Peter the Priest

by Mór Jókai

This is the way they danced the cushion-dance, as our elders will recollect. A small silken cushion was put in the hand of the handsomest stateliest dancer, who laid it in the centre of the circle on the floor, and danced around it to the music, at first alone; then he took up the cushion and laid it at the feet of a lady whom he had chosen according to his fancy, knelt down on it and remained a suppliant until she released him with a kiss: then the two danced hand in hand around the cushion: and then it was the lady's turn to lay it before a dancer in the circle and kneel down waiting for a kiss. And through the whole evening the fairy chain of sweet kisses was woven on and on. The old Berezowski thrust his wine-befuddled face into the circle and waited, hoping that he might please some one; but not one of the worthy widows wished him for a partner; and so long as no lady invited him to dance, he had no right to lay the cushion down before his fair white betrothed, and to imprint a red mark on that snowy countenance with his bristly face. It was as if the whole company had taken an oath that no one should offer him the cushion, and the ladies laughed heartily evening after evening to see Lord Grazian with his gouty foot, and Lord Berezowski with his squinting eyes, unwearyingly watch the cushion-dance. But in reality, both were keeping watch of something quite different.

The beautiful Idalia seemed entirely changed since that severe lesson. She acted as any one would who was entirely broken-hearted and resigned. One hardly recognized her. She was gentle and condescending to every one; and the mistakes of her household were hardly noted, while formerly her eye was wont to spy out everything and rebuke it at once with voice and hand. She went every day to mass, sat quietly under the great carved canopy of the family pew and performed her devotions. What it all meant nobody knew, except, perhaps, Father Peter. Then, too, the condition of the Jesuit monastery had been recently much improved; one gift followed another. One Sunday, the castle lady surprised the Father with a magnificent altar covering, and it was reported that she had embroidered it with her own hands. The young nobleman, Cupid, had also become a new creature under Father Peter's hands. One could hear him studying out of his books in a clear tone of voice, instead of singing wanton songs. He no longer wandered through the village with dozens of dogs, setting them on the poor people; but went about hand in hand with his instructor in the best behaved way, and replied to the "Praised be Jesus Christ" of the people, with a pious "Forever and ever, Amen." He spent his pocket-money on the poor, and Sunday mornings served as acolyte without his old trick of mixing sulphur in the incense; instead of abusive words, he now uttered Latin sentences, and kissed the hands of elderly people in a most mannerly way; and all this was Father Peter's work. It was set down to his credit by the directors of the convent, and information was even sent to the Provincial Father, of the wonderfully blessed activity of this newly created father.

The Lady Idalia had for some time ceased to storm her lost idol with her passion, and had entrusted her little son entirely to his care. Mother and son saw each other now only at table. This unaccountable change had occurred at the same time of the Bishop's feast. The entire noble family of Mitosin had gone to Bittse and remained. Father Peter had from that time no further occasion to seek the subterranean passage; night and day nothing took him from his pupil, who since his tutor had withdrawn the fools and had accustomed him to an orderly way of living instead of his former extravagances, now enjoyed regular sleep such as children are wont to have, who, when they waken, find their heads in the very place where they laid them down, and who sleep with a laugh on their lips.

Father Peter was somewhat troubled in conscience at the great care that he was devoting to his pupil, since he knew that at the bottom there was a certain selfishness, as it was very agreeable to him not to have Hirsko, the Fool, sleep any more in the boy's room. Hirsko kept long vigils; he never closed an eye until he could see the bottom of his pitcher. Now, Father Peter did not have to wait for that; Sunday nights belonged entirely to him. As soon as he had quieted Cupid, he could hurry to the entrance of the vaulted passage, and there stay for a long time beside his inconsolable beloved, who was at once his bride and his widow. These charming meetings by night, Likovay's journey to Thurzo's wedding had brought to an end. The departure had occurred so unexpectedly that there was no time for the two lovers to agree what should be done. By carrier pigeons, they had communicated with each other briefly, but since the departure, there had been no messages by the pigeons from Mitosin. It was only through the talkative Fool that Father Peter learned whither the family had gone,—to the wedding of the Bishop! It was said that this would last a whole year long, and would occasion so many other weddings that the carnival might be prolonged until the vintage.

So many marriageable young women were among the guests, it was very probable they would all leave as brides; for even the melancholy Magdalene a suitor waited there—the rich Berezowski. Father Peter sighed deeply—if he could only see her, just once more! How dared a monk sigh for such a forbidden pleasure! Even then the punishment was hurrying toward him. While his heart unceasingly throbbed at the thought that he might even yet be permitted to behold the countenance of his beloved, gently radiant as the moonlight itself, quite unexpectedly this command came from his lady, which conformed to his wishes, yet he could find little pleasure in it. One day,—the Thurzo wedding feast had then lasted two months,—Idalia said to him, "Father Peter, all the world have paid their respects at Bittse, at the wedding of the Bishop; we alone have not. The Bishop is related to me on my mother's side, and furthermore he is my godfather. He may be annoyed at us with good reason for not showing ourselves there; now I have in my jewel casket a string of real pearls that will be very becoming to the throat of the young lady: let us take them to her as a bridal present and stay at the castle until we are driven away. You shall go with the boy; it will be well for him to see a little of such splendor and magnificence as he never shall behold again." And so that fell to Father Peter's lot for which he had sighed so longingly. But he could not take pleasure in the news: it filled him, on the contrary, with horror. At Emerich Thurzo's wedding, he must meet again that world which he had put behind him, and in which only a few years ago he had been so intimate—so much at home. It is true, the countless sufferings he had endured since then might have changed his looks somewhat; and then, too, there was the long beard that he had not worn as knight, and if he drew the hood of his cowl down, half his face was covered. Besides, who would pay any attention to a holy monk, who draws into a corner, and is in nobody's way? The fine ladies who had known him formerly would gather away their trains lest they should touch his cowl; but there would be one there who knew him, at all events. Alas, if by any traitorous change of countenance Magdalene should betray her recognition! Their eyes must not meet.

However, there was no escape. Father Peter must accompany his lady to Bittse—to the famous wedding-feast. She, too, took her whole household with her. She had to drag about her household as she did her gowns and jewels; her only son, of course, must not leave her side, for that is the richest jewel of a Hungarian woman. The other ladies took their children with them, and she received the greatest glory whose son could best recite his good wishes to the bride, which he had learned from the court master.

The wedding guests arrived safely at Bittse. At that time, such a journey lasted fully six days in the stern cold, and in the short winter days of fog. When the guests from Madocsany arrived at the Castle of Bittse, it was already late in the evening. The first night was given to rest, after the hardships of the journey. The next day, the Lady Idalia, with her son and Father Peter, paid their respects to the noble couple. Emerich Thurzo had an astounding memory; as soon as he heard Father Peter's name, he at once expressed his surprise that he did not recollect that he had as bishop confirmed a monk of that name, and, of course, Madocsany belonged to his diocese. Father Peter replied that he had received his confirmation from the Provincial of his order; in this way, he drew down upon himself the high displeasure of the Hungarian magnate, the Bishop. The Provincials of the Jesuit order assumed many privileges of the Prelates, and even some papal prerogatives. From that moment, Father Peter in the Castle of Bittse was a marked man. However, this was agreeable to him, for no one molested him with offerings of friendly attentions. He could even sit at the table without any exchange of good wishes, for the Jesuit brotherhood was looked at askance by the other orders. Only one human being stood by him—the young Cupid. He never left him. However wild and boisterous he had been in the days when his mother spoiled him, he had now become equally shy and timid; ever since those visions of terror which the threats of his mother and the stories of the Fool had brought upon his mind. And yet what an ungovernable child he had been only a year ago! When he and his mother stayed at an entertainment, the dissolute lords used to teach him all kinds of knavish verses and songs, and then when the ladies joined them, some one would say, "Now, little Cupid, say a little verse, or sing a pretty song." And the little fellow would hardly wait to be asked, but spring up on the table and recite what he had learned; and the ladies would blush to the very roots of their hair; some would laugh, but the more prudish would go away. And then the Lady Idalia would take the little rascal in her lap and reward him with kisses. But now all this was over. Since Father Peter had become his tutor, the little Cupid knew no more wanton songs. On the contrary, he had become so shy that no promises or threats would make him recite the little rhyme of greeting that he used to say at home. The Lady Idalia comforted herself with the thought that in the course of time there would yet be opportunity. There were many children of his age among the guests of the castle, and as soon as he became acquainted with them he would regain his former liveliness and courage. But he did not play with the other children. When he met a boy of his own age, he would ask him, "Does your mother threaten to kill you?" He would have absolutely nothing to do with the little girls. The year before, he had played wildly with them and called each one his little wife. But now when one of them he used to know offered him candy, he said, "Is there any poison in it?"

The Lady Idalia was the gayest of the gay. Her widow's veil had been long since cast aside, and there was nothing to prevent her joining in the dance. Nobody was bored in her company. She knew how to shape her conversation, and often made Thurzo himself laugh at her telling hits. Evenings, when she entered the drawing room in magnificent attire, at once she had her court of knights about her, among whom more than one whose hair was already turning gray, would not have been sorry to join his widowed state to hers. But one group of guests always conspicuously drew aside when the Lady Idalia appeared—these were the Mitosins. If Idalia took her place at the table where Lord Grazian was sitting, he would whisper to his daughter, and she would rise and go elsewhere; after a time, Lord Grazian would follow; soon the Pole; and then the entire retinue. But Idalia never ceased trying to annoy them. Her high spirits never rose higher than when she looked into the angry eyes of Lord Grazian, or when she coquettishly tormented the aged suitor until his face became as red as a boiled crab.

One evening, the flower of the company turned to the dance, and the gypsies of Transylvania were playing. Thurzo and his wife were still present, and took pleasure in the enjoyment of their guests. The sound of revelry grew louder and louder. The men sang drinking songs, the ladies chattered, and the monks in their corner sang an edifying hymn. The old Berezowski as usual was on the outer edge of the circle of dancers; in the mazurka and the torch-dance, where it was only necessary to stamp and shout, he had his part; but in the cushion dance, where the kisses came, he failed as usual. And yet he could have devoured the beautiful Magdalene with his eyes. Two pair of eyes were watching him; one from the table of the monks, where sat a young priest, with downcast head supported on his hands; from beneath his cowl low drawn, his eyes looked out eagerly into this world of pleasure. On his lap lay the head of a sleeping child, on the table before him stood a large mug, from which he sipped now and then, more to moisten his parched lips and throat than to cloud his mind. The other pair of eyes belonged to the Lady Idalia. Even when she was whirling in the dance, she never let Berezowski out of her sight; she followed the longing looks that he cast at Magdalene; she cast glances at Father Peter, half-concealed in his corner; and Lord Grazian, who was ready to burst with rage, caught the scornful lightning of her glance. She knew how to read the hearts of all four, and it was her diabolical pleasure to drop into the hearts of all four her various poisons, one kind for one, and another for another; here, frenzy, there deadly fear, and still again, rage and jealousy. To one, contempt; to another, despair; to a third, shame and disgrace; and to a fourth, unquenchable, diabolical fire.

Father Peter held his hand screening his eyes as he watched the handsome youths leading the ladies of their heart to the dance. In many dances a kiss is the forfeit. Who has any suspicious thoughts of the innocent kiss of a maiden? In those times, certainly, it was merely a joke in all honor. He was not jealous of any one of the stately crowd of young knights, but the blood boiled in his veins when he saw how the old rake, destined to be her bridegroom, watched the slender figure floating past him, light as a gentle dream. Gentle though she was, yet she knew how to evade his embraces. If he were only her partner, what a blow he would give that eager old sinner! The young fop took no care whatever of his lady. And what miserable dancers they are too! When he led the dance it was quite different—he would like to show them, if it were not for the cowl.