Chapter II: The Cross at the Corner

For years my way led me, several times a day, through Tabakgasse in Pesth, and I was therefore obliged to pass a crucifix erected at the corner where Kreuzgasse opens into Tabakgasse. It was a weather-beaten, insignificant affair, such as is rarely seen in the cities, but more frequently met with on country roads and in poor villages, and was evidently as old as the quarter of the city in whose midst it stood; Kreuzgasse undoubtedly took its name from it. A century and a half before, when the “inner city” became too small for the population, and a few bold colonists built the first houses outside the wall upon the loose sand of the Rákos, the founders of the Theresienstadt erected at the same time this crucifix, probably to place the new quarter of the city under the special protection of the Crucified One.

The artless piety of these people required no external stimulation by works of art. Their religious feeling did not demand a beautiful and monumental form for the object of their reverence, and was sufficiently intense to be satisfied even with a badly-colored image, a shapeless wooden cross. The crucifix just mentioned was a proof of that touching power of faith, which understands how to transfigure even the rude and ugly with the nimbus of reverence. It is difficult to imagine a less beautiful and imposing structure than this crucifix. Two rough beams, fastened into the form of a cross, on which was nailed a piece of iron shaped into the outlines of a human figure, that was all. The hand of some Beotian, doubtless very devout, but totally ignorant of the beauty of oak blackened by age, had smeared the cross with a coat of the most hideous shade of brick-red, and painted on the iron, with much goodwill, but very little art, the image of the Saviour.

A hundred and fifty years do not pass over so primitive a work of art without some trace. In many spots on the iron, now half corroded with rust, the color had come off entirely; the Redeemer’s image lacked an eye, only a small portion of the crown of thorns remained, the legs showed especially comprehensive damages, the face and breast were covered with rust stains, which looked like dried drops of blood and produced effects which the “artist” certainly had not intended. Even the wood had not been left untouched by the tooth of time; countless cracks and crevices intersected the entire length of the beams; one could not expect them to continue to oppose the invincible tenacity and defiance of the oak to the attacks of the drenching autumn rains, the parching heat of summer, and the fierce blasts of the tempest. When, at a late hour of the silent night, I walked through the empty street and passed the cross, I heard distinctly the monotonous tapping of the wood-beetle, whose jaws vied with decay and disintegration to accomplish the destruction of the crucifix.

This description has probably convinced everyone that the cross in itself was neither remarkable nor valuable; yet the sight of it always made me thoughtful, nay filled me with a certain emotion. Poor, iron Saviour! There he stood, deserted by God and man. No one prayed to Him, no one offered vows, He was in everyone’s way. The generation that placed Him here, the other generations, whose hearts He had filled with devotion, had died long ago; in this age and environment He was alien and desolate. Most people passed the crucifix without vouchsafing it a single glance. True, in rainy weather it attracted a certain degree of attention, but this was wholly profane. As it stood exactly in the center of the narrow sidewalk, no one carrying an open umbrella could pass between it and the wall, so there was only the choice of shutting the umbrella and walking several paces under the streaming eaves, or keeping it open and leaving the sidewalk, that is, wading several paces through mire a foot deep. Both equally aroused the wrath of pedestrians against the obstacle in their path, and they complained that the magistrates allowed such hindrances to traffic.

A crucifix degraded to be a hindrance to traffic! Could it fail to lose its sanctity in the eyes of the populace? No one raised his hat, no one made the sign of the cross in passing. Only plain peasants still knelt devoutly before it, and the birds used it as a welcome resting-place. The swallow, seeking food for her nestlings, wearied by the busy exercise of her maternal duties, perched for a moment’s rest on the Saviour’s outstretched arm and, at the foot of the crucifix, an old beggar woman frequently crouched, letting the worn, distorted features of the Crucified One plead for sympathy and alms for herself.

At a certain time a momentous change suddenly occurred. Workmen began to demolish the corner-house, whose faithful Eckart the crucifix had been for a century. And in fact it was not too soon. The low structure, built of unbaked bricks, which looked as if it had sunk to its knees in the earth, its windowless wall facing the street, its mouldering, moss-grown shingle roof, and horribly dirty courtyard, no longer suited the modern city with its fashionable boulevards. As at that time I expected to be obliged to pass through this street for a considerable time longer, I followed every change for the better in its physiognomy with very natural interest. I watched with satisfaction the rise of lofty scaffoldings, which indicated the erection of a new building several stories high, the piles of brick, heaps of sand and building stones, and the throngs of masons and hod-carriers. Only when, one morning, I again passed by and noticed the rapid progress of the demolition, I suddenly observed that the crucifix was missing. It had been there the evening before, now it had vanished. It had been torn from the ground in the night, a rude hand had hacked the wood and broken the iron, the cross at the corner no longer existed.

I will not deny that its disappearance grieved me. I was so accustomed to see it several times a day as I hurried by. A beggar at the corner, a swallow’s nest under the cornice, a flower seller in front of the door, may gain importance in a man’s habits of life; why not also a crucifix at the crossing of two streets? The thought that I should never again see that shabby old iron image, the rude red cross, filled me with regret. I involuntarily asked myself whether anybody in the world would miss the poor old crucifix. Hardly. And yet, forgotten and forsaken as it was, it must still have had one faithful friend. Traces of a care-taking hand were often visible on the cross; many signs showed that now and then some one still remembered it. The thick layers of dust and dirt which usually darkened the Saviour’s painted face were often carefully washed off, though the wind soon renewed them; on many feast days a modest wreath, a little bunch of flowers, adorned the cross, and on the great festivals of the Catholic Church an ancient lantern, behind whose red panes glimmered a dim little light, hung before it.

While still thinking of the unknown person who had addressed me through the attentions lavished upon the ancient crucifix, a new figure that appeared on the scene aroused my interest. An old woman, shabbily but neatly dressed, came up the street and suddenly stopped, as if rooted to the earth, when she noticed the absence of the cross. With an emotion which she was unable to subdue, she clasped her hands and gazed fixedly at the hole in the ground where, for a century and a half, the cross had been set. Several minutes passed ere she recovered herself and hastily approached a man who was giving the workmen directions—he was evidently the overseer of the building operations.

“Sir,” she said in a trembling voice, “the cross has been taken away. Could you tell me what has been done with it?”

The person addressed stared at her a moment, then, with a rude laugh, answered: “What has been done with the cross? Why, what should be done with it? Somebody used it to cook his supper!”

With these words he turned from the old woman and continued his orders to the workmen.

I approached the aged dame and asked sympathizingly why she had inquired about the fate of the cross? At first she did not reply, then, after a short pause, she said in an agitated tone:

“If I should tell you, perhaps you would laugh, like yonder fellow.”

I assured her of the contrary, and my expression probably confirmed the truth of my words, for she allowed herself to be persuaded to open her heart to me.

“You see,” she began, “I am an old woman—seventy-five years—and I have no relatives left in the world. All my kindred, all the friends of my youth are dead, and this old cross was the sole object which reminded me of the happy days of my childhood. What do I say—object? It was a friend, a living being that could speak to me. I was born in the house which they are tearing down. I played at the foot of the crucifix when I was a little child. Later, when I grew older and began to go to school, my mother told me to kiss the cross whenever I passed it, because then God would help me and I should repeat my lessons well at school.

“In those days the cross was not so old and unsightly as it became afterward. The image of the Christ was kept freshly painted, and had a beautiful gilt halo around its head. And the people showed great reverence for it. You know,” she added, glancing with a peculiar expression upward to the steeples of the neighboring synagogue, “at that time this neighborhood was almost exclusively Catholic, and not one of these men would have passed without at least lifting his hat and crossing himself. The crucifix was always adorned with flowers, images of the saints, and wreaths, and the master of the house kept a light burning before it. Corpus Christi Day was the most beautiful holiday in the year to the girls in the house. Then the procession passed, and we adorned the cross with flowers, leaves and ribbons. It was our task, and we performed it so gladly.

“Don’t laugh at me, but from my earliest childhood I regarded ‘our’ crucifix as my friend and patron. If, when a little girl, I wished for anything, I slipped out of the door, late at night, when there was no one in the street, went to the cross, clasped my arms around it, and said softly: ‘Dear Jesus, I pray Thee, give me this or that!’ If I received it, I went out again and thanked the crucifix for it.

“I grew up and people said that I was a pretty girl. Then I made the acquaintance of a young student, who visited me two years—and afterward married me,” she added hastily. “He always spent the evening with me, and, when he went away, I accompanied him first to the gate, where we lingered a while, and then to the corner, where we paused again. If he wanted to kiss me when we parted I would not permit it—the presence of the crucifix shamed me.”

“But not always!” I interrupted, smiling.

The old dame pretended not to hear my remark and hurriedly continued: “My lover obtained an appointment in the city and married me. On my wedding day my girl friends adorned the crucifix as beautifully as if the Corpus Christi procession was to pass. A year later a son was born, a beautiful child, fair, blue-eyed and chubby; when I went out, carrying him in my arms, people stopped, took him from me, and never wearied of kissing him. He grew finely and learned to walk and to talk, then he suddenly fell sick and the doctors said he would die.

“One night”—the old woman’s eyes filled with tears at the memory—“I was watching beside his little bed. The physician had told me that he would scarcely live until the next morning. I thought my heart would break, and I should go mad. Toward midnight the child grew quieter and fell asleep. An irresistible yearning, to which I could not help yielding, seized upon me. I lived near; opening the door, I rushed hither through the darkness and did as I had always done. Weeping, I embraced the cross and prayed: ‘Dear Jesus, I beseech Thee, save my child!’ I returned home greatly relieved—the child was still asleep, it slept until the morning, grew better, and in a fortnight was well.

“I have already detained you a long time with my talk—to be brief, I was destined to survive my parents, my husband, my only son, all my relatives and friends; the single remaining friend of my childhood was the cross at the corner, and now that, too, is gone——”

I understood the old woman’s feelings, and, deeply moved, bowed and silently left her.

MEMORIES OF HUNGARY.