Tales From Jokai Part 11

CHAPTER II

VACCINATIO SPIRITUALIS

The Starosta Prince Moskowski believed in the operation of a curse; it was the only weapon of a homeless people.

He had no other son but this one, and he himself remained a widower.

If he had had five or six sons he would have snapped his fingers at the whole thing as an old wife's story, for the curse could not have taken effect on the whole lot of them. But as he only had one, Destiny might very easily get the better of him. This one lord would inherit the vast Bialystok estates, the splendid castle and its treasures, yet what if all this would not save him and his descendants from becoming serfs in the end.

The Starosta guarded this son of his so jealously from his very cradle that he never so much as cast eyes on a peasant. He did not even know whether such a thing even existed. His servants were all chosen from the Szlachta, or gentry. A Szlachzic, even in a menial livery, is still a gentleman.

But even then the father could not rid him of his fear.

He went to take counsel of the Bishop.

The Bishop told him to bring up his son for the priesthood, then he could not possibly become a serf. But this solution did not please the Starosta, although it would have been the very best way to break the force of the curse. It is true that if his only son became a bishop he could have no sons, and then of course no grandson of the Starosta could become a serf, because he would have no grandsons at all. But he wanted the branches of the Moskowski family tree to go on growing.

So he consulted yet another dignitary, the High Treasurer of Cracow.

What was he to do, he asked, to stay the operation of the curse and prevent his son and his grandsons from becoming the lowliest serfs in the Russian Empire?

The High Treasurer advised him to open a deposit account in the name of his son to the amount of a million thalers at the Bank of England, where no power on earth could get at it. He would thereby provide against every eventuality. To whatever extremities his son and his grandsons might be reduced, they would never be obliged to do the labour of serfs so long as they had a million to their credit at the Bank of England.

But the Starosta did not like that expedient either. He could produce the million easily enough, but he had no confidence in the Bank of England. Not very long before there had been a conspiracy to rob the Bank of England, and it had been within a hair's breadth of succeeding.

Moreover it was a fact within living memory that on the occasion of the invasion of the Stuart Pretender there had been such a run on the Bank of England that it had been obliged to pay its customers over the counter in shillings and sixpences. Why, at that rate, if any one clean-shaved himself and went to the Bank to draw out the million, and they were obliged to pay him down on the nail in Polish small change, he might be able comfortably to tuck his beard within his girdle by the time he was able to get home.

Now, there happened to be a Protestant clergyman in the domains of the Starosta who dwelt in the county town, the Rev. Gottlieb Klausner by name. He was the pastor of the Lutheran community. His flock mostly consisted of handicraftsmen and mechanics who had emigrated to Lithuania from Brandenburg.

The only thing the Starosta knew about the Lutheran clergyman was that he never bothered him with inconvenient demands. He and his flock alike were quiet, inoffensive persons. They never advertised their profession of faith by anything in their outward dress and bearing; they never prayed publicly in the streets; they never rang bells, for their meeting-places had no belfries.

Nevertheless, one day the pastor visited the Starosta in his splendid princely palace.

The Starosta received the reverend gentleman cordially.

Gottlieb Klausner first of all apologized for the inconvenience he was causing, and then craved permission to acquaint his Excellency with the great errand which had emboldened him to appear before him.

He was such a long time coming to the point that the Starosta fancied he was going to beg for a church-tower full of bells at the very least. Yet all that he wanted, after all, was permission to send his son abroad to complete his studies. He had brought the deed of permission with him in his pocket, written in the fairest caligraphy, it only needed the hieroglyphics of the magnate at the bottom of it and the impression of his seal.

This was very quickly done, but to-day the great man was curious and wanted to know all about it.

"What is your son's Christian name, your Reverence?"

"Henry."

"How old is he?"

"Sixteen."

"Just as old as my lad. Then, how old may your Reverence be."

"Forty-seven, by the favour of G.o.d."

"Just my age. Perhaps we were born on the same day."

"I came into the world on the festival of St. John Chrysostom."

"So did I. That's very right. And why, then, do you want to send your son abroad? And so far too? It is to the Sorbonne at Paris, isn't it?"

"In order that he may perfect himself in the sciences."

"And why need he perfect himself in the sciences?"

"In order that he may not become a serf."

At these words the heart of the Starosta began to beat fiercely.

"Then he cannot be a serf if he becomes a scholar, eh?"

"No. At all times and everywhere a scholar is a gentleman."

"Your Reverence has no doubt heard of the curse with which a Rabbi threatened me?"

"Every one knows of it."

"And do you suppose that it can be fulfilled?"

"Everything is possible in this world."

"But, according to your reasoning, a scholar can never become a serf."

"And I maintain my contention. Great estates may be called in again by those who bestowed them; brilliant escutcheons may be torn to pieces by the hand which embellished them; but the knowledge which dwells in our heads and our hearts neither king nor emperor can take away, and if we leave knowledge to our sons as an inheritance, no power on earth can make our sons serfs. Pardon me for elevating my words into such a bold discourse."

"You elevate me at the same time, my brother in the Lord! But come! you have kindled a bright idea in my brain. I will educate _my_ son as a scholar likewise. He has both the mind and the will for it. I have kept him from poring over books. .h.i.therto, but now let us send him abroad with your son. Let your Henry be his guardian and comrade. I shall know then that he is in good hands. And I'll pay the expenses of the pair of them.

They shall live in the same room and eat off the same dish. My son and your son shall be treated exactly alike. Let them fare as youths studying abroad must fare, and let the best scholar be the best gentleman. Is it agreed, brother?"

Gottlieb Klausner gratefully stretched out his hand towards the Starosta, who hastily drew back his own, fancying that the pastor was about to kiss it. He might have spared himself the trouble. A Lutheran pastor never kisses the hand of one of his own s.e.x. The Starosta, however, immediately afterwards embraced the pastor.

"Good, my brother! We are agreed then. But I do this under one condition. I ask a service of your Henry. I'll take care that there shall be a regular postal service hither from France and Germany twice a week, and your Henry must write to you every post about himself and my son, and let us know how they are and what progress they are making."

"My son will certainly not neglect to do so."

"Bring your son hither that I may make his acquaintance."

"This very day I will bring him."

"And now, hearken, my brother. You and I are both old fellows, and hitherto each of us has celebrated his birthday alone with his son.

Henceforth we shall be quite alone. Let us henceforth keep our birthday in each other's company."