Peter the Priest

by Mór Jókai

Six steps led from the statue of Nepomeck down into the earth, the seventh step was movable and turned on a pivot; if you stood on one end of this, the statue above raised itself, but if you stood on the other end, it sank gently down, The builders of this subterranean passage had chosen well the guardian of their secret. The place where stood the statue honored by all, was protected from investigation; it was not possible that in this vicinity any one could be found who would venture to overturn the sacred Nepomeck.

Lady Idalia had wrapped herself in a black cloak, and placed two pistols in her belt, and she carefully concealed the dark lantern. The mole-hole of the Hussites yawned before her! A long, dark, black defile, the more gruesome since it did not run straight but round about; the entire tunnel so like a catacomb, was vaulted, hewn out of the hard quartz. The walls were already as black as a scaffold, with the underground mould, which had so covered everything over that objects lying on the ground could hardly be recognized. And on this mould-covered floor were traces of steps,—fresh distinct traces of steps going and coming. One could see the imprint of the five nails in the monk's sandals, evidently he had been there often before; the freshest imprints, however, were of the spurred boots of a knight. Idalia followed these hastily. She feared neither the underground darkness nor all the terrors of the invisible world, which in their collected form bear the name of Night, great black mass—what she carried in her bosom was still blacker than this darkness.

At a turn of the tunnel, she saw moving before her a light, at a distance of perhaps two hundred feet; it was the gleam of a torch that he had evidently lighted here in the tunnel from his lantern, to see his way better. Now when a man carries a torch in his hand, he is so blinded by it that he does not see if some one comes behind him, especially if this somebody is wrapped up in a black cloak, keeps in the dark, and conceals her dark lantern. Idalia could approach so near the form striding on before her that she was in a position to recognize it. It was Father Peter in his cowl, but with spurred boots. He went rapidly, but Idalia went more rapidly, and almost overtook him.

The tunnel was long, with side passages opening into it, here and there. Feminine curiosity compelled Idalia to cast a glance into each one of these caverns; here she could use the full light of her lantern. One of these caverns might have been a wine-cellar; there were still some casks there; from this she concluded that there must be a still wider exit; for through the narrow opening by the statue of Nepomeck, one could not roll in such casks. A side passage led into a large, roomy hall, where in one corner were to be seen the remains of a wooden staging; what might have been here once?—a secret church for Hussite gatherings—or a court—or even a place of execution? This higher ceiling was not covered over with mould, but with a glistening dampness. In another corridor were heaped up rusty old weapons and armor. In a dome-shaped cavern was a cask on end, of a bright green; when she lighted it up with her lantern, she saw that the cask was entirely covered over with copperplate, and the green was from the verdigris; out of the bunghole of the cask hung a long twisted cord. "Suppose I were to set fire to this cord, what would result?" Idalia asked herself, and hurried on her way. Suddenly the figure before her stood still. An oaken door with bands of iron closed the tunnel; here the tunnel was walled with brick, and the threshold of the door was of hewn stone; the masculine figure placed his torch in an iron ring on the wall and approached the door. This was made fast by a lock with a secret combination, such as are used in closing cellars and underground doors; such locks, even when they are rusty, can be opened by those who know their secret, but if a man does not know this secret, he cannot open it in a lifetime. An iron pole, notched on the inside, runs through the iron rings; on the outside of the rings are engraved all kinds of letters; and the man who knows the word which is the key to the opening of the lock, will turn these ten rings until this name appears. Then are found on the inside of the rings the spaces in their order, and the notched pole can easily be drawn out, otherwise, one might turn these rings until the day of judgment and not succeed with the lock. The secret of this lock Father Peter had learned from the YAW DEREVOCSID EHT, and at every one of his underground visits he had made fast the lock. While he was busy opening the lock Idalia looked around her. Near by the door were two side passages opposite each other; she must conceal herself in one of them to keep better watch; she chose the right one, because this lay in the shadow, while the light of the torch shone into the other. It needed a self-control beyond woman's powers not to utter a shriek as she threw the light of her lantern into the cavern she entered. It was a square room, black with smoke, with wall of cement: it might once have been a sleeping room, for there were beds and benches; and in all the resting places lay the forms of women, some as if asleep, others still in convulsive attitudes crouching in the corners or leaning against the walls; one sat at the table, with her head resting on her hands, and a Bible open before her. She was reading while the others listened; one crouched under the table with a rosary in her hand,—she was a Catholic—all were richly dressed and their gowns were covered with lace and gold and silver embroideries; and yet their garments were decayed and those that wore them were skeletons. The fair blond hair of the one reading seemed to have grown even after death, for the floor all about her was quite covered. These were the women spoken of in the mystic book, who here await the resurrection. Evidently they too had come here to explore the secret of the strange lock when their provisions had failed them, and here they had miserably perished. On the wall above each figure was cut her name, her religion, and the day of her death. On the table lay a handsome enameled watch; by this they had reckoned how many days this long night here below had endured. Nobody had inscribed the name of the last. It was a maiden, with a maiden's wreath on her head,—perhaps she had been stolen from the altar.

Idalia stood looking at this abode of death. It seemed to her as if all the skulls, with their eye sockets staring into eternal nothingness, grinned at her, as if they would say to her, "We have waited for you. Now you have come; you too are one of us." Should she flee this place, turn back home and throw herself in penitent prayer before the statue of the Virgin Mother of God? Was it a dream that she saw here? And what she felt—the anguish, the revenge, the terror—was all this only a dream? Do such feelings come in waking moments? The creaking of the door recalled her consciousness. She looked out, and what she saw gave back all her kindling rage.

Father Peter had laid aside his monk's cowl, and stood there in knightly costume, like a bridegroom ready for the marriage altar. He was proud and handsome! The noble fearlessness of the man was mirrored in his countenance. Ah, in this guise he belongs to another! He is hers only in that hateful, hideous, coarse cowl, which she contemptuously pushed aside with her foot, as he stepped through the door to close it behind him. So the jealous woman stamped her foot upon this deceitful cover of hypocrisy. "You cloak of lies! You sacred mask! Pious costume of a comedian! Chrysalis of a golden butterfly! The chrysalis is fixed to my tree, but the butterfly flies to the flower of another. Shame, curse and ruin upon you, and upon him who has worn you and shall wear you again!" And at each curse, she stamped again upon the cowl. Then she opened carefully the door. She set the lantern on the floor. The distance before her now was not great, for the straight corridor with brick walls extended about a hundred feet farther. By the light of the lantern in the hand of the man before her, she could press forward with sure step—there was no hindrance in her way.

At the end of the corridor, the knight stepped aside into a recess, and as he disappeared, there shone forth a dull light on the opposite wall, which indicated that a door had been left open, and that the wanderer had reached his goal. Quietly, she too slipped into this place; the opening was the frame of Saint Anthony's picture; she looked through and saw the interior of the chapel before her. Who was in the chapel? A knight and a maiden. What are they doing in the chapel? They stand in close embrace. The listening woman had heard no outcry through the stillness of the night. Evidently the maiden was not surprised; she had surely been waiting for him. They might have agreed long ago to meet here at this hour, and that was why the monk was in such haste. The kiss lasted long. Perhaps only a minute by the watch, but a thousand years of torment to the jealous watcher. This endless time sufficed for her inflamed imagination to paint the picture of the previous moments. Yes, without doubt, here waited for him this maiden with mourning, despairing, broken heart. She waited for her former lover in monk's cowl, who now laid aside the vows that forbade his heart to beat. She waited for the disgraced, scourged monk; perhaps with the firm resolution, that they would together mourn all this sorrow which is without relief here below, and then together abandon this world in which they have nothing more to seek.

But when instead of the humble priest, she saw step forth from the frame the handsome knight of old, she forgot at once that a church arched over her, and that a crypt was beneath her feet: she forgot that she had come here to weep, to pray, to prepare herself for death,—and threw herself into the arms of her fascinating lover.

All this the feverish fancy of the jealous watcher saw during the eternity of that kiss. And when they separated, and she saw their expressions, they were those of the blessed. How is it when one looks out from the gateway of Hell at the smile of the Blessed? She played with the trigger of her pistol. How easily she could kill them both. But the cup of bitterness, too, must be drained in swallows, as well as that of pleasure. Perhaps she can yet offer this cup to another and say, "My Lord, I drink to your health!" Such a festivity should not pass without the drinking of healths. But first she must watch through to the end what they were doing, and hear through to the end what they were saying.

The knight looked about him, and then seized the maiden by the hand. "Come away from here," he said in a hurried whisper. "What I am going to say, the church and sacred picture must not hear."