Chapter I

The Witch of Prague

by F. Marion Crawford

A great multitude of people filled the church, crowded together
in the old black pews, standing closely thronged in the nave and
aisles, pressing shoulder to shoulder even in the two chapels on the
right and left of the apse, a vast gathering of pale men and women
whose eyes were sad and in whose faces was written the history of
their nation. The mighty shafts and pilasters of the Gothic edifice
rose like the stems of giant trees in a primeval forest from a dusky
undergrowth, spreading out and uniting their stony branches far above
in the upper gloom. From the clerestory windows of the nave an
uncertain light descended halfway to the depths and seemed to float
upon the darkness below as oil upon the water of a well. Over the
western entrance the huge fantastic organ bristled with blackened
pipes and dusty gilded ornaments of colossal size, like some enormous
kingly crown long forgotten in the lumber room of the universe,
tarnished and overlaid with the dust of ages. Eastwards, before the
rail which separated the high altar from the people, wax torches, so
thick that a man might not span one of them with both his hands, were
set up at irregular intervals, some taller, some shorter, burning
with steady, golden flames, each one surrounded with heavy funeral
wreaths, and each having a tablet below it, whereon were set forth in
the Bohemian idiom, the names, titles, and qualities of him or her in
whose memory it was lighted. Innumerable lamps and tapers before the
side altars and under the strange canopied shrines at the bases of
the pillars, struggled ineffectually with the gloom, shedding but a
few sickly yellow rays upon the pallid faces of the persons nearest
to their light.

Suddenly the heavy vibration of a single pedal note burst from
the organ upon the breathing silence, long drawn out, rich,
voluminous, and imposing. Presently, upon the massive bass, great
chords grew up, succeeding each other in a simple modulation, rising
then with the blare of trumpets and the simultaneous crash of
mixtures, fifteenths and coupled pedals to a deafening peal, then
subsiding quickly again and terminating in one long sustained common
chord. And now, as the celebrant bowed at the lowest step before the
high altar, the voices of the innumerable congregation joined the
harmony of the organ, ringing up to the groined roof in an ancient
Slavonic melody, melancholy and beautiful, and rendered yet more
unlike all other music by the undefinable character of the Bohemian
language, in which tones softer than those of the softest southern
tongue alternate so oddly with rough gutturals and strident
sibilants.

The Wanderer stood in the midst of the throng, erect, taller
than the men near him, holding his head high, so that a little of the
light from the memorial torches reached his thoughtful, manly face,
making the noble and passionate features to stand out clearly, while
losing its power of illumination in the dark beard and among the
shadows of his hair. His was a face such as Rembrandt would have
painted, seen under the light that Rembrandt loved best; for the
expression seemed to overcome the surrounding gloom by its own
luminous quality, while the deep gray eyes were made almost black by
the wide expansion of the pupils; the dusky brows clearly defined the
boundary in the face between passion and thought, and the pale
forehead, by its slight recession into the shade from its middle
prominence, proclaimed the man of heart, the man of faith, the man of
devotion, as well as the intuitive nature of the delicately sensitive
mind and the quick, elastic qualities of the man's finely organized,
but nervous bodily constitution. The long white fingers of one hand
stirred restlessly, twitching at the fur of his broad lapel which was
turned back across his chest, and from time to time he drew a deep
breath and sighed, not painfully, but wearily and hopelessly, as a
man sighs who knows that his happiness is long past and that his
liberation from the burden of life is yet far off in the future.

The celebrant reached the reading of the Gospel and the men and
women in the pews rose to their feet. Still the singing of the
long-drawn- out stanzas of the hymn continued with unflagging
devotion, and still the deep accompaniment of the ancient organ
sustained the mighty chorus of voices. The Gospel over, the people
sank into their seats again, not standing, as is the custom in some
countries, until the Creed had been said. Here and there, indeed, a
woman, perhaps a stranger in the country, remained upon her feet,
noticeable among the many figures seated in the pews. The Wanderer,
familiar with many lands and many varying traditions of worship,
unconsciously noted these exceptions, looking with a vague curiosity
from one to the other. Then, all at once, his tall frame shivered
from head to foot, and his fingers convulsively grasped the yielding
sable on which they lay.

She was there, the woman he had sought so long, whose face he
had not found in the cities and dwellings of the living, neither her
grave in the silent communities of the dead. There, before the
uncouth monument of dark red marble beneath which Tycho Brahe rests
in peace, there she stood; not as he had seen her last on that day
when his senses had left him in the delirium of his sickness, not in
the freshness of her bloom and of her dark loveliness, but changed as
he had dreamed in evil dreams that death would have power to change
her. The warm olive of her cheek was turned to the hue of wax, the
soft shadows beneath her velvet eyes were deepened and hardened, her
expression, once yielding and changing under the breath of thought
and feeling as a field of flowers when the west wind blows, was now
set, as though for ever, in a death-like fixity. The delicate
features were drawn and pinched, the nostrils contracted, the
colourless lips straightened out of the lines of beauty into the
mould of a lifeless mask. It was the face of a dead woman, but it was
her face still, and the Wanderer knew it well; in the kingdom of his
soul the whole resistless commonwealth of the emotions revolted
together to dethrone death's regent--sorrow, while the
thrice-tempered springs of passion, bent but not broken, stirred
suddenly in the palace of his body and shook the strong foundations
of his being.

During the seconds that followed, his eyes were riveted upon the
beloved head. Then, as the Creed ended, the vision sank down and was
lost to his sight. She was seated now, and the broad sea of humanity
hid her from him, though he raised himself the full height of his
stature in the effort to distinguish even the least part of her head-
dress. To move from his place was all but impossible, though the
fierce longing to be near her bade him trample even upon the
shoulders of the throng to reach her, as men have done more than once
to save themselves from death by fire in crowded places. Still the
singing of the hymn continued, and would continue, as he knew, until
the moment of the Elevation. He strained his hearing to catch the
sounds that came from the quarter where she sat. In a chorus of a
thousand singers he fancied that he could have distinguished the
tender, heart-stirring vibration of her tones. Never woman sang,
never could woman sing again, as she had once sung, though her voice
had been as soft as it had been sweet, and tuned to vibrate in the
heart rather than in the ear. As the strains rose and fell, the
Wanderer bowed his head and closed his eyes, listening, through the
maze of sounds, for the silvery ring of her magic note. Something he
heard at last, something that sent a thrill from his ear to his
heart, unless indeed his heart itself were making music for his ears
to hear. The impression reached him fitfully, often interrupted and
lost, but as often renewing itself and reawakening in the listener
the certainty of recognition which he had felt at the sight of the
singer's face.

He who loves with his whole soul has a knowledge and a learning
which surpass the wisdom of those who spend their lives in the study
of things living or long dead, or never animate. They, indeed, can
construct the figure of a flower from the dried web of a single leaf,
or by the examination of a dusty seed, and they can set up the scheme
of life of a shadowy mammoth out of a fragment of its skeleton, or
tell the story of hill and valley from the contemplation of a handful
of earth or of a broken pebble. Often they are right, sometimes they
are driven deeper and deeper into error by the complicated
imperfections of their own science. But he who loves greatly
possesses in his intuition the capacities of all instruments of
observation which man has invented and applied to his use. The lenses
of his eyes can magnify the infinitesimal detail to the dimensions of
common things, and bring objects to his vision from immeasurable
distances; the labyrinth of his ear can choose and distinguish amidst
the harmonies and the discords of the world, muffling in its tortuous
passages the reverberation of ordinary sounds while multiplying a
hundredfold the faint tones of the one beloved voice. His whole body
and his whole intelligence form together an instrument of exquisite
sensibility whereby the perceptions of his inmost soul are hourly
tortured, delighted, caught up into ecstasy, torn and crushed by
jealousy and fear, or plunged into the frigid waters of despair.

The melancholy hymn resounded through the vast church, but
though the Wanderer stretched the faculty of hearing to the utmost,
he could no longer find the note he sought amongst the vibrations of
the dank and heavy air. Then an irresistible longing came upon him to
turn and force his way through the dense throng of men and women, to
reach the aisle and press past the huge pillar till he could slip
between the tombstone of the astronomer and the row of back wooden
seats. Once there, he should see her face to face.

He turned, indeed, as he stood, and he tried to move a few
steps. On all sides curious looks were directed upon him, but no one
offered to make way, and still the monotonous singing continued until
he felt himself deafened, as he faced the great congregation.

"I am ill," he said in a low voice to those nearest to him.
"Pray let me pass!"

His face was white, indeed, and those who heard his words
believed him. A mild old man raised his sad blue eyes, gazed at him,
and while trying to draw back, gently shook his head. A pale woman,
whose sickly features were half veiled in the folds of a torn black
shawl, moved as far as she could, shrinking as the very poor and
miserable shrink when they are expected to make way before the rich
and the strong. A lad of fifteen stood upon tiptoe to make himself
even slighter than he was and thus to widen the way, and the Wanderer
found himself, after repeated efforts, as much as two steps distant
from his former position. He was still trying to divide the crowd
when the music suddenly ceased, and the tones of the organ died away
far up under the western window. It was the moment of the Elevation,
and the first silvery tinkling of the bell, the people swayed a
little, all those who were able kneeling, and those whose movements
were impeded by the press of worshippers bending towards the altar as
a field of grain before the gale. The Wanderer turned again and bowed
himself with the rest, devoutly and humbly, with half-closed eyes, as
he strove to collect and control his thoughts in the presence of the
chief mystery of his Faith. Three times the tiny bell was rung, a
pause followed, and thrice again the clear jingle of the metal broke
the solemn stillness. Then once more the people stirred, and the soft
sound of their simultaneous motion was like a mighty sigh breathed up
from the secret vaults and the deep foundations of the ancient
church; again the pedal note of the organ boomed through the nave and
aisles, and again the thousands of human voices took up the strain of
song.

The Wanderer glanced about him, measuring the distance he must
traverse to reach the monument of the Danish astronomer and
confronting it with the short time which now remained before the end
of the Mass. He saw that in such a throng he would have no chance of
gaining the position he wished to occupy in less than half an hour,
and he had not but a scant ten minutes at his disposal. He gave up
the attempt therefore, determining that when the celebration should
be over he would move forward with the crowd, trusting to his
superior stature and energy to keep him within sight of the woman he
sought, until both he and she could meet, either just within or just
without the narrow entrance of the church.

Very soon the moment of action came. The singing died away, the
benediction was given, the second Gospel was read, the priest and the
people repeated the Bohemian prayers, and all was over. The countless
heads began to move onward, the shuffling of innumerable feet sent
heavy, tuneless echoes through vaulted space, broken every moment by
the sharp, painful cough of a suffering child whom no one could see
in the multitude, or by the dull thud of some heavy foot striking
against the wooden seats in the press. The Wanderer moved forward
with the rest. Reaching the entrance of the pew where she had sat he
was kept back during a few seconds by the half dozen men and women
who were forcing their way out of it before him. But at the farthest
end, a figure clothed in black was still kneeling. A moment more and
he might enter the pew and be at her side. One of the other women
dropped something before she was out of the narrow space, and
stooped, fumbling and searching in the darkness. At the minute, the
slight, girlish figure rose swiftly and passed like a shadow before
the heavy marble monument. The Wanderer saw that the pew was open at
the other end, and without heeding the woman who stood in his way, he
sprang upon the low seat, passed her, stepped to the floor upon the
other side and was out in the aisle in a moment. Many persons had
already left the church and the space was comparatively free.

She was before him, gliding quickly toward the door. Ere he
could reach her, he saw her touch the thick ice which filled the
marble basin, cross herself hurriedly and pass out. But he had seen
her face again, and he knew that he was not mistaken. The thin, waxen
features were as those of the dead, but they were hers, nevertheless.
In an instant he could be by her side. But again his progress was
momentarily impeded by a number of persons who were entering the
building hastily to attend the next Mass. Scarcely ten seconds later
he was out in the narrow and dismal passage which winds between the
north side of the Teyn Kirche and the buildings behind the Kinsky
Palace. The vast buttresses and towers cast deep shadows below them,
and the blackened houses opposite absorb what remains of the
uncertain winter's daylight. To the left of the church a low arch
spans the lane, affording a covered communication between the north
aisle and the sacristy. To the right the open space is somewhat
broader, and three dark archways give access to as many passages,
leading in radiating directions and under the old houses to the
streets beyond.

The Wanderer stood upon the steps, beneath the rich stone
carvings which set forth the Crucifixion over the door of the church,
and his quick eyes scanned everything within sight. To the left, no
figure resembling the one he sought was to be seen, but on the right,
he fancied that among a score of persons now rapidly dispersing he
could distinguish just within one of the archways a moving shadow,
black against the blackness. In an instant he had crossed the way and
was hurrying through the gloom. Already far before him, but visible
and, as he believed, unmistakable, the shade was speeding onward,
light as mist, noiseless as thought, but yet clearly to be seen and
followed. He cried aloud, as he ran,

"Beatrice! Beatrice!"

His strong voice echoed along the dank walls and out into the
court beyond. It was intensely cold, and the still air carried the
sound clearly to the distance. She must have heard him, she must have
known his voice, but as she crossed the open place, and the gray
light fell upon her, he could see that she did not raise her bent
head nor slacken her speed.

He ran on, sure of overtaking her in the passage she had now
entered, for she seemed to be only walking, while he was pursuing her
at a headlong pace. But in the narrow tunnel, when he reached it, she
was not, though at the farther end he imagined that the fold of a
black garment was just disappearing. He emerged into the street, in
which he could now see in both directions to a distance of fifty
yards or more. He was alone. The rusty iron shutters of the little
shops were all barred and fastened, and every door within the range
of his vision was closed. He stood still in surprise and listened.
There was no sound to be heard, not the grating of a lock, nor the
tinkling of a bell, nor the fall of a footstep.

He did not pause long, for he made up his mind as to what he
should do in the flash of a moment's intuition. It was physically
impossible that she should have disappeared into any one of the
houses which had their entrances within the dark tunnel he had just
traversed. Apart from the presumptive impossibility of her being
lodged in such a quarter, there was the self-evident fact that he
must have heard the door opened and closed. Secondly, she could not
have turned to the right, for in that direction the street was
straight and without any lateral exit, so that he must have seen her.
Therefore she must have gone to the left, since on that side there
was a narrow alley leading out of the lane, at some distance from the
point where he was now standing--too far, indeed, for her to have
reached it unnoticed, unless, as was possible, he had been greatly
deceived in the distance which had lately separated her from him.

Without further hesitation, he turned to the left. He found no
one in the way, for it was not yet noon, and at that hour the people
were either at their prayers or at their Sunday morning's potations,
and the place was as deserted as a disused cemetery. Still he
hastened onward, never pausing for breath, till he found himself all
at once in the great Ring. He knew the city well, but in his race he
had bestowed no attention upon the familiar windings and turnings,
thinking only of overtaking the fleeting vision, no matter how, no
matter where. Now, on a sudden, the great, irregular square opened
before him, flanked on the one side by the fantastic spires of the
Teyn Church, and the blackened front of the huge Kinsky Palace, on
the other by the half- modern Town Hall with its ancient tower, its
beautiful porch, and the graceful oriel which forms the apse of the
chapel in the second story.

One of the city watchmen, muffled in his military overcoat, and
conspicuous by the great bunch of dark feathers that drooped from his
black hat, was standing idly at the corner from which the Wanderer
emerged. The latter thought of inquiring whether the man had seen a
lady pass, but the fellow's vacant stare convinced him that no
questioning would elicit a satisfactory answer. Moreover, as he
looked across the square he caught sight of a retreating figure
dressed in black, already at such a distance as to make positive
recognition impossible. In his haste he found no time to convince
himself that no living woman could have thus outrun him, and he
instantly resumed his pursuit, gaining rapidly upon her he was
following. But it is not an easy matter to overtake even a woman,
when she has an advantage of a couple of hundred yards, and when the
race is a short one. He passed the ancient astronomical clock, just
as the little bell was striking the third quarter after eleven, but
he did not raise his head to watch the sad-faced apostles as they
presented their stiff figures in succession at the two square
windows. When the blackened cock under the small Gothic arch above
flapped his wooden wings and uttered his melancholy crow, the
Wanderer was already at the corner of the little Ring, and he could
see the object of his pursuit disappearing before him into the
Karlsgasse. He noticed uneasily that the resemblance between the
woman he was following and the object of his loving search seemed now
to diminish, as in a bad dream, as the distance between himself and
her decreased. But he held resolutely on, nearing her at every step,
round a sharp corner to the right, then to the left, to the right
again, and once more in the opposite direction, always, as he knew,
approaching the old stone bridge. He was not a dozen paces behind her
as she turned quickly a third time to the right, round the wall of
the ancient house which faces the little square over against the
enormous buildings comprising the Clementine Jesuit monastery and the
astronomical observatory. As he sprang past the corner he saw the
heavy door just closing and heard the sharp resounding clang of its
iron fastening. The lady had disappeared, and he felt sure that she
had gone through that entrance.

He knew the house well, for it is distinguished from all others
in Prague, both by its shape and its oddly ornamented, unnaturally
narrow front. It is built in the figure of an irregular triangle, the
blunt apex of one angle facing the little square, the sides being
erected on the one hand along the Karlsgasse and on the other upon a
narrow alley which leads away towards the Jews' quarter. Overhanging
passages are built out over this dim lane, as though to facilitate
the interior communications of the dwelling, and in the shadow
beneath them there is a small door studded with iron nails which is
invariably shut. The main entrance takes in all the scant breadth of
the truncated angle which looks towards the monastery. Immediately
over it is a great window, above that another, and, highest of all,
under the pointed gable, a round and unglazed aperture, within which
there is inky darkness. The windows of the first and second stories
are flanked by huge figures of saints, standing forth in strangely
contorted attitudes, black with the dust of ages, black as all old
Prague is black, with the smoke of the brown Bohemian coal, with the
dark and unctuous mists of many autumns, with the cruel, petrifying
frosts of ten score winters.

He who knew the cities of men as few have known them, knew also
this house. Many a time had he paused before it by day and by night,
wondering who lived within its massive, irregular walls, behind those
uncouth, barbarously sculptured saints who kept their interminable
watch high up by the lozenged windows. He would know now. Since she
whom he sought had entered, he would enter too; and in some corner of
that dwelling which had long possessed a mysterious attraction for
his eyes, he would find at last that being who held power over his
heart, that Beatrice whom he had learned to think of as dead, while
still believing that somewhere she must be yet alive, that dear lady
whom, dead or living, he loved beyond all others, with a great love,
passing words.