MEMORIES OF HUNGARY.

I.

ALT HADJI EFFENDI.

The inhabitants of Pesth are very ungrateful people. Venice bestowed a thousand ducats upon a poet who glorified the splendor of the city of the Doges in two mediocre distiches; Rome gladdened her historian, Gregorovius, with the offer of publishing his work at her own expense; even Belgrade knew how to honor Laboulaye, because he had written a few friendly essays about the metropolis of Servia; the people of Pesth alone did nothing for a writer who had striven unweariedly to bring the beauties of the Hungarian capital near the distant East in the most musical Persian ghasels and quatrains. He lived in their midst, the enthusiastic bard of their renown, but no one troubled himself about poor Ali Hadji Effendi, and the only attention which the authorities showed him consisted in having him occasionally locked up by the policemen for unauthorized peddling.

Worthy Ali Hadji Effendi was not blessed with worldly goods; for reasons which Schiller has explained in his “Division of the Earth,” he had not succeeded in obtaining a place in the temple service of the golden calf, and since, in consequence of the defective school system of Hungary, the Persian language is still far too little diffused among the people of Pesth for him to hope to be able to maintain himself respectably by the sale of his poems, he had determined to carry on a little retail business, whose flourishing development was often checked by an act of official rigor.

He was an interesting figure, this slender, black-bearded, dreamy-eyed, sunburnt Oriental, who, years ago, established his perambulating wares, sometimes on one street corner of Pesth, sometimes on another and with quiet satisfaction awaited purchasers behind them. A dense throng of school children, maid-servants, and apprentices constantly surrounded him, eyeing with great interest the treasures he displayed. Real glass diamonds glittered in polished brass rings, Turkish and Christian rosaries of amber and coral lay side by side in a tolerance worthy of imitation, small knives, toothpicks, and needle-books completed the stock of wares, with the exception of one evidently unpurchasable show-piece, an exquisitely wrought halberd—which he had to show. Customers were allowed to rummage among the articles at will, and only when some boy, with insolvency written upon his—nose, created too much disorder, did Ali raise his voice, ordering him, in deep, guttural tones, to desist from his mischief. He could support his Persian words with such expressive gestures of the hands that even the most ignorant cobbler’s apprentice instantly understood them.

How had Ali Hadji Effendi come to Pesth? The question is not difficult to answer. In the Mohammedan world there is an order of dervishes whose members have all taken upon themselves the vow of a life of constant wandering. The adherents of this order are called Hadjis. The Hadji has no home, or rather his home is the great world of Islam. And Islam never gives up a province which it has once possessed. So, as kings bear the title of provinces which their forefathers lost centuries ago, Islam regards as its own countries where, for a long time, no mosque has raised its slender minaret and airy dome toward the sky. As the seas of former geological periods have everywhere left their shell fish, which are now found on lofty mountain peaks in the midst of continents, the Turkish flood which submerged Europe a century and a half ago has also, after subsiding, everywhere left a trace, the grave of a Mohammedan saint. Ofen cherishes the resting-place of such a saint; Gül Baba, the Father of Roses, sleeps his eternal sleep there, and an ancient, half ruined mosque, which rises above his grave, is the last monument in this neighborhood of the former greatness and power of the Turkish Empire. From the frontiers of China, from India to the Ofner Mountains, stretches an unbroken chain of the graves of saints, and many formerly in Mohammedan soil are now surrounded by unbelievers. But an army of Hadjis is constantly in motion, passing from one saint’s grave to another, and there is no resting-place of a pious Moslem so remote, or so hidden, that some Hadjis do not annually visit it, to throw themselves upon their faces, murmur proverbs from the Koran, humbly praise the goodness and wisdom of Allah, and then continue their aimless pilgrimage. The Orientals have the devout belief that the dead whose graves are now in the land of the infidels would throw themselves over the bridge of hell, in sheer anguish, if they should learn that the crescent had been driven from these regions. Therefore, from time to time, Moslems must visit these graves, in order to maintain their belief that everything remained as it was during their lives, and that the crescent still shone with undimmed radiance.

The Hadjis do not beg; in the sunny lands of the East, where the sky and the earth provide for the poor as loving parents care for their infant children, where the shade of the roof above a well, or of a mosque, affords hospitable shelter, and the fig tree by the wayside sweet food, they can spend the whole day in pious, contemplative idleness, but when they enter the inhospitable country of the Giaours, where the sky is as harsh as the manners of the people, and the prison is the only place which affords shelter gratis, they carry on a trade in all sorts of trifles, and thus obtain the means to satisfy their few needs.

Ali Hadji Effendi was one of these wandering dervishes; he had seen many lands and peoples; had washed the dust of the roads from his feet in the rivers of three-quarters of the globe; he had listened to the dashing of the Ganges, the Euphrates, the Nile, and the Danube, and was versed in the languages of all the nations that dwell in the wide region between the Himalaya and the Caucasus. In his Persian home he had been renowned as a poet, and the street singers still chant his love songs in the squares of Bagdad. One spring, in his journeying, he came to Pesth, where he instantly sought out several well-known Orientalists—Vámbéry, Goldziher, and others—and asked them to write in Persian characters the Hungarian words which would be indispensable for daily use, for instance, reckoning, the names of coins, of his goods, etc.

It would scarcely be believed that the Persian dervish knew the Pesth Orientalists, yet it was so. Somewhere in Roumelia, at the foot of the Balkans, or still farther away in Anatolia, a Hadji journeying westward meets such men on their way to the East. They sit silently side by side on the divan or the rush-mat, their fingers play with the beads of the rosary, and their lips softly murmur passages from the Koran. Suddenly one raises his voice and says: “Brother! You are going toward the West, to the land of the unbelievers. If you reach the city of the Magyars, Pesth, go to the great palace on the bank of the Danube. It is called the Academy. Mention the names of Vámbéry and Goldziher Effendi, and you will be taken to men who fear God and are kind to strangers.” The other answers: “Brother, you are directing your steps eastward and will reach Benares. Walk through the bazaar there, and where you see the shop of a dealer in weapons, between two silk merchants, enter and greet him; you will be well treated.” So the Hadjis bear the fame of hospitable men to distant quarters of the world, and wherever they meet one another they exchange addresses.

Ali Hadji Effendi was soon at home in Pesth. What great trouble was necessary for the purpose? His patrons obtained from the authorities permission for him to remain, and he could pursue his business. Every morning he came from his night quarters with his wares, and wandered through the streets. Wherever he found shade and a clean spot he unfolded his rug, sat down with crossed legs, arranged his goods, and, with Oriental patience, awaited customers. Nothing could disturb his equanimity. If the children teased him, he smilingly shook his finger at them. To a boy who once thrust a pin through his turban from behind, he addressed a very edifying and moral lecture in the Persian language, summing up the instruction at the close in the two words “Nem szip” (not right), which he uttered with a grave shake of the head. He could not be roused to anger; it was impossible to irritate him.

If a soldier came, who wanted to give his sweetheart, usually one of the Slavonic race, a surprise, and wished to buy a brass ring with glass, or even a silver one, set with turquoise, Ali waited quietly till he had selected something, and then named the price, about twenty-three kreuzers. The purchaser, usually in a shout, as if the Persian could understand German better if spoken in a loud than in a low tone, made his offer, but Ali did not say another word and would not have accepted twenty-two kreuzers and a half for the ring. Not until the sum which he had named was paid in full did he deliver the article and receive the money, which, without counting, he thrust into his belt. He never allowed any haggling, this was a principle of his business, and it may readily be supposed that, under such circumstances, his receipts were not large from customers who mainly belonged to the servant class.

If he thought he had made enough, or if the time seemed long, he spread an old piece of sack cloth over his wares and lay down on his carpet to sleep. He had no fear of thieves, and the kindness and honesty of the public had never disappointed him. Often, too, the poetic inspiration seized him, and then he drew from his girdle a small yellow book and wrote Persian verses in it. If, at such a time, customers attempted to interrupt him, he waved them off with a gesture of the hand, and remained for hours utterly oblivious of his surroundings. When the poem was finally finished, he beckoned to the bystanders until they formed a dense circle around him, and declaimed his verse in a half song. His ears feasted on the melody of his own creation. In the zeal of reading aloud he rose, his eyes flashed, his voice trembled, he explained single verses, described to his listeners the beauty of an image, the wit of a turn of speech, and when he had finished and his glance wandered over the spectators, who were staring at him in astonishment, he smilingly protested, “Szip, szip!” (Fine, fine!), pointing to the little book with his finger.

On the very first day of his sojourn in Pesth he composed a ghasel of four lines, a literal translation of which would run as follows:

“O city on the Danube, home of men with open hand,

Thy loins the river girdles like unto a silver band,

Thy head the mountains, diadem of emerald green, doth grace,

Alas, that the crescent from thee must now avert its face.”

One day a hard-hearted policeman arrested him and drove him to the town-hall. There he cleared himself and was released in a few hours. He avenged himself on the rude fellow with the following sarcastic ghasel:

“As the laden camel through the streets of Samarcand men drive,

So here, mistaking a command, to urge me on they strive.

The armed policeman, swearing, doth press me toward the gaol,

Yet he, too, is also driven: for folly drives his soul.”

Daily he composed a song in praise of the city of Pesth and of Hungary. He described the beauty of the Ofner Mountains, the majesty of the giant river, the splendor of the palatial buildings, the proud men, the fair women; and when he had a series of ghasels he went to his patrons and read them aloud to them. Often, too, he carried his goods home at midday and paid a visit to Vámbéry or Goldziher. Removing his slippers outside the door, he silently entered the room, mutely greeted the occupant by touching his brow, lips, and breast with his hand, then went to the book-case, took from the place he knew so well the heroic verse of Firdusi, the divine poems of Hâfiz, or the mocking ones of Omar Khayyám, sat down on the floor with crossed legs, read the Persian writers for an hour, then closed the volume, restored it to its place and, with another silent greeting, went away.

Thus one whole summer passed, autumn came, the leaves began to fall from the trees, and the swallows were preparing to depart. Our Hadji Ali Effendi soon felt too cold in his blue calico caftan, and one day he was no longer seen in the streets of Pesth.

He had drawn his girdle closer, wound his turban anew, taken in his hand the knotted staff which had been his companion from Küenlün to the Blocksberg, and set forth again on his pilgrimage. Outside the city he had paused, raised his hand to his brow, his lips, and his breast, and then silently continued his way eastward without another backward glance.

But perhaps, years later, some beautiful almeh will sing in the bazaar of Bassora, to the music of the mandolin, the song which the traveling dervish composed in praise of the hospitable city in the distant West, and the visitors to the market, seated in a circle around, will nod their heads approvingly to the rhythm of the verse:

“O city on the Danube, home of men with open hand,

Thy loins the river girdles like unto a silver band,

Thy head the mountains, diadem of emerald green, doth grace,

Alas, that the crescent from thee must now avert its face.”

MEMORIES OF HUNGARY.

II.

THE CROSS AT THE CORNER.

For years my way led me, several times a day, through Tabakgasse in Pesth, and I was therefore obliged to pass a crucifix erected at the corner where Kreuzgasse opens into Tabakgasse. It was a weather-beaten, insignificant affair, such as is rarely seen in the cities, but more frequently met with on country roads and in poor villages, and was evidently as old as the quarter of the city in whose midst it stood; Kreuzgasse undoubtedly took its name from it. A century and a half before, when the “inner city” became too small for the population, and a few bold colonists built the first houses outside the wall upon the loose sand of the Rákos, the founders of the Theresienstadt erected at the same time this crucifix, probably to place the new quarter of the city under the special protection of the Crucified One.

The artless piety of these people required no external stimulation by works of art. Their religious feeling did not demand a beautiful and monumental form for the object of their reverence, and was sufficiently intense to be satisfied even with a badly-colored image, a shapeless wooden cross. The crucifix just mentioned was a proof of that touching power of faith, which understands how to transfigure even the rude and ugly with the nimbus of reverence. It is difficult to imagine a less beautiful and imposing structure than this crucifix. Two rough beams, fastened into the form of a cross, on which was nailed a piece of iron shaped into the outlines of a human figure, that was all. The hand of some Beotian, doubtless very devout, but totally ignorant of the beauty of oak blackened by age, had smeared the cross with a coat of the most hideous shade of brick-red, and painted on the iron, with much goodwill, but very little art, the image of the Saviour.

A hundred and fifty years do not pass over so primitive a work of art without some trace. In many spots on the iron, now half corroded with rust, the color had come off entirely; the Redeemer’s image lacked an eye, only a small portion of the crown of thorns remained, the legs showed especially comprehensive damages, the face and breast were covered with rust stains, which looked like dried drops of blood and produced effects which the “artist” certainly had not intended. Even the wood had not been left untouched by the tooth of time; countless cracks and crevices intersected the entire length of the beams; one could not expect them to continue to oppose the invincible tenacity and defiance of the oak to the attacks of the drenching autumn rains, the parching heat of summer, and the fierce blasts of the tempest. When, at a late hour of the silent night, I walked through the empty street and passed the cross, I heard distinctly the monotonous tapping of the wood-beetle, whose jaws vied with decay and disintegration to accomplish the destruction of the crucifix.

This description has probably convinced everyone that the cross in itself was neither remarkable nor valuable; yet the sight of it always made me thoughtful, nay filled me with a certain emotion. Poor, iron Saviour! There he stood, deserted by God and man. No one prayed to Him, no one offered vows, He was in everyone’s way. The generation that placed Him here, the other generations, whose hearts He had filled with devotion, had died long ago; in this age and environment He was alien and desolate. Most people passed the crucifix without vouchsafing it a single glance. True, in rainy weather it attracted a certain degree of attention, but this was wholly profane. As it stood exactly in the center of the narrow sidewalk, no one carrying an open umbrella could pass between it and the wall, so there was only the choice of shutting the umbrella and walking several paces under the streaming eaves, or keeping it open and leaving the sidewalk, that is, wading several paces through mire a foot deep. Both equally aroused the wrath of pedestrians against the obstacle in their path, and they complained that the magistrates allowed such hindrances to traffic.

A crucifix degraded to be a hindrance to traffic! Could it fail to lose its sanctity in the eyes of the populace? No one raised his hat, no one made the sign of the cross in passing. Only plain peasants still knelt devoutly before it, and the birds used it as a welcome resting-place. The swallow, seeking food for her nestlings, wearied by the busy exercise of her maternal duties, perched for a moment’s rest on the Saviour’s outstretched arm and, at the foot of the crucifix, an old beggar woman frequently crouched, letting the worn, distorted features of the Crucified One plead for sympathy and alms for herself.

At a certain time a momentous change suddenly occurred. Workmen began to demolish the corner-house, whose faithful Eckart the crucifix had been for a century. And in fact it was not too soon. The low structure, built of unbaked bricks, which looked as if it had sunk to its knees in the earth, its windowless wall facing the street, its mouldering, moss-grown shingle roof, and horribly dirty courtyard, no longer suited the modern city with its fashionable boulevards. As at that time I expected to be obliged to pass through this street for a considerable time longer, I followed every change for the better in its physiognomy with very natural interest. I watched with satisfaction the rise of lofty scaffoldings, which indicated the erection of a new building several stories high, the piles of brick, heaps of sand and building stones, and the throngs of masons and hod-carriers. Only when, one morning, I again passed by and noticed the rapid progress of the demolition, I suddenly observed that the crucifix was missing. It had been there the evening before, now it had vanished. It had been torn from the ground in the night, a rude hand had hacked the wood and broken the iron, the cross at the corner no longer existed.

I will not deny that its disappearance grieved me. I was so accustomed to see it several times a day as I hurried by. A beggar at the corner, a swallow’s nest under the cornice, a flower seller in front of the door, may gain importance in a man’s habits of life; why not also a crucifix at the crossing of two streets? The thought that I should never again see that shabby old iron image, the rude red cross, filled me with regret. I involuntarily asked myself whether anybody in the world would miss the poor old crucifix. Hardly. And yet, forgotten and forsaken as it was, it must still have had one faithful friend. Traces of a care-taking hand were often visible on the cross; many signs showed that now and then some one still remembered it. The thick layers of dust and dirt which usually darkened the Saviour’s painted face were often carefully washed off, though the wind soon renewed them; on many feast days a modest wreath, a little bunch of flowers, adorned the cross, and on the great festivals of the Catholic Church an ancient lantern, behind whose red panes glimmered a dim little light, hung before it.

While still thinking of the unknown person who had addressed me through the attentions lavished upon the ancient crucifix, a new figure that appeared on the scene aroused my interest. An old woman, shabbily but neatly dressed, came up the street and suddenly stopped, as if rooted to the earth, when she noticed the absence of the cross. With an emotion which she was unable to subdue, she clasped her hands and gazed fixedly at the hole in the ground where, for a century and a half, the cross had been set. Several minutes passed ere she recovered herself and hastily approached a man who was giving the workmen directions—he was evidently the overseer of the building operations.

“Sir,” she said in a trembling voice, “the cross has been taken away. Could you tell me what has been done with it?”

The person addressed stared at her a moment, then, with a rude laugh, answered: “What has been done with the cross? Why, what should be done with it? Somebody used it to cook his supper!”

With these words he turned from the old woman and continued his orders to the workmen.

I approached the aged dame and asked sympathizingly why she had inquired about the fate of the cross? At first she did not reply, then, after a short pause, she said in an agitated tone:

“If I should tell you, perhaps you would laugh, like yonder fellow.”

I assured her of the contrary, and my expression probably confirmed the truth of my words, for she allowed herself to be persuaded to open her heart to me.

“You see,” she began, “I am an old woman—seventy-five years—and I have no relatives left in the world. All my kindred, all the friends of my youth are dead, and this old cross was the sole object which reminded me of the happy days of my childhood. What do I say—object? It was a friend, a living being that could speak to me. I was born in the house which they are tearing down. I played at the foot of the crucifix when I was a little child. Later, when I grew older and began to go to school, my mother told me to kiss the cross whenever I passed it, because then God would help me and I should repeat my lessons well at school.

“In those days the cross was not so old and unsightly as it became afterward. The image of the Christ was kept freshly painted, and had a beautiful gilt halo around its head. And the people showed great reverence for it. You know,” she added, glancing with a peculiar expression upward to the steeples of the neighboring synagogue, “at that time this neighborhood was almost exclusively Catholic, and not one of these men would have passed without at least lifting his hat and crossing himself. The crucifix was always adorned with flowers, images of the saints, and wreaths, and the master of the house kept a light burning before it. Corpus Christi Day was the most beautiful holiday in the year to the girls in the house. Then the procession passed, and we adorned the cross with flowers, leaves and ribbons. It was our task, and we performed it so gladly.

“Don’t laugh at me, but from my earliest childhood I regarded ‘our’ crucifix as my friend and patron. If, when a little girl, I wished for anything, I slipped out of the door, late at night, when there was no one in the street, went to the cross, clasped my arms around it, and said softly: ‘Dear Jesus, I pray Thee, give me this or that!’ If I received it, I went out again and thanked the crucifix for it.

“I grew up and people said that I was a pretty girl. Then I made the acquaintance of a young student, who visited me two years—and afterward married me,” she added hastily. “He always spent the evening with me, and, when he went away, I accompanied him first to the gate, where we lingered a while, and then to the corner, where we paused again. If he wanted to kiss me when we parted I would not permit it—the presence of the crucifix shamed me.”

“But not always!” I interrupted, smiling.

The old dame pretended not to hear my remark and hurriedly continued: “My lover obtained an appointment in the city and married me. On my wedding day my girl friends adorned the crucifix as beautifully as if the Corpus Christi procession was to pass. A year later a son was born, a beautiful child, fair, blue-eyed and chubby; when I went out, carrying him in my arms, people stopped, took him from me, and never wearied of kissing him. He grew finely and learned to walk and to talk, then he suddenly fell sick and the doctors said he would die.

“One night”—the old woman’s eyes filled with tears at the memory—“I was watching beside his little bed. The physician had told me that he would scarcely live until the next morning. I thought my heart would break, and I should go mad. Toward midnight the child grew quieter and fell asleep. An irresistible yearning, to which I could not help yielding, seized upon me. I lived near; opening the door, I rushed hither through the darkness and did as I had always done. Weeping, I embraced the cross and prayed: ‘Dear Jesus, I beseech Thee, save my child!’ I returned home greatly relieved—the child was still asleep, it slept until the morning, grew better, and in a fortnight was well.

“I have already detained you a long time with my talk—to be brief, I was destined to survive my parents, my husband, my only son, all my relatives and friends; the single remaining friend of my childhood was the cross at the corner, and now that, too, is gone——”

I understood the old woman’s feelings, and, deeply moved, bowed and silently left her.

MEMORIES OF HUNGARY.

III.

THE ALTAR PAINTING.

Who among my readers has ever heard the name of Péteri? Very few, certainly, and it is no wonder, for one may be a good geographer without knowing that Péteri is a pleasant little village, four miles from Pesth, secluded from all intercourse with the world, in the midst of a charming plain, still untrodden by the iron steed which imposes upon the earth, wherever he directs his victorious course, fetters which are very willingly endured.

This quiet hamlet was the goal of an excursion, which I took with a small party the first of October in the year 1867.

We had started early and were rolling over the boundless Rákos plain. The landscape presented a marvelously beautiful aspect. In the background rose the Ofner Mountains, covered with a gray hood of mist; here and there a single peak was illumined by the rising sun, displaying a peculiar blending of shades of purple and violet, which produced the most magnificent effect. The course of the Danube was marked by a broad mass of vapor, hovering over the stream, as if the spirits of the ancient Ister, shrouded in clouds, were floating above their watery domain. Before us the sun was just rising, revealing the historic plain of Rákos, with its undulating sand-hills, meadows, and stubble fields, sparsely scattered with solitary, straw-thatched houses, a few groups of trees, and clattering mills. On both sides of the dusty high road cows were grazing, which stared at us with scarcely less curiosity than the little barefooted boy who tramped after them. The tinkling of the cow-bells blended musically with the notes of the matin-bells, borne in low, subdued tones by the keen morning air.

Our horses moved so swiftly that the tall clumps of straw, and the still taller poles of the wells in the pastures flitted past us like ghosts, and after a drive of barely an hour we reached Keresstur, where we breakfasted in a tavern which, considering its proximity to the capital, was incredibly primitive. The hamlet has no remarkable sights except an old castle where the Emperor Joseph II. once spent the night, and a little tavern-keeper with an enormous beard. After a short rest we set out on our journey again. If the road had formerly been uncomfortable, it now began to be actually bad. The surrounding country still retained the monotonous character of a plain, but the road supplied a tolerable alternation of mountain and valley; cliffs and lakes, owing to the limited space, were represented by huge stones and deep puddles, between which obstacles the driver zig-zagged with marvelous skill. It was about nine o’clock when we saw, in the distance, the little houses and slender, beautiful church-spire of Péteri.

Péteri, the goal of our excursion, is a very small village, inhabited by Slovaks, which consists of two parallel streets and a few dozen insignificant peasant houses, all built with the gable in front. A stranger must be a very rare spectacle in its streets, for great was the excitement which we awakened among the inhabitants. Accompanied by the barking of dogs and the cries of children, we drove slowly on between the straw-thatched huts, and stopped before the house of the Protestant pastor, whom we found engaged in the patriarchal occupation of whipping a large, shaggy black dog, which had been accused by his wife of the crime of killing chickens.

When the man of God saw us, he let the dog go, and, casting an embarrassed glance at his coat, which bore numerous traces of rural labor, he conducted us into his room, which was destitute of a floor. After exchanging a few civil speeches, we told him that we had come to see the village church, which, we had heard, was the handsomest in the neighborhood. The pastor looked astonished, but at once expressed his readiness to open the sacred edifice, if we were really interested in it. Clanking several huge keys, he led the way and we followed. A large open square, with a fountain in the center, surrounded by several majestic oaks, occupied the space in front of it. Several steps led to the entrance of this house of God, which, judging from the exterior, was tolerably plain. The upper one afforded a view of the entire length of the two streets of which Péteri consists.

The doors creaked on their hinges. We entered, walked directly to the communion table, which was totally devoid of ornament, and at the first glance we were irresistibly attracted by a picture hung above the pulpit between two pillars. The brilliant coloring of the painting contrasted strangely with the bare, austere appearance of the spacious interior, which threw it into still stronger relief.

The picture represented the Sermon on the Mount. Christ, attired in flowing robes, with an ample mantle draped over them, stands upon a boulder, his indescribably beautiful face illumined by divine enthusiasm, his radiant eyes most expressively proclaim to us the words of love and divine wisdom which are flowing from his half-parted lips. Around him, extending to the distant background, we see a throng of people in picturesque groups, evidently hanging on the Saviour’s lips; but only a few figures, immediately surrounding the rock, are executed in detail. Behind the divine preacher we behold an ascetic, clad in a garment of skins, his brows contracted in a gloomy frown, and his bearded chin propped on his hand, evidently pondering over the words he has heard. Beside him stands a youth, with his arms folded across his breast, uplifting his clear brow and dark eyes to Christ with fervent devotion, unheeding the words of a third figure, a doubter, who stands by his side, and, with the mocking expression of a Mephistopheles, appears to be whispering something into his ear, while his hand secretly points to the Saviour. In the foreground two female figures rivet our attention; one, a large, voluptuous woman, is lying at the feet of the divine preacher, her face, drenched with tears, expresses infinite suffering and the deepest contrition; the other, a most wonderful contrast, possessing supernatural beauty, as with divine calmness she raises her beaming eyes and, with clasped hands, her whole figure breathing angelic innocence, listens to the sermon of the Son of God. The picture is completed by two lovely naked children, who, with their little round faces turned toward the spectator, are carelessly playing with a shell which they have found. It is the most magnificent and yet the most charming scene imaginable. The divine, glorified form of the inspired preacher; the gloomy ascetic, examining ere he believes; the devout youth, who hears revelations in every word; the doubter, who has come to listen and to scoff; the sinful woman, whose heart is shaken and crushed to its depths by every word of mercy and heavenly love; the chaste, pure angel, with the gloriously beautiful face, to whom Christ speaks a kindred language—and, in contrast with all this, the unsuspecting, ignorant children who, unconcerned about the great events, the mighty passions and overmastering emotions astir around them, play quietly with their shell—the impression which this poetic composition, glowing with the vivid colors of a Titian, produced upon us is not easily described. We stood a long time before the painting, unable to express in words our admiration of the masterpiece.

At last I asked the pastor, who had remained modestly at the back of the church, busying himself with various trifles, if he could not tell us the name of the artist who had created this beautiful work.

“I really cannot give you his name, I know only that he was a young Italian. But I see that the painting has deeply impressed you, so you will probably be interested in hearing some particulars of its origin.” Accepting the kind clergyman’s invitation, we went back with him to his house, and, over a glass of wine, he related the following story:

“Péteri formerly belonged to an old count, the last scion of an ancient noble family, who died, childless, about thirty years ago. His estates went to a distant relative and, in this way, our village passed into the possession of a young married couple, who came here soon after the death of the old lord, to make it their permanent residence. Herr von F., our new lord, had been an officer for several years, but after his marriage had retired to private life. His wife was young, bright, gracious, and possessed beauty unrivaled far or near. They had scarcely moved here before Frau von F. noticed the dilapidated condition of the little church, and determined to have a new and handsome building erected at her own expense. The fact that she was a Catholic, while the parish was Protestant, did not disturb her in the least.

“It happened about this time that a carriage passing through the village was overturned, and the traveler within had his foot severely injured. Herr von F., who had heard of the accident, went himself to the injured man and invited him to be his guest until he was able to continue his journey. The offer was gratefully accepted, and the gentleman was carried to the castle. He introduced himself to his hostess as an Italian artist, on the way to visit his friend, the owner of an estate a few miles away, but who had been prevented from carrying out his plan by the upsetting of his carriage and the wounds received. The artist probably found his stay here very pleasant, for, though at the end of a few days he could walk without assistance, he made no preparations for departure. Under the pretext that he wished to express his gratitude in this way, he begged his charming hostess to allow him to paint her; he wished to leave the portrait in the castle as a memento. After some little reluctance, the proposal was accepted, and the young artist now had an opportunity to gaze into the lovely woman’s eyes an hour a day. She was, as has been said, a rare beauty, he was young and ardent—what marvel that he became passionately in love with her?

“The farther he progressed toward recovery, the more his depression increased; this, and the numerous sittings, aroused Herr von F.’s suspicions and one day he entered unexpectedly when the artist and his wife were alone together. He saw the youth on his knees before her, weeping bitterly, while she, bending over him, was trying to comfort him. The scene which followed was brief but terrible. F. rushed upon the Italian and dealt him a blow in the face. The insulted youth seized a rapier hanging on the wall, pressed furiously upon his host, and would have killed him if the unhappy wife had not thrown herself between them. At the noise servants rushed in, who seized the raging artist, thrust him into the traveling carriage into which the horses had been hastily harnessed, and advised his coachman to drive to his destination, wherever that might be.

“The affair caused great excitement at the time; Herr von F. refused to accept a challenge sent to him from Pesth, and his wife, for a long period, sought refuge on a secluded estate.

“About five months after the scene just described, a box arrived containing the altar painting and a letter, in which the artist entreated Frau von F. to think often of him as an unfortunate man, who had seen the sun of his life rise once for a moment only to lose it forever. He also asked that the picture might be placed in the newly-built church, which, after much opposition from the owner of the estate, was done. The beautiful woman whom you saw in the foreground of the picture is Frau von F., the youth with the folded arms is the artist himself.

“Heaven knows that the young couple did not have a single happy hour afterward. A dark suspicion, though a wholly groundless one, rested on the husband’s heart, and this, with the gossip of the people, made the poor, beautiful wife utterly wretched. When, after a few years, she became a widow—I came here just at that time—I often saw her, when the church was empty, kneel before the picture for hours, shedding burning tears. She did not remain here long, but withdrew to her lonely estate, whence she often comes to the village, and never neglects to visit the church.

“Nothing more was heard from the artist himself, who disappeared without leaving a trace, only some of the owners of the neighboring estates, who knew him, said that he had gone to Africa as a missionary and vanished there.”

We thanked the pastor for his story and set out on our way home.

END.