Maurus Jokai - The Nameless Castle

Count Vavel, knowing how Marie delighted to ramble amid her flowers, determined to protect the garden from further destruction. Laborers were easily secured. The numerous families of working-people who had been rendered homeless by the inundation besieged the castle for assistance and work, and none were turned empty-handed away. A small army was put to work to construct an embankment that would prevent further encroachment upon the garden by the water, while to Herr Mercatoris the count sent a liberal sum of money to be distributed among the sufferers by the flood.

This gift renewed the correspondence between the castle and the parsonage, which had been dropped for several months.

The pastor, in acknowledging the receipt of the money, wrote:

“The flood has made a new survey of the lake necessary, as the evil cannot be remedied until it has been determined what obstructs the outlet. Our surveyor made a calculation as to the probable cost of the work, and found that it would require an enormous sum of money—almost five thousand guilders! Where was all this money to come from? The puzzling question was answered by that angel from heaven, Baroness Landsknechtsschild. When she heard of the sufferings of the poor people who had been driven from their homes by the inundation, she offered to supply the entire sum necessary. Now, it seems, something besides the money is required for the undertaking.

“The surveyor, in order to calculate the distances which cannot be measured by the chain, needs a superior telescope, and such a glass would cost two or three thousand guilders more. As your lordship is the owner of a telescope, I take it upon myself to beg the loan of it—if your lordship can spare it to the surveyor for a short time.”

The next day Count Vavel sent his telescope to the parsonage, with the message that it was a present to the surveyor. Then, that he might not be again tempted to look out upon the world and its people, the count closed the tower windows.

Since Count Vavel had ceased to take outdoor exercise, he had renewed his fencing practice with Henry, who was also an expert swordsman.

In a room on the ground floor of the castle, whence the clashing of steel could not penetrate to Marie’s apartments, the two men, master and man, would fight their friendly battles twice daily, and with such vigor that their bodies (as they wore no plastrons) were covered with scratches and bruises.

One morning the count waited in vain for Henry to make his appearance in the fencing-hall. It was long past the usual hour for their practice, and the count, becoming impatient, went in search of the old servant.

The groom’s apartment was on the same floor with the kitchen, adjoining the room occupied by his wife Lisette, the cook.

The door of Henry’s room which opened into the corridor was locked; the count, therefore, passed into the kitchen, where Lisette was preparing dinner.

“Where is Henry?” he asked of the unwieldy mountain of flesh, topped by a face as broad and round as the full moon.

“He is in bed,” replied Lisette, without looking up from her work.

“Is he ill?”

“I believe he has had a stroke of apoplexy.”

She said it with as little emotion as if she had spoken of an underdone pasty.

The count hastened through Lisette’s room to Henry’s bedside.

The poor fellow was lying among the pillows; his mouth and one eye were painfully distorted.

“Henry!” ejaculated the count, in a tone of alarm; “my poor Henry, you are very ill.”

“Ye-es—your—lord-ship,” he answered slowly, and with difficulty; “but—but—I shall soon—soon be—all right—again.”

Ludwig lifted the sick man’s hand from the coverlet, and felt the pulse.

“Yes, you are very ill indeed, Henry—so ill that I would not attempt to treat you. We must have a doctor.”

“He—he won’t come—here; he is—afraid. Besides, there is nothing—the matter with—any part of me but—but my—tongue. I can—can hardly—move—it.”

“You must not die, Henry—you dare not!” in an agony of terror exclaimed Ludwig. “What would become of me—of Marie?”

“That—that is what—troubles—troubles me—most, Herr Count. Who will—take my—place? Perhaps—that old soldier—with the machine leg—”

“No! no! no! Oh, Henry, no one could take your place. You are to me what his arms are to a soldier. You are the guardian of all my thoughts—my only friend and comrade in this solitude.”

The poor old servant tried to draw his distorted features into a smile.

“I am—not sorry for—myself—Herr Count; only for you two. I have earned—a rest; I have—lost everything—and have long ago—ceased to hope for—anything. I feel that—this is—the end. No doctor can—help me. I know—I am—dying.” He paused to breathe heavily for several moments, then added: “There is—something—I should—like to have—before—before I—go.”

“What is it, Henry?”

“I know you—will be—angry—Herr Count, but—I cannot—cannot die without—consolation.”

“Consolation?” echoed Ludwig.

“Yes—the last consolation—for the—dying. I have not—confessed for—sixteen years; and the—multitude of my—sins—oppresses me. Pray—pray, Herr Count, send for—a priest.”

“Impossible, Henry. Impossible!”

“I beseech you—in the name of God—let me see a priest. Have mercy—on your poor old servant, Herr Count. My soul feels—the torments of hell; I see the everlasting flames—and the sneering devils—”

“Henry, Henry,” impatiently remonstrated his master, “don’t be childish. You are only tormenting yourself with fancies. Does the soldier who falls in battle have time to confess his sins? Who grants him absolution?”

“Perhaps—were I in—the midst of the turmoil of battle—I should not feel this agony of mind. But here—there is so much time to think. Every sin that I have committed—rises before me like—like a troop of soldiers that—have been mustered for roll-call.”

“Pray cease these idle fancies, Henry. Of what are you thinking? You want to tell a priest that you are living here under a false name—tell him that I, too, am an impostor? You would say to him: ‘When the revolutionists imprisoned my royal master and his family, to behead them afterward, I clothed my own daughter in the garments belonging to my master’s daughter, in order to save the royal child from death, I gave up my own child to danger, and carried my master’s child to a place of safety. My own child I gave up to play the rôle of king’s daughter, when kings and their offspring were hunted down like wild beasts; and made of the king’s daughter a servant, that she might be allowed to go free. I counterfeited certificates of baptism, registers, passports, in order to save the king’s daughter from her enemies. I bore false witness—committed perjury in order to hide her from her persecutors—’ ”

“Yes—yes,” moaned the dying man, “all that have I done.”

“And do you imagine that you will be allowed to breathe such a confession into a human ear?” sternly responded the count.

“I must—I must—to make my peace with God.”

“Henry, if you knew God as He is you would not tremble before him. If you could realize the immeasurable greatness of His benevolence, His love, His mercy, you would not be afraid to appear before Him with the plea: ‘Master, Thou sentest me forth; Thou hast summoned me to return. I came from Thee; to Thee I return. And all that which has happened to me between my going and my coming Thou knowest.’ ”

“Ah, yes, Herr Count, you have a great soul. It will know how to rise to its Creator. But what can my poor, ignorant little soul do when it leaves my body? It will not be able to find its way to God. I am afraid; I tremble. Oh, my sins, my sins!”