The Nameless Castle

by Maurus Jokai

  Among these absentees from the county meetings was Count Ludwig Vavel.

  The Vice-palatine’s task was to teach these refractories, through patriotic reasoning, to amend their ways. The sacrifice attendant upon the performance of this duty was that Herr Bernat would be obliged, during his official visit to the Nameless Castle, to abstain from smoking.

  But duty is duty, and he decided to do it. He preceded his call at the castle by a letter to Count Vavel, in which he explained, with satisfaction to himself, the cause of his hasty retreat on the occasion of his former visit, and also announced his projected official attendance upon the Herr Count on the following day.

  He arrived at the castle in due time; and Count Vavel, who wished to make amends for his former rudeness to so important a personage, greeted him with great cordiality.

  “The Herr Count has been ill, I understand?” began Herr Bernat, when greetings had been exchanged.

  “I have not been ill—at least, not to my knowledge,” smilingly responded the count.

  “Indeed? I fancied you must be ill because you did not attend the Lustrations, but sent the fine instead.”

  “May I ask if many persons attended the meeting?” asked Count Vavel.

  “Quite a number of the lesser magnates were present; the more important nobles were conspicuous by their absence. I attributed this failure to appear at the Lustrations to Section I of Article III. of the militia law, which prohibits the noble militiaman from wearing gold or silver ornamentation on his uniform. This inhibition, you must know, is intended to prevent emulation in splendor of decoration among our own people, and also to restrain the rapacity of the enemy.”

  “Then you imagine, Herr Vice-palatine, that I do not attend the meetings because I am not permitted to wear gold buttons and cords on my coat?” smilingly queried the count.

  “I confess I cannot think of any other reason, Herr Count.”

  “Then I will tell you the true one,” rather haughtily rejoined Count Vavel, believing that his visitor was inclined to be sarcastic. “I do not attend your meetings because I look upon the entire law as a jest—mere child’s play. It begins with the mental reservation, ‘The Hungarian noble militia will be called into service only in case of imminent danger of an attack from a foreign enemy, and then only if the attacking army be so powerful that the regular imperial troops shall be unable to withstand it!’ That the enemy is the more powerful no commander-in-chief finds out until he has been thoroughly whipped! The mission of the Hungarian noble militia, therefore, is to move into the field—untrained for service—when the regular troops find they cannot cope with a superior foe! This is utterly ridiculous! And, moreover, what sort of an organization must that be in which ‘all nobles who have an income of more than three thousand guilders shall become cavalry soldiers, those having less shall become foot-soldiers’? The money-bag decides the question between cavalry and infantry! Again, ‘every village selects its own trooper, and equips him.’ A fine squadron they will make! And to think of sending such a crew into the field against soldiers who have won their epaulets under the baptismal fires of battle! Again, to wage war requires money first of all; and this fact has been entirely ignored by the authorities. You have no money, gentlemen; do you propose that the noble militia host shall march only so long as the supply of food in their knapsacks holds out? Are they to return home when the provisions shall have given out? Never fear, Herr Vice-palatine! when it becomes necessary to shoulder arms and march against the enemy, I shall be among the first to respond to the first call. But I have no desire to be even a spectator of a comedy, much less take part in one. But let us not discuss this farce any further. I fancy, Herr Vice-palatine, we may be able to find a more sensible subject for discussion. There is a quiet little nook in this old castle where are to be found some excellent wines, and some of the best latakia you—”

  “What?” with lively interest interrupted the vice-palatine. “Latakia? Why, that is tobacco.”

  “Certainly—and Turkish tobacco, too, at that!” responded Count Vavel. “Come, we will retire to this nook, empty one glass after another, enjoy a smoke, and tell anecdotes without end!”

  “Then you do smoke, Herr Count?”

  “Certainly; but I never smoke anywhere but in the nook before mentioned, and never in the clothes I wear ordinarily.”

  “Aha!—that a certain person may not detect the fumes, eh?”

  “You have guessed it.”

  “Then there is not an atom of truth in the reports malicious tongues have spread abroad about you, for I know very well that a certain lady has not the least objection to tobacco smoke. I do not refer to the Herr Count’s donna who lives here in the castle—you may be sure I shall take good care not to ask any more questions about her. No; I am not talking about that one, but about the other one, who has puzzled me a good deal of late. She takes the Herr Count’s part everywhere, and is always ready to defend you. Had she not assured me that I might with perfect safety venture to call here again, I should have sent my secretary to you with the Sigillum compulsorium. I tell you, Herr Count, ardent partizanship of that sort from the other donna looks a trifle suspicious!”

  The count laughed, then said:

  “Herr Vice-palatine, you remind me of the critic who, at the conclusion of a concert, said to a gentleman near whom he was standing: ‘Who is that lady who sings so frightfully out of tune?’ ‘The lady is my wife.’ ‘Ah, I did not mean the one who sang, but the lady who accompanied her on the piano—the one who performs so execrably.’ ‘That lady is my sister.’ ‘I beg a thousand pardons! I made a mistake; it is the music, the composition, that is so horrible. I wonder who composed it?’ ‘I did.’ ”

  Herr Bernat was charmed—completely vanquished. This count not only smoked: he could also relate an anecdote! Truly he was a man worth knowing—a gentleman from crown to sole.

  Toward the conclusion of the excellent dinner, to which Herr Bernat did ample justice, he ventured to propose a toast:

  “I cannot refrain, Herr Count, from drinking to the welfare of this castle’s mistress; and since I do not know whether there be one or two, I lift a glass in each hand. Vivant!”

  Without a word the count likewise raised two glasses, and drained first one, then the other, leaving not enough liquor in either to “wet his finger-nail.”

  By the time the meal was over Herr Bernat was in a most generous mood; and when he took leave of his agreeable host, he assured him that the occupants of the Nameless Castle might always depend on the protection and good will of the vice-palatine.

  Count Vavel waited until his guest was out of sight; then he changed his clothes, and when the regular dinner-hour arrived joined Marie, as usual, in the dining-room, to enjoy with her the delicate snail-soup and other dainties.

  CHAPTER III

  At last war was declared; but it brought only days of increased unhappiness and discontent to the tiger imprisoned in his cage at the Nameless Castle—as if burning oil were being poured into his open wounds.

  The snail-like movements of the Austrian army had put an end to the appearance of the apocalyptic destroying angel.

  Ludwig Vavel waited like the tiger crouched in ambush, ready to spring forth at the sound of his watchword, and heard at last what he had least expected to hear.

  The single-headed eagle had not hesitated to take possession of that which the double-headed eagle had hesitated to grasp.

  Napoleon had issued his memorable call to the Hungarian people to assert their independence and choose their king from among themselves.

  Count Ludwig received a copy of this proclamation still damp from the press, and at once decided that the cause to which he had sacrificed his best years was wholly lost.

  He was acquainted with but a few of the people among whom he dwelt in seclusion, but he believed he knew them well enough to decide that the incendiary proclamation could have no other result than an enthusiastic and far-reaching response. All was at an end, and he mi
ght as well go to his rest!

  In one of his gloomiest, most dissatisfied hours, he heard the sound of a spurred boot in the silent corridor.

  It was an old acquaintance, the vice-palatine. He did not remove his hat, which was ornamented with an eagle’s feather, when he entered the count’s study, and ostentatiously clinked the sword in its sheath which hung at his side. A wolfskin was flung with elaborate care over his left shoulder.

  “Well, Herr Count,” he began in a cheery tone, “I come like the gypsy who broke into a house through the oven, and, finding the family assembled in the room, asked if they did not want to buy a flue-cleanser. At last the watchword has arrived: ‘To horse, soldier! To cow, farmer.’ The militia law is no longer a dead letter. We shall march, cum gentibus, to repulse the invading foe. Here is the royal order, and here is the call to the nation.”[3]

  Count Vavel’s face at these words became suddenly transfigured—like the features of a dead man who has been restored to life. His eyes sparkled, his lips parted, his cheeks glowed with color—his whole countenance was eloquent; his tongue alone was silent.

  He could not speak. He rushed toward his sword, which was hanging on the wall, tore it from its sheath, and pressed his lips to the keen blade. Then he laid it on the table, and dashed like a madman from the room—down the corridor to Marie’s apartment. Without knocking, he opened the door, rushed toward the young girl, raised her in his arms as if she were a little child, and, carrying her thus, returned to his guest. “Here—here she is!” he cried breathlessly. “Behold her! Now you may look on her face—now the whole world may behold her countenance and read in it her illustrious descent. This is my idol—my goddess, for whom I have lived, for whom I would die!”

  He had placed the maid on a sort of throne between the two bookcases, and alternately kissed the hem of her gown and his sword.

  “Can you imagine a more glorious queen?” he demanded, in a transport of ecstasy, flinging one arm over the vice-palatine’s shoulder, and pointing with the other toward the confused and blushing girl. “Is there anywhere else on earth so much love, so much goodness and purity, a glance so benevolent—all the virtues God bestows upon his favorites? Is not this the angel who has been called to destroy the Leviathan of the Apocalypse?”

  The vice-palatine gazed in perplexity at the young girl, then said in a low tone:

  “She is the image of the unfortunate Queen, Marie Antoinette, who looked just like that when she was a bride.”

  Involuntarily Marie lifted her hands and hid her face behind them. She had grown accustomed to the piercing rays of the sun, but not to the questioning glances from strange eyes.

  “What—what does—this mean, Ludwig?” she stammered, in bewilderment. “I don’t understand you.”

  Count Vavel stepped to the opposite side of the room, where a large map concealed the wall. He drew a cord, and the map rolled up, revealing a long hall-like chamber, which, large as it was, was filled to the ceiling with swords, firearms, saddles, and harness.

  “I will equip a company of cavalry, and command it myself. The entire equipment, to the last cartridge, is ready here.”

  He conducted the vice-palatine into the arsenal, and exhibited his terrible treasures.

  “Are you satisfied with my preparations for war?” he asked.

  “I can only reply as did the poor little Saros farmer when his neighbor, a wealthy landowner, told him he expected to harvest two thousand yoke of wheat: ‘That is not so bad.’ ”

  “Now I intend to hold a Lustration, Herr Vice-palatine,” resumed the count. “Here are weapons. Are enough men and horses to be had for the asking?”

  “I might answer as did the gypsy woman when her son asked for a piece of bread: ‘You are always wanting what is not to be had.’ ”

  “Do you mean that there are no men?”

  “I mean,” hastily interposed Herr Bernat, “that there are enough men, and horses, too; but the treasure-chest is empty, and the Aerar has not yet sent the promised subsidy.”

  “What care I about the Aerar and its money!” ejaculated Count Vavel, contemptuously. “I will supply the funds necessary to equip a company—and support them, into the bargain! And if the county needs money, my purse-strings are loose! I give everything that belongs to me—and myself, too—to this cause!”

  He opened, as he spoke, a large iron chest that was fastened with iron bolts to the floor.

  “Here, help yourself, Herr Vice-palatine!” he added, waving his hand toward the contents of the chest. It was a more wonderful sight than the arsenal itself. Rolls of gold coin, sacks of silver, filled the chest to the brim.

  Herr Bernat could only stare in speechless amazement. He made no move to obey the behest to “help himself,” whereupon Count Vavel himself thrust his hands into the chest, lifted what he could hold between them of gold and silver, and filled the vice-palatine’s hat, which that worthy was holding in his hand.

  “But—pray—I beg of you—” remonstrated Herr Bernat, “at least, let us count it.”

  “You can count it when you get home,” interrupted Count Vavel.

  “But I must give you a receipt for it.”

  “A receipt?” repeated his host. “A receipt between gentlemen? A receipt for money which is given for the defense of the fatherland?”

  “But I certainly cannot take all this money without something to show from whom I received it, and for what purpose. Give me at least a few words with your signature, Herr Count.”

  “That I will gladly do,” responded the count, turning toward his desk, and coming face to face with Marie, who had descended from her throne.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked, laying her hand on his arm.

  “Write.”

  “Are you going to let strangers see your writing, and perhaps betray who you are?”

  “In a week the strokes from my hand will tell who I am,” he replied, with double meaning.

  “Oh, you are terrible!” murmured Marie, turning her face away.

  “I am so for your sake, Marie.”

  “For my sake?” echoed the young girl, sorrowfully. “For my sake? Do you imagine that I shall take pleasure in seeing you go into battle? Suppose you should fall?”

  “Have no fear on that score, Marie,” returned the young man, confidently. “I shall have a guiding star to watch over me; and if there be a God in heaven—”

  “Then may He take me to Himself!” interposed the young girl in a fervent tone, lifting a transfigured glance toward heaven. “And may He grant that there be not on earth one other Frenchwoman who is forced to pray for the defeat of her own nation! May He grant that there be not another woman in the world who is waiting until a pedestal is formed of her countrymen’s and kinsmen’s skeletons, that she may be elevated to it as an idol from which many, many of her brothers will turn with a curse! May God take me to Himself now—now, while yet my two hands are white, while yet I cherish toward my nation nothing but love and tenderness, now when I forgive and forget everything, and desire none of this world’s splendor for myself!”

  Ludwig Vavel was filled with admiration by this outburst from the innocent girl heart.

  “Your words, Marie, only increase the brilliancy of the halo which encircles your head. They legalize the rights of my sword. I, too, adore my native land—no one more than I! I, too, bow before the infinite judge and submit my case to His wise decision. O God, Thou who protecteth France, look down and behold him who rides yonder, his horse ankle-deep in the blood of his countrymen, who looks without pity on the dying legions and says, ‘It is well!’ Then, O God, look Thou upon this saint here, who prays for her persecutors, and pass judgment between the two: which of the two is Thy image on earth?”

  “Oh, pray understand me,” in a pleading voice interposed Marie, passing her trembling fingers over Ludwig’s cheek. “Not one drop of heroic blood flows in my veins. I am not the offspring of those great women who crowned with their own hands their knights to send them
into battle. I dread to lose you, Ludwig; I have no one in this wide world but you. On this whole earth there is not another orphan so desolate as I am! When you go to war, and I am left here all alone, what will become of me? Who will care for me and love me then?”

  Vavel gently drew the young girl to his breast.

  “Marie, you said once to me: ‘Give me a mother—a woman whom I can love, one that will love me.’ When I leave you, Marie, I shall not leave you here without some one to care for you. I will give you a mother—a woman you will love, and who will love you in return.”

  A gleam of sunshine brightened the young girl’s face; she flung her arms around Ludwig’s neck, and laughed for very joy.

  “You will really, really do this, Ludwig?” she cried happily. “You will really bring her here? or shall I go to her? Oh, I shall be so happy if you will do this for me!”

  “I am in earnest,” returned Ludwig, seriously. “This is no time for jesting. My superior here”—turning toward the vice-palatine—“will see that I keep the promise I made in his presence.”

  “That he will!” promptly assented Herr Bernat. “I am not only the vice-palatine of your county: I am also the colonel of your regiment.”

  “And I want you to add still another office to the two you fill so admirably: that of matrimonial emissary!” added Count Vavel. “In this patriarchal land I find that the custom still obtains of sending an emissary to the lady one desires to marry. Will you, Herr Vice-palatine and Colonel, undertake this mission for me?”

  “Of all my missions this will be the most agreeable!” heartily responded Herr Bernat.

  “You know to whom I would have you go,” resumed the count. “It is not far from here. You know who the lady is without my repeating her name. Go to her, tell her what you have seen and heard here,—I send her my secret as a betrothal gift,—and then ask her to send me an answer to the words she heard me speak on a certain eventful occasion.”