Nonetheless, wonderful though the fur cloak was and however much Stephen Filcsik prided himself upon its possession, the iron teeth of time had no respect for it. They dealt it the same scant consideration that they accorded the winter-coat of the poor young law student, the son of the village notary. Its brightly colored embroideries faded and its needlework grew ragged, while its yellow background became soiled and greasy. Moths ate their share of it and caused dire destruction, especially in the lining and the collar.
But Filcsik, like the lover-husband who never notices how the rosy bloom fades from his wife's face, never took notice of its sad transformation; he only saw his good old fur cloak when he looked at its remnants; and when he said, "I will put my fur cloak on," he said it without the loss of a particle of his characteristic old pride.
It hung on a big bright nail all the year round, just opposite his working stool, so that, even while at his work, he could look up and admire it.
But it is true that he sat very little on his stool, and he was called for that reason "the bootmaker to God" because he had practically no customers at all. The old fellow was lazy. If he occasionally did make a pair of boots for someone, he acted as though he were doing an act of charity. "What dost thou wish to walk in boots for?" he would ask his customers. "Thou art a peasant and to walk bare-footed is good for thee."
A callous man, he loved nobody, and nothing in this world except that fur cloak.
¶ ¶ ¶
No cruelty ever cried louder to heaven than his, and he directed it mainly upon his only child, his daughter Therese.
And yet, what was it that she had done? She had refused to marry the lame miller of Csoltó when her father commanded. He had wanted to plant in one jar the rezeda flower and the thistle!
Is it any wonder that the melancholy Therese, embittered and bewildered by her father's treatment, escaped at the first opportunity and eloped with the young County Justice? It was an almost unheard of indiscretion, but youth is often guilty of much folly. Yet, though all the world condemned her, her father should have been the first to forgive her.
Old Filcsik became ruder and more austere, and when Therese came home to see him and tearfully begged his forgiveness, he turned away and said he did not know the hussy; took his fur cloak from its big nail and left the house and returned only when Therese was gone.