Maurus Jokai - The Nameless Castle

Sometimes the little maid’s steps were so light and elastic, as if a fairy were gliding over the dewy grass; and sometimes she walked so slowly, so wearily, as if a little old grandmother came limping along, hunting for lichens on the mossy ground.

After the promenade, they seated themselves again in the carriage, which returned to the Nameless Castle, and the gates were closed again.

The man conducted the maid to her room, and the serious occupation of the day began. Books were produced, and the man proceeded to explain the classics. They were his own favorites; he could not give her any others. She had not yet seen or heard of romances, and she was still too young to begin the study of history. The man could teach the maid only what he himself knew; a strange tutor or governess was not allowed to enter the castle.

Because her instructor could not play the piano, the little maid had not learned. But in order that she might enjoy listening to music, a hand-organ had been bought for her, and new melodies were inserted in it every four months.

When the little maid wearied of her organ and her picture-making, she seated herself at the card-table, and played l’hombre , or tarok , with two imaginary adversaries, enjoying the manner in which the copper coins won the gold ones.

At noon, when the bell rang a third time, the man tapped at the door again, offered his gloved hand to the maid, and conducted her to the dining-room. At either end of a large table was a plate. The maid took her place at the head; the man seated himself at the foot. They conversed during the meal. The maid talked about her cats and dogs; the man told her about his books. When the maid wanted anything, she called the man Ludwig; and when the man addressed his companion, he called her simply Marie.

After dinner, they went to the library to look at the late newspapers. Ludwig himself made the coffee, after which he read the papers, and dictated his comments and criticisms on certain articles to Marie, who wrote them out in her delicate hair-line chirography.

When Ludwig and Marie separated for the afternoon, he touched his lips to her hand and brow. Marie then returned to her own apartments, played the hand-organ for her pets, changed her dolls’ toilets, counted her gains or losses at cards, colored with her paints a few of the illustrations in the magazines, looked through her “Orbis pictus,” reading without difficulty the text which was printed in four languages, and read for the hundredth time her favorite “Robinson Crusoe.”

And thus passed day after day, from spring until autumn, from autumn until spring.

Evenings, when Marie prepared for bed, before she undressed herself, she spread a heavy silken coverlet over the leather lounge which stood near the door. She knew very well that the some one she called Ludwig slept every night on the lounge, but he came in so late, and went away so early in the morning, that she never heard his coming or his going.

The little maid was a sound sleeper, and the pugs never barked at the master of the house, who gave them lumps of sugar.

Often the little maid had determined that she would not go to sleep until she heard Ludwig come into the room. But all her attempts to remain awake were in vain. Her eyelids closed the moment her head touched the pillow. Then she tried to waken early, in order to wish him good morning; but when she thrust her little head from between the bed-curtains, and called cheerily, “Good morning, dear Ludwig!” there was no one there.

Ludwig never slept more than four hours of the twenty-four, and his slumber was so light that he woke at the slightest noise. Then, too, he slept like a soldier in the field—always clothed, with his weapons beside him.

One day in the year formed an exception to all the rest. It was Marie’s birthday. From her earliest childhood this one day had been entirely her own. On this day she addressed Ludwig with the familiar “thou,” as she had been wont to do when he had taught her to walk. She always looked forward with great pleasure to this day, and made for it all sorts of plans whose accomplishment was extremely problematic.

And who came to congratulate her on her birthday? First of all, the solitary sparrow, whose name was David—surely because he, too, was a tireless singer! Already at early dawn, when the first faint rosy hues of morning glimmered through the jalousie, he would fly to the head of her bed. Then the cats would come with their gratulations, but not until their little mistress had leaped from the bed, run to the window, flung open the sash, and called, “Puss, puss!” Then the whole four would scamper into the room, one after the other, and wish her many happy returns of the day.

When the pugs had gone through their part of the program, the little maid proceeded to attire herself, a task she performed behind a tall folding screen. When she stepped forth again, she had on a gorgeous Chinese-silk wrapper, covered all over with gay-colored palms, and confined only at the waist with a heavy silk cord. Her hair was twisted into a single knot on the crown of her head.

Then she prepared breakfast for herself and her guests. The eight of them drank cold milk, and ate of the dainty little cakes which some one placed on her table every night while she slept. To-day Marie did not amuse herself with her guests, but turned over the leaves of her picture-book, thus passing the time until she should hear, after the bell had rung twice, the tap at her door.

“Come in!”

The man who entered was surprised.

“What? We are not yet ready for the drive?” he exclaimed.

The maid threw her book aside, ran toward him, and flung her arms with childish abandon around his neck.

“We are not going to drive to-day. Dost thou not know that this is my birthday—that I alone give orders in this house to-day? To-day everything must be done as I say; and I say that we will pass the time of the drive here in my room, and that thou shalt answer several silly questions which have come into my head. And forget not that we are to ‘thou’ each other to-day. And now, congratulate me nicely. Come, let us hear it!”

The count almost imperceptibly bent his knee and his head, but spoke not one word. There are gratulations which are expressed in this manner.

“Very good! Then I am a queen for to-day, and thou art my sole subject. Sit thou here at my feet on this taboret.”

The man obeyed. Marie seated herself on the ottoman, and drew her feet underneath the wide skirt of her robe.

“Put that book away!” she commanded, when Ludwig stooped to lift from the floor the volume she had cast there. “I know every one of the four volumes by heart! Why dost not thou give me one of the books thou readest so often?”

“Because they are medical works.”

“And why dost thou read such books?”

“In order that, should any one in the castle become ill, I may be able to cure him or her without a doctor.”

“And must the person die who is ill and cannot be cured?”

“That is generally the end of a fatal illness.”

“Does it hurt to die?”

“That I am unable to tell, as I have never tried it.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the maid. “Thou canst not put me off that way! Thou knowest many things thou hast not yet tried. Thou hast read about them; thou knowest! What is death like? Is it more unpleasant than a disagreeable dream? Is the pain all over when one has died, or is there more to come afterward? If death is painful, why must we die? If it is pleasant, why must we live?”

Children ask such strange questions!

“Life is a gift from God that must be preserved as long as possible,” returned Ludwig, evading the main question. “Through us the world exists—”