The Witch of Prague | Page 4

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