so the end of our transylvanian sojourn had actually come, and like many things whose prospect appears so unconditionally desirable when viewed in the far distance, the realization of this wish now failed to bring altogether the anticipated satisfaction.
the cavern convent, skit la jalomitza.
whoever has read hans andersen’s exquisite tale of the fir-tree will understand the indescribable pathos assumed by commonplace objects as soon as they are relegated from the present tense into the past; and those who have not read this fairy tale will understand it equally well, for is not the story of the fir-tree the history of each of our own lives?
i had indeed often longed to be back again in the world; i had yearned to be once more within reach of newspapers and lending-libraries,{400} and to be able to get letters from england in three days instead of six. of course i would return to the world some day or other; but that day need not have come just yet, i now told myself, and i should have liked to spend one more summer in face of that glorious chain of mountains i had got to love so dearly.
all at once i became acutely conscious of a dozen projects not yet accomplished—of points of interest as yet unvisited, of pictures i had not yet looked upon, of songs i had not heard. the proud snowy negoi i had so often dreamed of ascending now smiled down an icy smile of unapproachable majesty upon my disappointment; the dark pine forests i had expected to revisit seemed to grow dim and shadowy as they eluded my grasp, and with them many other objects of my secret longing. that other mountain, the bucsecs, where live those solitary monks, snowed up during the greater part of the year in their cavern convent scooped out of the rock; the noble castle of the great hunyady, pearl of medi?val citadels; those wondrous salt-mines of maros-ujvar, whose description reads like a vision in a fairy tale; and those rivers whose waters may literally be said to “wander o’er sands of gold”—the thought of these, and of many other such items, now rose up like tormenting spectres to swell the mournful list of my blighted hopes. there were dozens of old ruined towers whose interior i had not yet seen, scores of little way-side chapels i had proposed to investigate. why, even in this very town of hermanstadt there were nooks and corners i had not explored, church-towers i had not ascended, and mysterious little gardens as yet unvisited. precisely the most inviting-looking of these gardens, the most mysteriously suggestive, and the one which showed the richest promise of blossom peeping over the wall, had hitherto baffled all attempts at entrance. nearly every day for the last two years i had passed by that garden, which towered over my head like a sea-bird’s nest perched on a steep rocky island, and always had i found the gate to be persistently locked against the outer world. was i actually going to leave the place without having set foot within its enchanted precincts? without having plucked that head of golden laburnum just breaking into flower, which nodded so mockingly over the wall? and all at once an irresistible longing came over me; i felt that i must enter that garden, must gather that flower, even were it defended by dragons and witches.
and my wish did not seem to be impracticable at first sight—the{401} garden, as i knew, belonging to the cure, a jovial-faced old man, with whom i had merely a bowing acquaintance, but who, i felt sure, would be delighted to show me his garden. accordingly one forenoon, about a week before my departure from hermanstadt, i sent my two boys with a calling-card, on which was indited my request in the politest terms and most legible handwriting at my command.
the small messengers i had despatched to the presbytery came back even sooner than i had expected, but their mien was crestfallen, and their eyes suspiciously moist.
“what is the matter?” i asked, in surprise. “have you not brought me the key of the garden? did not the cure say yes?”
castle vajda hunyad before its restoration.
“he said nothing; we never saw him. the whole house was full of doctors and of pails of ice,” was the somewhat incoherent explanation. “and then there came an old woman with a broom and made us go away.”
evidently the subject of the broom was too painful to be dwelt upon, for the moisture in the eyes showed symptoms of reappearing. further inquiries elucidated the situation. alas! it was but too true; the cure had been seized with a stroke of apoplexy that morning; and after waiting for two whole years, i had appropriately selected that very moment to request the loan of his garden key!
two days later he died, and was buried with much pomp; and then, after waiting for three days more, i thought i might without indelicacy repeat my request, applying this time to the sacristan.
the branch of laburnum had now burst into full flower, and the more i gazed the more absolutely impossible it seemed to leave the place without it.
this time, in consideration of the broom and the old woman, i had despatched a full-grown messenger, desiring him on no account to presume to return without the key; but the answer he brought, though polite, was yet more hopeless, and he, too, had come back empty-handed. “have you been to the sacristan?” i sternly inquired. he had, as he humbly informed me, and not only to him, but likewise to the next priest in rank, as well as to the sister and nephew of the deceased, and to his best friend.
“the gentlemen were all very polite, and much regretted not being able to oblige me,” he said; “but the garden gate had been closed with the official seal immediately after the death, and this key, along with all others, deposited at the gericht (court of justice) till a successor should be elected.”
“and when will that be?”
“in about six months probably.”
in six months! they dared talk to me of six months, when i should be gone before as many days! and what cared i for their hypocritical expressions of regret, now that i knew them to be dragons in disguise? hope was now dead within me, for even british pertinacity cannot cope with supernatural agency, and expect to penetrate realms defended by witches and dragons.
driving to the station, we passed for the last time by the impenetrable stone-wall which masked the object of all this useless longing and effort, and which, like all unattainable things, looked more than ever desirable on the balmy may evening we turned our backs upon hermanstadt. in vain my eyesight strove to penetrate the dense screen of flowery shrubs hiding from my view—i know not what. perhaps an old temple with shattered columns, or a fountain which has ceased to play? maybe an ancient statue draped in ivy, or a tombstone bearing some long-forgotten name?
naught could i see but the dense-grown tops of gelder-rose and bird-cherry pressed tightly together, and one clustering branch of overblown laburnum dropping its petals in amber showers on to the road.
were you mocking me, or weeping for me, enigmatical golden flower? shall i ever return to gather you?
