The Story of a Genius Part 14

"'Wish I could say the same of my Herr Papa,' sighed Toni. 'But it's all up in that quarter. I'm simply a lightning rod for him. When his steward bothers him, he sits down and writes me an abusive letter. But it's partly my own fault,' he added, regretfully.

"Count Erich, who had lost his father shortly before, looked straight ahead, his brows meeting, his eyes winking unsteadily.

"Proudly the n.o.bl' Zwilk rode at the head of our little troop, rocking himself in dreams of gratified vanity. All at once his horse reared, so violently and unexpectedly that he was thrown. He kept hold of the bridle, and was back in the saddle next moment, punis.h.i.+ng his horse furiously, and cursing so loud that Schmied, who rode nearest him, called out 'Restrain yourself': and pointed to a small wayside shrine, on the edge of the path. It held an image of the Virgin, and a half extinguished lamp, burning dimly before it, sent a red ray into the blue white of the moonbeams.

"Then, on the spot where Zwilk's horse had s.h.i.+ed, Schmied's Gaudeamus began to back and tremble, to our amazement, for Schmied's horses were reputed as phlegmatic as their master. Next Truyn's Coquette jumped to one side, and Toni's Lucretia began swinging herself backward and forward like a wooden rocking horse.

"'I think the brutes have entered into a conspiracy to make us stop here and say our prayers,' said Toni. But Schmied sprang down.

"'What is it?' we called. 'Some one frozen,' he answered. 'Perhaps some one drunk,' lisped Prince Liscat. Erich and his cousin with the rest of us were already dismounted. Two sleepy grooms held our horses.

"There on the chapel steps, crouched a human form, in the att.i.tude of one who has fled to G.o.d with a great burden.

"We stretched him out on the snow. His limbs cracked gruesomely. His hands were hard as stone: he must have been dead for hours. The cold moon shone on his face. It was old and wrinkled, the frost of frozen tears glimmered on his cheeks and around his mouth. The dead drawn mouth kept the expression of weeping.

"'It's the poor devil who came to us yesterday morning in the Riding-School,' said Erich, and bowed his head reverently.

"'Better so,' muttered Schmied, in a shaky voice. 'Better for him.' The little peasant-count kneeled in the snow, rubbing the stiff hands and sobbing.

"'We had better take ourselves off. We can't do any good here, and there will be trouble with the police.'

"It was Zwilk who spoke, standing by with white, strangely smiling face: his voice was hoa.r.s.e and hurried.

"Then Toni sprang to his feet. 'You hound!' he cried, and struck him across the face with a riding-whip."

The speaker paused a few seconds, then went on quietly.

"Of course Zwilch left the army. He and Toni fought with pistols.

Zwilch came off extremely well, and Toni extremely ill, being badly wounded in the hip. He lay in bed six months, but during that time he was reconciled to his family, and shortly after he got well he married a pretty little cousin. He lives in the country, overseeing an estate of his father's. He has grown steady, has a great many children and preserves the most touching affection for his old comrades.

"We gave the poor old stranger a grand funeral, which the whole officer's corps attended. We buried him in St. Peter's Churchyard, and put him up a fine monument.

"The n.o.bl' Zwilk vanished utterly. For a long time I expected to see him turn up as a fencingmaster somewhere. But far from it: I ran across him lately in Venice, married to a rich widow from Odessa. His servants call him Eccelenza; things prosper with him."

The old general paused, and looked about him. He had told his story in a voice of much feeling, and now he evidently looked for some signs of sympathy.

The celebrated poet remarked, with a grin, that the story would make a good subject for a comedy, if you changed the ending a little. The celebrated poetess said she didn't feel much interest in stories that hadn't any love in them. The hostess inquired if the widow whom Zwilch married was a person of good reputation. The host remarked that that was what came of letting the rabble into the same regiment with respectable people.

Only the youthful idealist had been so much moved that he was afraid to speak for fear of showing it. But at last he pulled himself together and broke out with these enigmatical words--

"After all, it's our own fault."

"How do you mean?" asked the hostess.

He blushed and stammered. "I mean, that if there were no Prince Liscat, there would be no n.o.bl' Zwilk."

WHAT HAPPENED TO HOLY SAINT PANCRAS OF EVOLO

What Happened to Holy Saint Pancras of Evolo

I

"Down with him! Into the sea with the old pig-head! Let him come to reason among the crabs and cuttle-fis.h.!.+ Now he touches water,--now he swims,--now he goes under! There, Evoluccio, may you find it cool and pleasant!"

He who made all this shouting and ranting was the little broad-shouldered Cesare Agresta, s.h.i.+p-trader, and he stood in the midst of a noisy crowd on the outermost edge of the cliffs which descend steeply to the sea before Evolo. They who moved about with turbulent cries, and still more turbulent behavior, among the gnarled olive trees on the rocks where the old chapel stands, were his fellow citizens, the entire population of the little Sicilian town of Roccastretta--men and women, children and aged people, rich and poor, even including the reverend Padre Atanasio, and the equally reverend Syndic. These two, withdrawn a few steps apart, watched the crowd's activity with a curiously sly expression of mischievous amus.e.m.e.nt.

Around the stem of an ancient olive tree some handy, half-naked fellows had slung a thick rope, whose length reached over the rocks down to the sea, and which, with many tugs and jerks, as if attached to a heavy, uneven weight that pitched about, made the old trunk shake from lowest root to topmost branch. Don Cesare held the chief command over this tumultuous mob. He ran, he gesticulated, he ordered, he swore, he laughed, he bl.u.s.tered, and they all obeyed him to the letter.

"Just why little Don Cesare exerts himself so much about it I can't make out," said the well-nourished padre, in his neighbor's ear. "The old Evolino, or, as they call him in despite to-day, Evoluccio, has never done any harm to Don Cesare. It must be all one to him whether it rains or not, since he doesn't possess the smallest bit of land, and not one single lemon tree can he call his property."

The Syndic shrugged his shoulders like a man at loss for an answer, and said, slightly nodding toward a youthful pair, half hidden behind the chapel, who seemed to be excellent company for one another:

"While Don Cesare bestows his attention upon the old, his pretty sister occupies herself with the young."

"I have long remarked that there was something between those two," said the padre with a half envious side glance, in which rebellion, contending in the heart's depths with resignation, was plainly manifest; "but what will come of it? The wealthy Nino will never content himself with the sister of a s.h.i.+p-trader."

"Nay, Father Atanasio, one need not always be thinking of marriage,"

answered the other, smiling slyly on the stout padre.

"I know that very well," replied the holy man, without taking the least offence at the Syndic's light-mindedness; "but if it comes to Don Cesare's knowledge, let Nino beware of his knife."

"That is Nino's business. Between my neighbor's door and its hinge I never put my fingers," cried the Syndic with a laugh.

They were interrupted by the crowd streaming back from the cliffs toward the chapel.

"This pleases you. Father Atanasio," cried a lank sailor, who looked out from beneath his Calabrian cap like a bandit. "You never were on good terms with the old Evoluccio. Well, he's fixed for one while!"

"He'll stay down there till he gets reasonable," said another, shaking his fist at the sea; "and if that won't do,--something else will!"

"Yes, yes!" howled a third; "if water fails he shall feel fire. Only that Don Cesare talked us down to-day, we'd have built a blaze under the old one's feet that would have made him remember us forever! The villain! the lump! the old heathen!"

At these words, a little smile, like a flash, s.h.i.+mmered in the eye of Father Atanasio, but it was very brief, and remarked by no one; then he said, slowly, waving his hand to those who were pa.s.sing, and clothing his words in an unctuous sort of conciliatory chant:

"That is enough. It will certainly work this time. Malicious the Evolino never was. He only needs to have his old memory jogged a bit.

If you were as old as he you would forget too, sometimes."