while losing its power of illumination in the dark beard
and among the shadows of his hair. His was a face such as Rembrandt
would have painted, seen under the light that Rembrandt loved best;
for the expression seemed to overcome the surrounding gloom by its
own luminous quality, while the deep gray eyes were made almost
black by the wide expansion of the pupils; the dusky brows clearly
defined the boundary in the face between passion and thought, and
the pale forehead, by its slight recession into the shade from its
middle prominence, proclaimed the man of heart, the man of faith,
the man of devotion, as well as the intuitive nature of the
delicately sensitive mind and the quick, elastic qualities of the
man's finely organized, but nervous bodily constitution. The long
white fingers of one hand stirred restlessly, twitching at the fur
of his broad lapel which was turned back across his chest, and from
time to time he drew a deep breath and sighed, not painfully, but
wearily and hopelessly, as a man sighs who knows that his happiness
is long past and that his liberation from the burden of life is yet
far off in the future.The celebrant reached the reading of the Gospel and the men
and women in the pews rose to their feet. Still the singing of the
long-drawn-out stanzas of the hymn continued with unflagging
devotion, and still the deep accompaniment of the ancient organ
sustained the mighty chorus of voices. The Gospel over, the people
sank into their seats again, not standing, as is the custom in some
countries, until the Creed had been said. Here and there, indeed, a
woman, perhaps a stranger in the country, remained upon her feet,
noticeable among the many figures seated in the pews. The Wanderer,
familiar with many lands and many varying traditions of worship,
unconsciously noted these exceptions, looking with a vague
curiosity from one to the other. Then, all at once, his tall frame
shivered from head to foot, and his fingers convulsively grasped
the yielding sable on which they lay.She was there, the woman he had sought so long, whose face he
had not found in the cities and dwellings of the living, neither
her grave in the silent communities of the dead. There, before the
uncouth monument of dark red marble beneath which Tycho Brahe rests
in peace, there she stood; not as he had seen her last on that day
when his senses had left him in the delirium of his sickness, not
in the freshness of her bloom and of her dark loveliness, but
changed as he had dreamed in evil dreams that death would have
power to change her. The warm olive of her cheek was turned to the
hue of wax, the soft shadows beneath her velvet eyes were deepened
and hardened, her expression, once yielding and changing under the
breath of thought and feeling as a field of flowers when the west
wind blows, was now set, as though for ever, in a death-like
fixity. The delicate features were drawn and pinched, the nostrils
contracted, the colourless lips straightened out of the lines of
beauty into the mould of a lifeless mask. It was the face of a dead
woman, but it was her face still, and the Wanderer knew it well; in
the kingdom of his soul the whole resistless commonwealth of the
emotions revolted together to dethrone death's regent—sorrow, while
the thrice-tempered springs of passion, bent but not broken,
stirred suddenly in the palace of his body and shook the strong
foundations of his being.During the seconds that followed, his eyes were riveted upon
the beloved head. Then, as the Creed ended, the vision sank down
and was lost to his sight. She was seated now, and the broad sea of
humanity hid her from him, though he raised himself the full height
of his stature in the effort to distinguish even the least part of
her head-dress. To move from his place was all but impossible,
though the fierce longing to be near her bade him trample even upon
the shoulders of the throng to reach her, as men have done more
than once to save themselves from death by fire in crowded places.
Still the singing of the hymn continued, and would continue, as he
knew, until the moment of the Elevation. He strained his hearing to
catch the sounds that came from the quarter where she sat. In a
chorus of a thousand singers he fancied that he could have
distinguished the tender, heart-stirring vibration of her tones.
Never woman sang, never could woman sing again, as she had once
sung, though her voice had been as soft as it had been sweet, and
tuned to vibrate in the heart rather than in the ear. As the
strains rose and fell, the Wanderer bowed his head and closed his
eyes, listening, through the maze of sounds, for the silvery ring
of her magic note. Something he heard at last, something that sent
a thrill from his ear to his heart, unless indeed his heart itself
were making music for his ears to hear. The impression reached him
fitfully, often interrupted and lost, but as often renewing itself
and reawakening in the listener the certainty of recognition which
he had felt at the sight of the singer's face.He who loves with his whole soul has a knowledge and a
learning which surpass the wisdom of those who spend their lives in
the study of things living or long dead, or never animate. They,
indeed, can construct the figure of a flower from the dried web of
a single leaf, or by the examination of a dusty seed, and they can
set up the scheme of life of a shadowy mammoth out of a fragment of
its skeleton, or tell the story of hill and valley from the
contemplation of a handful of earth or of a broken pebble. Often
they are right, sometimes they are driven deeper and deeper into
error by the complicated imperfections of their own science. But he
who loves greatly possesses in his intuition the capacities of all
instruments of observation which man has invented and applied to
his use. The lenses of his eyes can magnify the infinitesimal
detail to the dimensions of common things, and bring objects to his
vision from immeasurable distances; the labyrinth of his ear can
choose and distinguish amidst the harmonies and the discords of the
world, muffling in its tortuous passages the reverberation of
ordinary sounds while multiplying a hundredfold the faint tones of
the one beloved voice. His whole body and his whole intelligence
form together an instrument of exquisite sensibility whereby the
perceptions of his inmost soul are hourly tortured, delighted,
caught up into ecstasy, torn and crushed by jealousy and fear, or
plunged into the frigid waters of despair.The melancholy hymn resounded through the vast church, but
though the Wanderer stretched the faculty of hearing to the utmost,
he could no longer find the note he sought amongst the vibrations
of the dank and heavy air. Then an irresistible longing came upon
him to turn and force his way through the dense throng of men and
women, to reach the aisle and press past the huge pillar till he
could slip between the tombstone of the astronomer and the row of
back wooden seats. Once there, he should see her face to
face.He turned, indeed, as he stood, and he tried to move a few
steps. On all sides curious looks were directed upon him, but no
one offered to make way, and still the monotonous singing continued
until he felt himself deafened, as he faced the great
congregation."I am ill," he said in a low voice to those nearest to him.
"Pray let me pass!"His face was white, indeed, and those who heard his words
believed him. A mild old man raised his sad blue eyes, gazed at
him, and while trying to draw back, gently shook his head. A pale
woman, whose sickly features were half veiled in the folds of a
torn black shawl, moved as far as she could, shrinking as the very
poor and miserable shrink when they are expected to make way before
the rich and the strong. A lad of fifteen stood upon tiptoe to make
himself even slighter than he was and thus to widen the way, and
the Wanderer found himself, after repeated efforts, as much as two
steps distant from his former position. He was still trying to
divide the crowd when the music suddenly ceased, and the tones of
the organ died away far up under the western window. It was the
moment of the Elevation, and the first silvery tinkling of the
bell, the people swayed a little, all those who were able kneeling,
and those whose movements were impeded by the press of worshippers
bending towards the altar as a field of grain before the gale. The
Wanderer turned again and bowed himself with the rest, devoutly and
humbly, with half-closed eyes, as he strove to collect and control
his thoughts in the presence of the chief mystery of his Faith.
Three times the tiny bell was rung, a pause followed, and thrice
again the clear jingle of the metal broke the solemn stillness.
Then once more the people stirred, and the soft sound of their
simultaneous motion was like a mighty sigh breathed up from the
secret vaults and the deep foundations of the ancient church; again
the pedal note of the organ boomed through the nave and aisles, and
again the thousands of human voices took up the strain of
song.The Wanderer glanced about him, measuring the distance he
must traverse to reach the monument of the Danish astronomer and
confronting it with the short time which now remained before the
end of the Mass. He saw that in such a throng he would have no
chance of gaining the position he wished to occupy in less than
half an hour, and he had not but a scant ten minutes at his
disposal. He gave up the attempt therefore, determining that when
the celebration should be over he would move forward with the
crowd, trusting to his superior stature and energy to keep him
within sight of the woman he sought, until both he and she could
meet, either just within or just without the narrow entrance of the
church.Very soon the moment of action came. The singing died away,
the benediction was given, the second Gospel was read, the priest
and the people repeated the Bohemian prayers, and all was over. The
countless heads began to move onward, the shuffling of innumerable
feet sent heavy, tuneless echoes through vaulted space, broken
every moment by the sharp, painful cough of a suffering child whom
no one could see in the multitude, or by the dull thud of some
heavy foot striking against the wooden seats in the press. The
Wanderer moved forward with the rest. Reaching the entrance of the
pew where she had sat he was kept back during a few seconds by the
half dozen men and women who were forcing their way out of it
before him. But at the farthest end, a figure clothed in black was
still kneeling. A moment more and he might enter the pew and be at
her side. One of the other women dropped something before she was
out of the narrow space, and stooped, fumbling and searching in the
darkness. At the minute, the slight, girlish figure rose swiftly
and passed like a shadow before the heavy marble monument. The
Wanderer saw that the pew was open at the other end, and without
heeding the woman who stood in his way, he sprang upon the low
seat, passed her, stepped to the floor upon the other side and was
out in the aisle in a moment. Many persons had already left the
church and the space was comparatively free.She was before him, gliding quickly toward the door. Ere he
could reach her, he saw her touch the thick ice which filled the
marble basin, cross herself hurriedly and pass out. But he had seen
her face again, and he knew that he was not mistaken. The thin,
waxen features were as those of the dead, but they were hers,
nevertheless. In an instant he could be by her side. But again his
progress was momentarily impeded by a number of persons who were
entering the building hastily to attend the next Mass. Scarcely ten
seconds later he was out in the narrow and dismal passage which
winds between the north side of the Teyn Kirche and the buildings
behind the Kinsky Palace. The vast buttresses and towers cast deep
shadows below them, and the blackened houses opposite absorb what
remains of the uncertain winter's daylight. To the left of the
church a low arch spans the lane, affording a covered communication
between the north aisle and the sacristy. To the right the open
space is somewhat broader, and three dark archways give access to
as many passages, leading in radiating directions and under the old
houses to the streets beyond.The Wanderer stood upon the steps, beneath the rich stone
carvings which set forth the Crucifixion over the door of the
church, and his quick eyes scanned everything within sight. To the
left, no figure resembling the one he sought was to be seen, but on
the right, he fancied that among a score of persons now rapidly
dispersing he could distinguish just within one of the archways a
moving shadow, black against the blackness. In an instant he had
crossed the way and was hurrying through the gloom. Already far
before him, but visible and, as he believed, unmistakable, the
shade was speeding onward, light as mist, noiseless as thought, but
yet clearly to be seen and followed. He cried aloud, as he
ran,"Beatrice! Beatrice!"His strong voice echoed along the dank walls and out into the
court beyond. It was intensely cold, and the still air carried the
sound clearly to the distance. She must have heard him, she must
have known his voice, but as she crossed the open place, and the
gray light fell upon her, he could see that she did not raise her
bent head nor slacken her speed.He ran on, sure of overtaking her in the passage she had now
entered, for she seemed to be only walking, while he was pursuing
her at a headlong pace. But in the narrow tunnel, when he reached
it, she was not, though at the farther end he imagined that the
fold of a black garment was just disappearing. He emerged into the
street, in which he could now see in both directions to a distance
of fifty yards or more. He was alone. The rusty iron shutters of
the little shops were all barred and fastened, and every door
within the range of his vision was closed. He stood still in
surprise and listened. There was no sound to be heard, not the
grating of a lock, nor the tinkling of a bell, nor the fall of a
footstep.He did not pause long, for he made up his mind as to what he
should do in the flash of a moment's intuition. It was physically
impossible that she should have disappeared into any one of the
houses which had their entrances within the dark tunnel he had just
traversed. Apart from the presumptive impossibility of her being
lodged in such a quarter, there was the self-evident fact that he
must have heard the door opened and closed. Secondly, she could not
have turned to the right, for in that direction the street was
straight and without any lateral exit, so that he must have seen
her. Therefore she must have gone to the left, since on that side
there was a narrow alley leading out of the lane, at some distance
from the point where he was now standing—too far, indeed, for her
to have reached it unnoticed, unless, as was possible, he had been
greatly deceived in the distance which had lately separated her
from him.Without further hesitation, he turned to the left. He found
no one in the way, for it was not yet noon, and at that hour the
people were either at their prayers or at their Sunday morning's
potations, and the place was as deserted as a disused cemetery.
Still he hastened onward, never pausing for breath, till he found
himself all at once in the great Ring. He knew the city well, but
in his race he had bestowed no attention upon the familiar windings
and turnings, thinking only of overtaking the fleeting vision, no
matter how, no matter where. Now, on a sudden, the great, irregular
square opened before him, flanked on the one side by the fantastic
spires of the Teyn Church, and the blackened front of the huge
Kinsky Palace, on the other by the half-modern Town Hall with its
ancient tower, its beautiful porch, and the graceful oriel which
forms the apse of the chapel in the second story.One of the city watchmen, muffled in his military overcoat,
and conspicuous by the great bunch of dark feathers that drooped
from his black hat, was standing idly at the corner from which the
Wanderer emerged. The latter thought of inquiring whether the man
had seen a lady pass, but the fellow's vacant stare convinced him
that no questioning would elicit a satisfactory answer. Moreover,
as he looked across the square he caught sight of a retreating
figure dressed in black, already at such a distance as to make
positive recognition impossible. In his haste he found no time to
convince himself that no living woman could have thus outrun him,
and he instantly resumed his pursuit, gaining rapidly upon her he
was following. But it is not an easy matter to overtake even a
woman, when she has an advantage of a couple of hundred yards, and
when the race is a short one. He passed the ancient astronomical
clock, just as the little bell was striking the third quarter after
eleven, but he did not raise his head to watch the sad-faced
apostles as they presented their stiff figures in succession at the
two square windows. When the blackened cock under the small Gothic
arch above flapped his wooden wings and uttered his melancholy
crow, the Wanderer was already at the corner of the little Ring,
and he could see the object of his pursuit disappearing before him
into the Karlsgasse. He noticed uneasily that the resemblance
between the woman he was following and the object of his loving
search seemed now to diminish, as in a bad dream, as the distance
between himself and her decreased. But he held resolutely on,
nearing her at every step, round a sharp corner to the right, then
to the left, to the right again, and once more in the opposite
direction, always, as he knew, approaching the old stone bridge. He
was not a dozen paces behind her as she turned quickly a third time
to the right, round the wall of the ancient house which faces the
little square over against the enormous buildings comprising the
Clementine Jesuit monastery and the astronomical observatory. As he
sprang past the corner he saw the heavy door just closing and heard
the sharp resounding clang of its iron fastening. The lady had
disappeared, and he felt sure that she had gone through that
entrance.He knew the house well, for it is distinguished from all
others in Prague, both by its shape and its oddly ornamented,
unnaturally narrow front. It is built in the figure of an irregular
triangle, the blunt apex of one angle facing the little square, the
sides being erected on the one hand along the Karlsgasse and on the
other upon a narrow alley which leads away towards the Jews'
quarter. Overhanging passages are built out over this dim lane, as
though to facilitate the interior communications of the dwelling,
and in the shadow beneath them there is a small door studded with
iron nails which is invariably shut. The main entrance takes in all
the scant breadth of the truncated angle which looks towards the
monastery. Immediately over it is a great window, above that
another, and, highest of all, under the pointed gable, a round and
unglazed aperture, within which there is inky darkness. The windows
of the first and second stories are flanked by huge figures of
saints, standing forth in strangely contorted attitudes, black with
the dust of ages, black as all old Prague is black, with the smoke
of the brown Bohemian coal, with the dark and unctuous mists of
many autumns, with the cruel, petrifying frosts of ten score
winters.He who knew the cities of men as few have known them, knew
also this house. Many a time had he paused before it by day and by
night, wondering who lived within its massive, irregular walls,
behind those uncouth, barbarously sculptured saints who kept their
interminable watch high up by the lozenged windows. He would know
now. Since she whom he sought had entered, he would enter too; and
in some corner of that dwelling which had long possessed a
mysterious attraction for his eyes, he would find at last that
being who held power over his heart, that Beatrice whom he had
learned to think of as dead, while still believing that somewhere
she must be yet alive, that dear lady whom, dead or living, he
loved beyond all others, with a great love, passing
words.
CHAPTER II
The Wanderer stood still before the door. In the freezing
air, his quick-drawn breath made fantastic wreaths of mist, white
and full of odd shapes as he watched the tiny clouds curling
quickly into each other before the blackened oak. Then he laid his
hand boldly upon the chain of the bell. He expected to hear the
harsh jingling of cracked metal, but he was surprised by the
silvery clearness and musical quality of the ringing tones which
reached his ear. He was pleased, and unconsciously took the
pleasant infusion for a favourable omen. The heavy door swung back
almost immediately, and he was confronted by a tall porter in dark
green cloth and gold lacings, whose imposing appearance was made
still more striking by the magnificent fair beard which flowed down
almost to his waist. The man lifted his heavy cocked hat and held
it low at his side as he drew back to let the visitor enter. The
latter had not expected to be admitted thus without question, and
paused under the bright light which illuminated the arched
entrance, intending to make some inquiry of the porter. But the
latter seemed to expect nothing of the sort. He carefully closed
the door, and then, bearing his hat in one hand and his gold-headed
staff in the other, he proceeded gravely to the other end of the
vaulted porch, opened a great glazed door and held it back for the
visitor to pass.The Wanderer recognized that the farther he was allowed to
penetrate unhindered into the interior of the house, the nearer he
should be to the object of his search. He did not know where he
was, nor what he might find. For all that he knew, he might be in a
club, in a great banking-house, or in some semi-public institution
of the nature of a library, an academy or a conservatory of music.
There are many such establishments in Prague, though he was not
acquainted with any in which the internal arrangements so closely
resembled those of a luxurious private residence. But there was no
time for hesitation, and he ascended the broad staircase with a
firm step, glancing at the rich tapestries which covered the walls,
at the polished surface of the marble steps on either side of the
heavy carpet, and at the elaborate and beautiful iron-work of the
hand-rail. As he mounted higher, he heard the quick rapping of an
electric signal above him, and he understood that the porter had
announced his coming. Reaching the landing, he was met by a servant
in black, as correct at all points as the porter himself, and who
bowed low as he held back the thick curtain which hung before the
entrance. Without a word the man followed the visitor into a high
room of irregular shape, which served as a vestibule, and stood
waiting to receive the guest's furs, should it please him to lay
them aside. To pause now, and to enter into an explanation with a
servant, would have been to reject an opportunity which might never
return. In such an establishment, he was sure of finding himself
before long in the presence of some more or less intelligent person
of his own class, of whom he could make such inquiries as might
enlighten him, and to whom he could present such excuses for his
intrusion as might seem most fitting in so difficult a case. He let
his sables fall into the hands of the servant and followed the
latter along a short passage.The man introduced him into a spacious hall and closed the
door, leaving him to his own reflections. The place was very wide
and high and without windows, but the broad daylight descended
abundantly from above through the glazed roof and illuminated every
corner. He would have taken the room for a conservatory, for it
contained a forest of tropical trees and plants, and whole gardens
of rare southern flowers. Tall letonias, date palms, mimosas and
rubber trees of many varieties stretched their fantastic spikes and
heavy leaves half-way up to the crystal ceiling; giant ferns swept
the polished marble floor with their soft embroideries and dark
green laces; Indian creepers, full of bright blossoms, made screens
and curtains of their intertwining foliage; orchids of every hue
and of every exotic species bloomed in thick banks along the walls.
Flowers less rare, violets and lilies of the valley, closely set
and luxuriant, grew in beds edged with moss around the roots of the
larger plants and in many open spaces. The air was very soft and
warm, moist and full of heavy odours as the still atmosphere of an
island in southern seas, and the silence was broken only by the
light plash of softly-falling water.Having advanced a few steps from the door, the Wanderer stood
still and waited, supposing that the owner of the dwelling would be
made aware of a visitor's presence and would soon appear. But no
one came. Then a gentle voice spoke from amidst the verdure,
apparently from no great distance."I am here," it said.He moved forward amidst the ferns and the tall plants, until
he found himself on the farther side of a thick network of
creepers. Then he paused, for he was in the presence of a woman, of
her who dwelt among the flowers. She was sitting before him,
motionless and upright in a high, carved chair, and so placed that
the pointed leaves of the palm which rose above her cast sharp,
star-shaped shadows over the broad folds of her white dress. One
hand, as white, as cold, as heavily perfect as the sculpture of a
Praxiteles or a Phidias, rested with drooping fingers on the arm of
the chair. The other pressed the pages of a great book which lay
open on the lady's knee. Her face was turned toward the visitor,
and her eyes examined his face; calmly and with no surprise in
them, but not without a look of interest. Their expression was at
once so unusual, so disquieting, and yet so inexplicably attractive
as to fascinate the Wanderer's gaze. He did not remember that he
had ever seen a pair of eyes of distinctly different colours, the
one of a clear, cold gray, the other of a deep, warm brown, so dark
as to seem almost black, and he would not have believed that nature
could so far transgress the canons of her own art and yet preserve
the appearance of beauty. For the lady was beautiful, from the
diadem of her red gold hair to the proud curve of her fresh young
lips; from her broad, pale forehead, prominent and boldly modelled
at the angles of the brows, to the strong mouldings of the
well-balanced chin, which gave evidence of strength and resolution
wherewith to carry out the promise of the high aquiline features
and of the wide and sensitive nostrils."Madame," said the Wanderer, bending his head courteously and
advancing another step, "I can neither frame excuses for having
entered your house unbidden, nor hope to obtain indulgence for my
intrusion, unless you are willing in the first place to hear my
short story. May I expect so much kindness?"He paused, and the lady looked at him fixedly and curiously.
Without taking her eyes from his face, and without speaking, she
closed the book she had held on her knee, and laid it beside her
upon a low table. The Wanderer did not avoid her gaze, for he had
nothing to conceal, nor any sense of timidity. He was an intruder
upon the privacy of one whom he did not know, but he was ready to
explain his presence and to make such amends as courtesy required,
if he had given offence.The heavy odours of the flowers filled his nostrils with an
unknown, luxurious delight, as he stood there, gazing into the
lady's eyes; he fancied that a gentle breath of perfumed air was
blowing softly over his hair and face out of the motionless palms,
and the faint plashing of the hidden fountain was like an exquisite
melody in his ears. It was good to be in such a place, to look on
such a woman, to breathe such odours, and to hear such tuneful
music. A dreamlike, half-mysterious satisfaction of the senses
dulled the keen self-knowledge of body and soul for one short
moment. In the stormy play of his troubled life there was a brief
interlude of peace. He tasted the fruit of the lotus, his lips were
moistened in the sweet waters of forgetfulness.The lady spoke at last, and the spell left him, not broken,
as by a sudden shock, but losing its strong power by quick degrees
until it was wholly gone."I will answer your question by another," said the lady. "Let
your reply be the plain truth. It will be better so.""Ask what you will. I have nothing to conceal.""Do you know who and what I am? Do you come here out of
curiosity, in the vain hope of knowing me, having heard of me from
others?""Assuredly not." A faint flush rose in the man's pale and
noble face. "You have my word," he said, in the tone of one who is
sure of being believed, "that I have never, to my knowledge, heard
of your existence, that I am ignorant even of your name—forgive my
ignorance—and that I entered this house, not knowing whose it might
be, seeking and following after one for whom I have searched the
world, one dearly loved, long lost, long sought.""It is enough. Be seated. I am Unorna.""Unorna?" repeated the Wanderer, with an unconscious question
in his voice, as though the name recalled some half-forgotten
association."Unorna—yes. I have another name," she added, with a shade of
bitterness, "but it is hardly mine. Tell me your story. You
loved—you lost—you seek—so much I know. What else?"The Wanderer sighed."You have told in those few words the story of my life—the
unfinished story. A wanderer I was born, a wanderer I am, a
wanderer I must ever be, until at last I find her whom I seek. I
knew her in a strange land, far from my birthplace, in a city where
I was known but to a few, and I loved her. She loved me, too, and
that against her father's will. He would not have his daughter wed
with one not of her race; for he himself had taken a wife among
strangers, and while she was yet alive he had repented of what he
had done. But I would have overcome his reasons and his
arguments—she and I could have overcome them together, for he did
not hate me, he bore me no ill-will. We were almost friends when I
last took his hand. Then the hour of destiny came upon me. The air
of that city was treacherous and deadly. I had left her with her
father, and my heart was full of many things, and of words both
spoken and unuttered. I lingered upon an ancient bridge that
spanned the river, and the sun went down. Then the evil fever of
the south laid hold upon me and poisoned the blood in my veins, and
stole the consciousness from my understanding. Weeks passed away,
and memory returned, with the strength to speak. I learned that she
I loved and her father were gone, and none knew whither. I rose and
left the accursed city, being at that time scarce able to stand
upright upon my feet. Finding no trace of those I sought, I
journeyed to their own country, for I knew where her father held
his lands. I had been ill many weeks and much time had passed, from
the day on which I had left her, until I was able to move from my
bed. When I reached the gates of her home, I was told that all had
been lately sold, and that others now dwelt within the walls. I
inquired of those new owners of the land, but neither they or any
of all those whom I questioned could tell me whither I should
direct my search. The father was a strange man, loving travel and
change and movement, restless and unsatisfied with the world, rich
and free to make his own caprice his guide through life; reticent
he was, moreover, and thoughtful, not given to speaking out his
intentions. Those who administered his affairs in his absence were
honourable men, bound by his especial injunction not to reveal his
ever-varying plans. Many times, in my ceaseless search, I met
persons who had lately seen him and his daughter and spoken with
them. I was ever on their track, from hemisphere to hemisphere,
from continent to continent, from country to country, from city to
city, often believing myself close upon them, often learning
suddenly that an ocean lay between them and me. Was he eluding me,
purposely, resolutely, or was he unconscious of my desperate
pursuit, being served by chance alone and by his own restless
temper? I do not know. At last, some one told me that she was dead,
speaking thoughtlessly, not knowing that I loved her. He who told
me had heard the news from another, who had received it on hearsay
from a third. None knew in what place her spirit had parted; none
knew by what manner of sickness she had died. Since then, I have
heard others say that she is not dead, that they have heard in
their turn from others that she yet lives. An hour ago, I knew not
what to think. To-day, I saw her in a crowded church. I heard her
voice, though I could not reach her in the throng, struggle how I
would. I followed her in haste, I lost her at one turning, I saw
her before me at the next. At last a figure, clothed as she had
been clothed, entered your house. Whether it was she I know not
certainly, but I do know that in the church I saw her. She cannot
be within your dwelling without your knowledge; if she be here—then
I have found her, my journey is ended, my wanderings have led me
home at last. If she be not here, if I have been mistaken, I
entreat you to let me set eyes on that other whom I mistook for
her, to forgive then my mannerless intrusion and to let me
go."Unorna had listened with half-closed eyes, but with
unfaltering attention, watching the speaker's face from beneath her
drooping lids, making no effort to read his thoughts, but weighing
his words and impressing every detail of his story upon her mind.
When he had done there was silence for a time, broken only by the
plash and ripple of the falling water."She is not here," said Unorna at last. "You shall see for
yourself. There is indeed in this house a young girl to whom I am
deeply attached, who has grown up at my side and has always lived
under my roof. She is very pale and dark, and is dressed always in
black.""Like her I saw.""You shall see her again. I will send for her." Unorna
pressed an ivory key in the silver ball which lay beside her,
attached to a thick cord of white silk. "Ask Sletchna Axenia to
come to me," she said to the servant who opened the door in the
distance, out of sight behind the forest of plants.Amid less unusual surroundings the Wanderer would have
rejected with contempt the last remnants of his belief in the
identity of Unorna's companion, with Beatrice. But, being where he
was, he felt unable to decide between the possible and the
impossible, between what he might reasonably expect and what lay
beyond the bounds of reason itself. The air he breathed was so
loaded with rich exotic perfumes, the woman before him was so
little like other women, her strangely mismatched eyes had for his
own such a disquieting attraction, all that he saw and felt and
heard was so far removed from the commonplaces of daily life as to
make him feel that he himself was becoming a part of some other
person's existence, that he was being gradually drawn away from his
identity, and was losing the power of thinking his own thoughts. He
reasoned as the shadows reason in dreamland, the boundaries of
common probability receded to an immeasurable distance, and he
almost ceased to know where reality ended and where imagination
took up the sequence of events.Who was this woman, who called herself Unorna? He tried to
consider the question, and to bring his intelligence to bear upon
it. Was she a great lady of Prague, rich, capricious, creating a
mysterious existence for herself, merely for her own good pleasure?
Her language, her voice, her evident refinement gave colour to the
idea, which was in itself attractive to a man who had long ceased
to expect novelty in this working-day world. He glanced at her
face, musing and wondering, inhaling the sweet, intoxicating odours
of the flowers and listening to the tinkling of the hidden
fountain. Her eyes were gazing into his, and again, as if by magic,
the curtain of life's stage was drawn together in misty folds,
shutting out the past, the present, and the future, the fact, the
doubt, and the hope, in an interval of perfect peace.He was roused by the sound of a light footfall upon the
marble pavement. Unorna's eyes were turned from his, and with
something like a movement of surprise he himself looked towards the
new comer. A young girl was standing under the shadow of a great
letonia at a short distance from him. She was very pale indeed, but
not with that death-like, waxen pallor which had chilled him when
he had looked upon that other face. There was a faint resemblance
in the small, aquiline features, the dress was black, and the
figure of the girl before him was assuredly neither much taller nor
much shorter than that of the woman he loved and sought. But the
likeness went no further, and he knew that he had been utterly
mistaken.Unorna exchanged a few indifferent words with Axenia and
dismissed her."You have seen," she said, when the young girl was gone. "Was
it she who entered the house just now?""Yes. I was misled by a mere resemblance. Forgive me for my
importunity—let me thank you most sincerely for your great
kindness." He rose as he spoke."Do not go," said Unorna, looking at him
earnestly.He stood still, silent, as though his attitude should explain
itself, and yet expecting that she would say something further. He
felt that her eyes were upon him, and he raised his own to meet the
look frankly, as was his wont. For the first time since he had
entered her presence he felt that there was more than a mere
disquieting attraction in her steady gaze; there was a strong,
resistless fascination, from which he had no power to withdraw
himself. Almost unconsciously he resumed his seat, still looking at
her, while telling himself with a severe effort that he would look
but one instant longer and then turn away. Ten seconds passed,
twenty, half a minute, in total silence. He was confused,
disturbed, and yet wholly unable to shut out her penetrating
glance. His fast ebbing consciousness barely allowed him to wonder
whether he was weakened by the strong emotions he had felt in the
church, or by the first beginning of some unknown and unexpected
malady. He was utterly weak and unstrung. He could neither rise
from his seat, nor lift his hand, nor close the lids of his eyes.
It was as though an irresistible force were drawing him into the
depths of a fathomless whirlpool, down, down, by its endless giddy
spirals, robbing him of a portion of his consciousness at every
gyration, so that he left behind him at every instant something of
his individuality, something of the central faculty of
self-recognition. He felt no pain, but he did not feel that
inexpressible delight of peace which already twice had descended
upon him. He experienced a rapid diminution of all perception, of
all feeling, of all intelligence. Thought, and the memory of
thought, ebbed from his brain and left it vacant, as the waters of
a lock subside when the gates are opened, leaving emptiness in
their place.Unorna's eyes turned from him, and she raised her hand a
moment, letting it fall again upon her knee. Instantly the strong
man was restored to himself; his weakness vanished, his sight was
clear, his intelligence was awake. Instantly the certainty flashed
upon him that Unorna possessed the power of imposing the hypnotic
sleep and had exercised that gift upon him, unexpectedly and
against his will. He would have more willingly supposed that he had
been the victim of a momentary physical faintness, for the idea of
having been thus subjected to the influence of a woman, and of a
woman whom he hardly knew, was repugnant to him, and had in it
something humiliating to his pride, or at least to his vanity. But
he could not escape the conviction forced upon him by the
circumstances."Do not go far, for I may yet help you," said Unorna,
quietly. "Let us talk of this matter and consult what is best to be
done. Will you accept a woman's help?""Readily. But I cannot accept her will as mine, nor resign my
consciousness into her keeping.""Not for the sake of seeing her whom you say you
love?"The Wanderer was silent, being yet undetermined how to act,
and still unsteadied by what he had experienced. But he was able to
reason, and he asked of his judgment what he should do, wondering
what manner of woman Unorna might prove to be, and whether she was
anything more than one of those who live and even enrich themselves
by the exercise of the unusual faculties of powers nature has given
them. He had seen many of that class, and he considered most of
them to be but half fanatics, half charlatans, worshipping in
themselves as something almost divine that which was but a physical
power, or weakness, beyond their own limited comprehension. Though
a whole school of wise and thoughtful men had already produced
remarkable results and elicited astounding facts by sifting the
truth through a fine web of closely logical experiment, it did not
follow that either Unorna, or any other self-convinced, self-taught
operator could do more than grope blindly towards the light, guided
by intuition alone amongst the varied and misleading phenomena of
hypnotism. The thought of accepting the help of one who was
probably, like most of her kind, a deceiver of herself and
therefore, and thereby, of others, was an affront to the dignity of
his distress, a desecration of his love's sanctity, a frivolous
invasion of love's holiest ground. But, on the other hand, he was
stimulated to catch at the veriest shadows of possibility by the
certainty that he was at last within the same city with her he
loved, and he knew that hypnotic subjects are sometimes able to
determine the abode of persons whom no one else can find. To-morrow
it might be too late. Even before to-day's sun had set Beatrice
might be once more taken from him, snatched away to the ends of the
earth by her father's ever-changing caprice. To lose a moment now
might be to lose all.He was tempted to yield, to resign his will into Unorna's
hands, and his sight to her leading, to let her bid him sleep and
see the truth. But then, with a sudden reaction of his
individuality, he realized that he had another course, surer,
simpler, more dignified. Beatrice was in Prague. It was little
probable that she was permanently established in the city, and in
all likelihood she and her father were lodged in one of the two or
three great hotels. To be driven from the one to the other of these
would be but an affair of minutes. Failing information from this
source, there remained the registers of the Austrian police, whose
vigilance takes note of every stranger's name and
dwelling-place."I thank you," he said. "If all my inquiries fail, and if you
will let me visit you once more to-day, I will then ask your
help.""You are right," Unorna answered.
CHAPTER III
He had been deceived in supposing that he must inevitably
find the names of those he sought upon the ordinary registers which
chronicle the arrival and departure of travellers. He lost no time,
he spared no effort, driving from place to place as fast as two
sturdy Hungarian horses could take him, hurrying from one office to
another, and again and again searching endless pages and columns
which seemed full of all the names of earth, but in which he never
found the one of all others which he longed to read. The gloom in
the narrow streets was already deepening, though it was scarcely
two hours after mid-day, and the heavy air had begun to thicken
with a cold gray haze, even in the broad, straight Przikopy, the
wide thoroughfare which has taken the place and name of the moat
before the ancient fortifications, so that distant objects and
figures lost the distinctness of their outlines. Winter in Prague
is but one long, melancholy dream, broken sometimes at noon by an
hour of sunshine, by an intermittent visitation of reality, by the
shock and glare of a little broad daylight. The morning is not
morning, the evening is not evening; as in the land of the Lotus,
it is ever afternoon, gray, soft, misty, sad, save when the sun,
being at his meridian height, pierces the dim streets and sweeps
the open places with low, slanting waves of pale brightness. And
yet these same dusky streets are thronged with a moving multitude,
are traversed ever by ceaseless streams of men and women, flowing
onward, silently, swiftly, eagerly. The very beggars do not speak
above a whisper, the very dogs are dumb. The stillness of all
voices leaves nothing for the perception of the hearing save the
dull thread of many thousand feet and the rough rattle of an
occasional carriage. Rarely, the harsh tones of a peasant, or the
clear voices of a knot of strangers, unused to such oppressive
silence, startle the ear, causing hundreds of eager,
half-suspicious, half-wondering eyes to turn in the direction of
the sound.And yet Prague is a great city, the capital of the Bohemian
Crownland, the centre of a not unimportant nation, the focus in
which are concentrated the hottest, if not the brightest, rays from
the fire of regeneration kindled within the last half century by
the Slavonic race. There is an ardent furnace of life hidden
beneath the crust of ashes: there is a wonderful language behind
that national silence.The Wanderer stood in deep thought under the shadow of the
ancient Powder Tower. Haste had no further object now, since he had
made every inquiry within his power, and it was a relief to feel
the pavement beneath his feet and to breathe the misty frozen air
after having been so long in the closeness of his carriage. He
hesitated as to what he should do, unwilling to return to Unorna
and acknowledge himself vanquished, yet finding it hard to resist
his desire to try every means, no matter how little reasonable, how
evidently useless, how puerile and revolting to his sounder sense.
The street behind him led directly towards Unorna's house. Had he
found himself in a more remote quarter, he might have come to
another and a wiser conclusion. Being so near to the house of which
he was thinking, he yielded to the temptation. Having reached this
stage of resolution, his mind began to recapitulate the events of
the day, and he suddenly felt a strong wish to revisit the church,
to stand in the place where Beatrice had stood, to touch in the
marble basin beside the door the thick ice which her fingers had
touched so lately, to traverse again the dark passages through
which he had pursued her. To accomplish his purpose he need only
turn aside a few steps from the path he was now following. He left
the street almost immediately, passing under a low arched way that
opened on the right-hand side, and a moment later he was within the
walls of the Teyn Kirche.The vast building was less gloomy than it had been in the
morning. It was not yet the hour of vespers, the funeral torches
had been extinguished, as well as most of the lights upon the high
altar, there were not a dozen persons in the church, and high up
beneath the roof broad shafts of softened sunshine, floating above
the mists of the city without, streamed through the narrow lancet
windows and were diffused in the great gloom below. The Wanderer
went to the monument of Brahe and sat down in the corner of the
blackened pew. His hands trembled a little as he clasped them upon
his knee, and his head sank slowly towards his breast.He thought of all that might have been if he had risked
everything that morning. He could have used his strength to force a
way for himself through the press, he could have thrust the
multitude to the right and left, and he could have reached her
side. Perhaps he had been weak, indolent, timid, and he accused
himself of his own failure. But then, again, he seemed to see about
him the closely packed crowd, the sea of faces, the thick, black
mass of humanity, and he knew the tremendous power that lay in the
inert, passive resistance of a vast gathering such as had been
present. Had it been anywhere else, in a street, in a theatre,
anywhere except in a church, all would have been well. It had not
been his fault, for he knew, when he thought of it calmly, that the
strength of his body would have been but as a breath of air against
the silent, motionless, and immovable barrier presented by a
thousand men, standing shoulder to shoulder against him. He could
have done nothing. Once again his fate had defeated him at the
moment of success.He was aware that some one was standing very near to him. He
looked up and saw a very short, gray-bearded man engaged in a
minute examination of the dark red marble face on the astronomer's
tomb. The man's head, covered with closely-cropped gray hair, was
half buried between his high, broad shoulders, in an immense collar
of fur, but the shape of the skull was so singular as to
distinguish its possessor, when hatless, from all other men. The
cranium was abnormally shaped, reaching a great elevation at the
summit, then sinking suddenly, then spreading forward to an
enormous development at the temple just visible as he was then
standing, and at the same time forming unusual protuberances behind
the large and pointed ears. No one who knew the man could mistake
his head, when even the least portion of it could be seen. The
Wanderer recognised him at once.As though he were conscious of being watched, the little man
turned sharply, exhibiting his wrinkled forehead, broad at the
brows, narrow and high in the middle, showing, too, a Socratic nose
half buried in the midst of the gray hair which grew as high as the
prominent cheek bones, and suggesting the idea of a polished ivory
ball lying in a nest of grayish wool. Indeed all that was visible
of the face above the beard might have been carved out of old
ivory, so far as the hue and quality of the surface were concerned;
and if it had been necessary to sculpture a portrait of the man, no
material could have been chosen more fitted to reproduce faithfully
the deep cutting of the features, to render the close network of
the wrinkles which covered them like the shadings of a line
engraving, and at the same time to give the whole that appearance
of hardness and smoothness which was peculiar to the clear, tough
skin. The only positive colour which relieved the half tints of the
face lay in the sharp bright eyes which gleamed beneath the busy
eyebrows like tiny patches of vivid blue sky seen through little
rifts in a curtain of cloud. All expression, all mobility, all life
were concentrated in those two points.The Wanderer rose to his feet."Keyork Arabian!" he exclaimed, extending his hand. The
little man immediately gripped it in his small fingers, which, soft
and delicately made as they were, possessed a strength hardly to
have been expected either from their shape, or from the small
proportions of him to whom they belonged."Still wandering?" asked the little man, with a slightly
sarcastic intonation. He spoke in a deep, caressing bass, not loud,
but rich in quality and free from that jarring harshness which
often belongs to very manly voices. A musician would have
discovered that the pitch was that of those Russian choristers
whose deep throats yield organ tones, a full octave below the
compass of ordinary singers in other lands."You must have wandered, too, since we last met," replied the
taller man."I never wander," said Keyork. "When a man knows what he
wants, knows where it is to be found, and goes thither to take it,
he is not wandering. Moreover, I have no thought of removing myself
or my goods from Prague. I live here. It is a city for old men. It
is saturnine. The foundations of its houses rest on the silurian
formation, which is more than can be said for any other capital, as
far as I know.""Is that an advantage?" inquired the Wanderer."To my mind. I would say to my son, if I had one—my thanks to
a blind but intelligent destiny for preserving me from such a
calamity!—I would say to him, 'Spend thy youth among flowers in the
land where they are brightest and sweetest; pass thy manhood in all
lands where man strives with man, thought for thought, blow for
blow; choose for thine old age that spot in which, all things being
old, thou mayest for the longest time consider thyself young in
comparison with thy surroundings.' A man can never feel old if he
contemplates and meditates upon those things only which are
immeasurably older than himself. Moreover the imperishable can
preserve the perishable.""It was not your habit to talk of death when we were
together.""I have found it interesting of late years. The subject is
connected with one of my inventions. Did you ever embalm a body?
No? I could tell you something singular about the newest
process.""What is the connection?""I am embalming myself, body and mind. It is but an
experiment, and unless it succeeds it must be the last. Embalming,
as it is now understood, means substituting one thing for another.
Very good. I am trying to purge from my mind its old circulating
medium; the new thoughts must all be selected from a class which
admits of no decay. Nothing could be simpler.""It seems to me that nothing could be more
vague.""You were not formerly so slow to understand me," said the
strange little man with some impatience."Do you know a lady of Prague who calls herself Unorna?" the
Wanderer asked, paying no attention to his friend's last
remark."I do. What of her?" Keyork Arabian glanced keenly at his
companion."What is she? She has an odd name.""As for her name, it is easily accounted for. She was born on
the twenty-ninth day of February, the year of her birth being
bisextile. Unor means February, Unorna, derivative adjective,
'belonging to February.' Some one gave her the name to commemorate
the circumstance.""Her parents, I suppose.""Most probably—whoever they may have been.""And what is she?" the Wanderer asked."She calls herself a witch," answered Keyork with
considerable scorn. "I do not know what she is, or what to call
her—a sensitive, an hysterical subject, a medium, a witch—a fool,
if you like, or a charlatan if you prefer the term. Beautiful she
is, at least, whatever else she may not be.""Yes, she is beautiful.""So you have seen her, have you?" The little man again looked
sharply up at his tall companion. "You have had a
consultation——""Does she give consultations? Is she a professional seer?"
The Wanderer asked the question in a tone of surprise. "Do you mean
that she maintains an establishment upon such a scale out of the
proceeds of fortune-telling?""I do not mean anything of the sort. Fortune-telling is
excellent! Very good!" Keyork's bright eyes flashed with amusement.
"What are you doing here—I mean in this church?" He put the
question suddenly."Pursuing—an idea, if you please to call it so.""Not knowing what you mean I must please to call your meaning
by your own name for it. It is your nature to be enigmatic. Shall
we go out? If I stay here much longer I shall be petrified instead
of embalmed. I shall turn into dirty old red marble like Tycho's
effigy there, an awful warning to future philosophers, and an
example for the edification of the faithful who worship
here."They walked towards the door, and the contrast between the
appearance of the two brought the ghost of a smile to the thin lips
of the pale sacristan, who was occupied in renewing the tapers upon
one of the side altars. Keyork Arabian might have stood for the
portrait of the gnome-king. His high and pointed head, his immense
beard, his stunted but powerful and thickset limbs, his short,
sturdy strides, the fiery, half-humorous, half-threatening twinkle
of his bright eyes gave him all the appearance of a fantastic
figure from a fairy tale, and the diminutive height of his compact
frame set off the noble stature and graceful motion of his
companion."So you were pursuing an idea," said the little man as they
emerged into the narrow street. "Now ideas may be divided variously
into classes, as, for instance, ideas which are good, bad, or
indifferent. Or you may contrast the idea of Plato with ideas
anything but platonic—take it as you please. Then there is my idea,
which is in itself, good, interesting, and worthy of the embalming
process; and there is your idea, which I am human enough to
consider altogether bad, worthless, and frivolous, for the plain
and substantial reason that it is not mine. Perhaps that is the
best division of all. Thine eye is necessarily, fatally,
irrevocably evil, because mine is essentially, predestinately, and
unchangeably good. If I secretly adopt your idea, I openly assert
that it was never yours at all, but mine from the beginning, by the
prerogatives of greater age, wider experience, and immeasurably
superior wisdom. If you have an idea upon any subject, I will
utterly annihilate it to my own most profound satisfaction; if you
have none concerning any special point, I will force you to accept
mine, as mine, or to die the intellectual death. That is the
general theory of the idea.""And what does it prove?" inquired the Wanderer."If you knew anything," answered Keyork, with twinkling eyes,
"you would know that a theory is not a demonstration, but an
explanation. But, by the hypothesis, since you are not I, you can
know nothing certainly. Now my theory explains many things, and,
among others, the adamantine, imperishable, impenetrable nature of
the substance vanity upon which the showman, Nature, projects in
fast fading colours the unsubstantial images of men. Why do you
drag me through this dismal passage?""I passed through it this morning and missed my
way."