Maurus Jokai - The Nameless Castle

“Your sins are imaginary, Henry,” almost irritably responded Count Vavel. “I swear to you, by the peace of my own soul, that the load beneath which you groan is not sin, but virtue. If it be true that human speech and thought are transmitted to the other world, and if there is a voice that questions us, and a countenance that looks upon us, then answer with confidence: ‘Yes, I have transgressed many of Thy laws; but all my transgressions were committed to save one of Thy angels.’ ”

“Ah, yes, Herr Count, if I could talk like that; but I can’t.”

“And are not all your thoughts already known to Him who reads all hearts? It does not require the absolution of a priest to admit you to His paradise.”

But Henry refused to be comforted; his eyes burned with the fire of terror as he moaned again and again:

“I shall be damned! I shall be damned!”

Count Vavel now lost all patience, and, forgetting himself in his anger, exclaimed:

“Henry, if you persist in your foolishness you will deserve damnation. Did not you say so yourself, when you pledged your word to me on that eventful day? Did you not say, ‘The wretch who would become a traitor deserves to be damned’?”

With these words he rose and strode toward the door. But ere he reached it his feeling heart got the better of his anger. He turned and walked back to the bed, took the dying man’s ice-cold hand in his, and said gently:

“My old comrade—my brave old companion in arms! we must not part in anger. Don’t you trust me any more? Listen, my old friend, to what I say to you. You are going on before to arrange quarters; then I will follow. When I arrive at the gates of paradise, my first question to St. Peter will be, ‘Is my good old comrade, the honest, virtuous Henry, within?’ And should the sainted gatekeeper reply, ‘No, he is not here; he is down below,’ then I shall say to him, ‘I am very much obliged to you, old fellow, for your friendliness, but a paradise from which my old friend Henry is excluded is no place for me. I am going down below to be with him.’ That is what I shall say, so help me Heaven!”

The sufferer who stood on the threshold of death strove to smile. He could not return the pressure of his master’s hand, but he slowly and with painful effort turned his head so that his cold lips rested against the count’s hand.

“Yes—yes,” he whispered, and his dim eyes brightened for an instant. “If we were down there together—you and I—we should not have to stop long there; some one with her prayers would very soon win our release.”

Count Vavel suddenly beat his palm against his forehead, and exclaimed:

“I never once thought of her! Wait, my brave Henry. I will return immediately. I cannot allow you to have a priest, but I will bring an angel to your bedside.”

He hastened to Marie’s apartments.

“You have been weeping?” she exclaimed, looking up into his tear-stained eyes with deep concern.

“Yes, Marie; we are going to lose our poor old Henry.”

“Oh, my God! How entirely alone we shall be then!”

“Will you come with me to his bedside? The sight of you will cheer his last moments.”

“Yes, yes; come quickly.”

A wonderful light brightened Henry’s face when he saw his young mistress. She moved softly to the head of his bed, and with her delicate fingers gently stroked the cheeks of the trusty old servant.

He closed his eyes and sighed when her hand touched his face.

“Is he smiling?” whispered Marie to Ludwig, gazing with compassionate awe on the distorted countenance. Then she bent over him and said:

“Henry—my good Henry, would you like me to pray with you?”

She knelt beside the bed and in a feeling tone repeated the beautiful prayer which the good Père Lacordaire composed for those who journey to the other world, pausing from time to time to let the dying man repeat the words after her.

Henry’s tongue became heavier and heavier as he repeated, with visible effort, the soul-inspiring words.

Then Marie repeated the Lord’s Prayer. Even Ludwig could not do otherwise than bend his knee upon the chair by which he stood, and bow his skeptical head, while the innocent maid and his dying servant prayed together.

When Marie rose from her knees, the painful smile had vanished from Henry’s lips; his face was calm and peaceful; the distortion had disappeared from his countenance.

After Henry’s death, life for the occupants of the Nameless Castle became still more uncomfortable. Ludwig Vavel had lost his only friend—the only one who had shared his cares and his confidences. He was obliged to hire a servant to assist Lisette, and, remembering what Henry had advised, took the old soldier with the wooden leg into the castle. For the old invalid, the change from hard labor to comfortable quarters and easy work was certainly an improvement. Instead of cutting wood all day long for a mere pittance, he had now nothing to do but brush clothes which were never dusty, polish the furniture, receive the supplies from and deliver orders to Frau Schmidt every morning, to place the newspapers on the library table, and convey the victuals from the kitchen to the dining-room.

But two weeks of this easy work and good wages, and the comforts of the castle, were all that the old soldier could endure. Then he took off his handsome livery, and begged to be allowed to return to his former life of hardship and poverty. Afterward he was heard to aver that not for the whole castle would he consent to live in it an entire year—where not one word was spoken all day long; even the cook never opened her lips. No, he could not stand it; he would rather, a hundred times over, cut wood for five groats the day.

No sooner did Baroness Katharina learn that Count Vavel was again without a man-servant than she sent to the castle Satan Laczi’s son, who was then twelve years old, and a useful lad.

Two leading ideas now filled Count Vavel’s entire soul.

One was an enthusiastic admiration for a high ideal, whose embodiment he believed he had found in the lovely person of his young charge. All the emotions that a man of deep and profound nature lavishes on his faithful love, his only offspring, his queen, his guardian saint, Count Ludwig now bestowed on this one woman, who endured with patience, renounced with meekness, forgave and loved with her whole heart, and who, even in her banishment, adored her native land which had repulsed and cruelly persecuted her.

The second idea encompassed all the emotions of an opposing passion: a boundless hatred for the giant who, with strides that covered kingdoms and empires, was marching over the entire eastern hemisphere, marking his every step with graves and human skeletons; an enmity toward the Titan who was using thrones as footstools, and who had made himself a god over a greater portion of Europe.

Count Vavel was not the only one who cherished a hatred of this sort; it was felt all over Europe. What was happening in those days could be learned only through the English newspapers. Liberty of speech was prohibited throughout the entire continent. Only an indiscreet correspondent would trust his secret to the post; and Ludwig Vavel only by the exercise of extreme caution could learn from his banker in Holland what was necessary for him to know. Through this medium he learned of the general discontent with the methods of the all-powerful one. He learned of the plans of the Philadelphia Club, which counted among its members renowned officers in the army of France. He heard that a number of distinguished Frenchmen had offered their services and swords to the foreign imperial army against their own hated emperor. He heard of the dissatisfied murmuring among the French people against the frightful waste of human life, the never-ending intrigues, the approaching shadows of the coalition.