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Debts of Honor

by Mór Jókai · English · Gutenberg #22757 · 743,641 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Debts of Honor

Author: Mór Jókai

Translator: Arthur B. Yolland


        
Release date: September 24, 2007 [eBook #22757]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/22757

Credits: Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEBTS OF HONOR ***




Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team






WORKS OF MAURUS JOKAI

HUNGARIAN EDITION

DEBTS OF HONOR

_Translated from the Hungarian_

_By_ ARTHUR B. YOLLAND


[Illustration: Publisher's logo]


NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

Copyright, 1900, by
DOUBLEDAY & MCCLURE CO.




TRANSLATOR'S NOTE


In rendering into English this novel of Dr. Jokai's, which many of his
countrymen consider his masterpiece, I have been fortunate enough to
secure the collaboration of my friend, Mr. Zoltan Dunay, a former
colleague, whose excellent knowledge of the English language and
literature marked him out as the most competent and desirable
collaborator.

ARTHUR B. YOLLAND.
BUDAPEST, 1898.




CONTENTS

CHAPTER                                                 PAGE

     I.   The Journal of Desiderius                        1
    II.   The Girl Substitute                             30
   III.   My Right Honorable Uncle                        59
    IV.   The Atheist and the Hypocrite                   71
     V.   The Wild-Creature's Haunt                      104
    VI.   Fruits Prematurely Ripe                        114
   VII.   The Secret Writings                            122
  VIII.   The End of the Beginning                       131
    IX.   Aged at Seventeen                              143
     X.   I and the Demon                                148
    XI.   "Parole d'Honneur"                             172
   XII.   A Glance into a Pistol Barrel                  185
  XIII.   Which Will Convert the Other                   199
   XIV.   Two Girls                                      225
    XV.   If He Loves, then Let Him Love                 240
   XVI.   That Ring                                      249
  XVII.   The Yellow-robed Woman in the Cards            258
 XVIII.   The Finger-post of Death                       266
   XIX.   Fanny                                          281
    XX.   The Fatal Day!                                 285
   XXI.   That Letter                                    299
  XXII.   The Unconscious Phantom                        306
 XXIII.   The Day of Gladness                            322
  XXIV.   The Mad Jest                                   330
   XXV.   While the Music Sounds                         341
  XXVI.   The Enchantment of Love                        351
 XXVII.   When the Nightingale Sings                     360
XXVIII.   The Night Struggle                             370
  XXIX.   The Spider in the Corner                       383
   XXX.   I Believe...!                                  397
  XXXI.   The Bridal Feast                               407
 XXXII.   When We Had Grown Old                          413




DEBTS OF HONOR

CHAPTER I

THE JOURNAL OF DESIDERIUS


At that time I was but ten years old, my brother Lorand sixteen; our
dear mother was still young, and father, I well remember, no more than
thirty-six. Our grandmother, on my father's side, was also of our party,
and at that time was some sixty years of age; she had lovely thick hair,
of the pure whiteness of snow. In my childhood I had often thought how
dearly the angels must love those who keep their hair so beautiful and
white; and used to have the childish belief that one's hair grows white
from abundance of joy.

It is true, we never had any sorrow; it seemed as if our whole family
had contracted some secret bond of unity, whereby each member thereof
bound himself to cause as much joy and as little sorrow as possible to
the others.

I never heard any quarrelling in our family. I never saw a passionate
face, never an anger that lasted till the morrow, never a look at all
reproachful. My mother, grandmother, father, my brother and I, lived
like those who understand each other's thoughts, and only strive to
excel one another in the expression of their love.

To confess the truth, I loved none of our family so much as I did my
brother. Nevertheless I should have been thrown into some little doubt,
if some one had asked me which of them I should choose, if I must part
from three of the four and keep only one for myself. But could we only
have remained together, without death to separate us or disturb our
sweet contentment, until ineffable eternity, in such a case I had chosen
for my constant companion only my brother. He was so good to me. For he
was terribly strong. I thought there could not be a stronger fellow in
the whole town. His school-fellows feared his fists, and never dared to
cross his path; yet he did not look so powerful; he was rather slender,
with a tender girl-like countenance.

Even now I can hardly stop speaking of him.

As I was saying, our family was very happy. We never suffered from want,
living in a fine house with every comfort. Even the very servants had
plenty. Torn clothes were always replaced by new ones and as to
friends--why the jolly crowds that would make the house fairly ring with
merry-making on name-days[1] and on similar festive occasions proved
that there was no lack of them. That every one had a feeling of high
esteem for us I could tell by the respectful greetings addressed to us
from every direction.

[Footnote 1: In Hungary persons celebrate the name-day of the saint
after whom they are called with perhaps more ceremony than their
birthday.]

My father was a very serious man; quiet and not talkative. He had a pale
face, a long black beard, and thick eyebrows. Sometimes he contracted
his eyebrows, and then we might have been afraid of him; but his idea
always was, that nobody should fear him; not more than once a year did
it happen that he cast an angry look at some one. However, I never saw
him in a good humor. On the occasion of our most festive banquets, when
our guests were bursting into peals of laughter at sprightly jests, he
would sit there at the end of the table as one who heard naught. If dear
mother leaned affectionately on his shoulder, or Lorand kissed his face,
or if I nestled to his breast and plied him, in child-guise, with
queries on unanswerable topics, at such a time his beautiful, melancholy
eyes would beam with such inexpressible love, such enchanting sweetness
would well out from them! But a smile came there never at any time, nor
did any one cause him to laugh.

He was not one of those men who, when wine or good humor unloosens their
tongue, become loquacious, and tell all that lies hidden in their heart,
speak of the past and future, chatter and boast. No, he never used
gratuitous words. There was some one else in our family just as serious,
our grandmother; she was just as taciturn, just as careful about
contracting her thick eyebrows, which were already white at that time;
just as careful about uttering words of anger; just as incapable of
laughing or even smiling. I often remarked that her eyes were fixed
unremittingly on his face; and sometimes I found myself possessed of the
childish idea that my father was always so grave in his behavior because
he knew that his mother was gazing at him. If afterward their eyes met
by chance, it seemed as if they had discovered each other's
thoughts--some old, long-buried thoughts, of which they were the
guardians; and I often saw how my old grandmother would rise from her
everlasting knitting, and come to father as he sat among us thus
abstracted, scarce remarking that mother, Lorand, and I were beside him,
caressing and pestering him; she would kiss his forehead, and his
countenance would seem to change in a moment: he would become more
affectionate, and begin to converse with us; thereupon grandmother would
kiss him afresh and return to her knitting.

It is only now that I recall all these incidents. At that time I found
nothing remarkable in them.

One evening our whole family circle was surprised by the unusually good
humor that had come over father. To each one of us he was very tender,
very affectionate; entered into a long conversation with Lorand, asked
him of his school-work, imparted to him information on subjects of which
as yet he had but a faulty knowledge; took me on his knee and smoothed
my head; addressed questions to me in Latin, and praised me for
answering them correctly; kissed our dear mother more than once, and
after supper was over related merry tales of the old days. When we began
to laugh at them, he laughed too. It was such a pleasure to me to have
seen my father laugh once. It was such a novel sensation that I almost
trembled with joy.

Only our old grandmother remained serious. The brighter father's face
became, the more closely did those white eyebrows contract. Not for a
single moment did she take her eyes off father's face; and, as often as
he looked at her with his merry, smiling countenance, a cold shudder ran
through her ancient frame. Nor could she let father's unusual gayety
pass without comment.

"How good-humored you are to-day, my son!"

"To-morrow I shall take the children to the country," he answered; "the
prospect of that has always been a source of great joy to me."

We were to go to the country! The words had a pleasant sound for us
also. We ran to father, to kiss him for his kindness; how happy he had
made us by this promise! His face showed that he knew it well.

"Now you must go to bed early, so as not to oversleep in the morning;
the carriage will be here at daybreak."

To go to bed is only too easy, but to fall asleep is difficult when one
is still a child, and has received a promise of being taken to the
country. We had a beautiful and pleasant country property, not far from
town; my brother was as fond as I was of being there. Mother and
grandmother never came with us. Why, we knew not; they said they did not
like the country. We were indeed surprised at this. Not to like the
country--to wander in the fields, on flowery meadows; to breathe the
precious perfumed air; to gather round one the beautiful, sagacious, and
useful domestic animals? Can there be any one in the world who does not
love that? Child, I know there is none.

My brother was all excitement for the chase. How he would enter forest
and reeds! what beautiful green-necked wild duck he would shoot. How
many multi-colored birds' eggs he would bring home to me.

"I will go with you, too," I said.

"No; some ill might befall you. You can remain at home in the garden to
angle in the brook, and catch tiny little fishes."

"And we shall cook them for dinner." What a splendid idea! Long, long we
remained awake; first Lorand, then I, was struck by some idea which had
to be mentioned; and so each prevented the other from sleeping. Oh! how
great the gladness that awaited us on the morrow!

Late in the night a noise as of fire arms awoke me. It is true that I
always dreamed of guns. I had seen Lorand at the chase, and feared he
would shoot himself.

"What have you shot, Lorand?" I asked half asleep.

"Remain quite still," said my brother, who was lying in the bed near me,
and had risen at the noise. "I shall see what has happened outside."
With these words he went out.

Several rooms divided our bedroom from that of our parents. I heard no
sound except the opening of doors here and there.

Soon Lorand returned. He told me merely to sleep on peacefully--a high
wind had risen and had slammed to a window that had remained open; the
glass was all broken into fragments; that had caused the great noise.

And therewith he proceeded to dress.

"Why are you dressing?"

"Well, the broken window must be mended with something to prevent the
draught coming in; it is in mother's bedroom. You can sleep on
peacefully."

Then he placed his hand on my head, and that hand was like ice.

"Is it cold outside, Lorand?"

"No."

"Then why does your hand tremble so?"

"True; it is very cold. Sleep on, little Desi."

As he went out he left an intermediate door open for a moment; and in
that moment the sound of mother's laughter reached my ears. That
well-known ringing sweet voice, that indicates those _naive_ women who
among their children are themselves the greatest children.

What could cause mother to laugh so loudly at this late hour of the
night? Because the window was broken? At that time I did not yet know
that there is a horrible affliction which attacks women with agonies of
hell, and amidst these heart-rending agonies forces them to laugh
incessantly.

I comforted myself with what my brother had said, and forcibly buried my
head in my pillow that I might compel myself to fall asleep.

It was already late in the morning when I awoke again. This time also my
brother had awakened me. He was already quite dressed.

My first thought was of our visit to the country.

"Is the carriage already here? Why did you not wake me earlier? Why, you
are actually dressed!"

I also immediately hastened to get up, and began to dress; my brother
helped me, and answered not a word to my constant childish prattling. He
was very serious, and often gazed in directions where there was nothing
to be seen.

"Some one has annoyed you, Lorand?"

My brother did not reply, only drew me to his side and combed my hair.
He gazed at me incessantly with a sad expression.

"Has some evil befallen you, Lorand?"

No sign, even of the head, of assent or denial; he merely tied my
neckerchief quietly into a bow.

We disputed over the coat I should wear; I wished to put on a blue one.
Lorand, on the contrary, wished me to wear a dark green one.

I resisted him.

"Why, we are going to the country! There the blue doublet will be just
the thing. Why don't you give it to me? Because you have none like it!"

Lorand said nothing; he merely looked at me with those great reproachful
eyes of his. It was enough for me. I allowed him to dress me in the dark
green coat. And yet I would continually grumble about it.

"Why, you are dressing me as if we were to go to an examination or to a
funeral."

At these words Lorand suddenly pressed me to him, folding me in his
embrace, then knelt down before me and began to weep, and sob so that
his tears bedewed my hair.

"Lorand, what is the matter?" I asked in terror; but he could not speak
for weeping. "Don't weep, Lorand. Did I annoy you? Don't be angry."

Long did he weep, all the time holding me in his arms. Then suddenly he
heaved a deep and terrifying sigh, and in a low voice stammered in my
ear:

"Father--is--dead."

I was one of those children who could not weep; who learn that only with
manhood. At such a time when I should have wept, I only felt as if some
worm were gnawing into my heart, as if some languor had seized me, which
deprived me of all feeling expressed by the five senses--my brother wept
for me. Finally, he kissed me and begged me to recover myself. But I was
not beside myself. I saw and heard everything. I was like a log of wood,
incapable of any movement.

It was unfortunate that I was not gifted with the power of showing how I
suffered.

But my mind could not fathom the depths of that thought. Our father was
dead!

Yesterday evening he was still talking with us; embracing and kissing
us; he had promised to take us to the country, and to-day he was not: he
was dead. Quite incomprehensible! In my childhood I had often racked my
brains with the question, "What is there beyond the world?" Void. Well,
and what surrounds that void? Many times this distracting thought drove
me almost to madness. Now this same maddening dilemma seized upon me.
How could it be that my father was dead?

"Let us go to mother!" was my next thought.

"We shall go soon after her. She has already departed."

"Whither?"

"To the country."

"But, why?"

"Because she is ill."

"Then why did she laugh so in the night?"

"Because she is ill."

This was still more incomprehensible to my poor intellect.

A thought then occurred to me. My face became suddenly brighter.

"Lorand, of course you are joking; you are fooling me. You merely wished
to alarm me. We are all going away to the country to enjoy ourselves!
and you only wished to take the drowsiness from my eyes when you told me
father was dead."

At these words Lorand clasped his hands, and, with motionless, agonized
face, groaned out:

"Desi, don't torture me; don't torture me with your smiling face."

This caused me to be still more alarmed. I began to tremble, seized one
of his arms, and implored him not to be angry. Of course, I believed
what he said.

He could see that I believed, for all my limbs were trembling.

"Let us go to him, Lorand."

My brother merely gazed at me as if he were horrified at what I had
said.

"To father?"

"Yes. What if I speak to him, and he awakes?"

At this suggestion Lorand's two eyes became like fire. It seems as if he
were forcibly holding back the rush of a great flood of tears. Then
between his teeth he murmured:

"He will never awake again."

"Yet I would like to kiss him."

"His hand?"

"His hand and his face."

"You may kiss only his hand," said my brother firmly.

"Why?"

"Because I say so," was his stern reply. The unaccustomed ring of his
voice was quite alarming. I told him I would obey him; only let him take
me to father.

"Well, come along. Give me your hand."

Then taking my hand, he led me through two rooms.[2] In the third,
grandmother met us.

[Footnote 2: In Hungary the houses are built so that one room always
leads into the other; the whole house can often be traversed without the
necessity of going into a corridor or passage.]

I saw no change in her countenance; only her thick white eyebrows were
deeply contracted.

Lorand went to her and softly whispered something to her which I did not
hear; but I saw plainly that he indicated me with his eyes. Grandmother
quietly indicated her consent or refusal with her head; then she came to
me, took my head in her two hands, and looked long into my face, moving
her head gently. Then she murmured softly:

"Just the way _he_ looked as a child."

Then she threw herself face foremost upon the floor, sobbing bitterly.

Lorand seized my hand and drew me with him into the fourth room.

There lay the coffin. It was still open; only the winding-sheet covered
the whole.

Even to-day I have no power to describe the coffin in which I saw my
father. Many know what that is; and no one would wish to learn from me.
Only an old serving-maid was in the chamber; no one else was watching.
My brother pressed my head to his bosom. And so we stood there a long
time.

Suddenly my brother told me to kiss my father's hand, and then we must
go. I obeyed him; he raised the edge of the winding-sheet; I saw two
wax-like hands put together; two hands in which I could not have
recognized those strong muscular hands, upon the shapely fingers of
which in my younger days I had so often played with the wonderful
signet-rings, drawing them off one after the other.

I kissed both hands. It was such a pleasure! Then I looked at my brother
with agonized pleading. I longed so to kiss the face. He understood my
look and drew me away.

"Come with me. Don't let us remain longer." And that was such terrible
agony to me! My brother told me to wait in my room, and not to move from
it until he had ordered the carriage which was to take us away.

"Whither?" I asked.

"Away to the country. Remain here and don't go anywhere else." And to
keep me secure he locked the door upon me.

Then I fell a-thinking. Why should we go to the country now that our
father was lying dead? Why must I remain meanwhile in that room? Why do
none of our acquaintances come to see us? Why do those who go about the
house whisper so quietly? Why do they not toll the bell when so great a
one lies dead in the house?

All this distracted my brain entirely. To nothing could I give myself an
answer, and no one came to me from whom I could have demanded the truth.

Once, not long after (to me it seemed an age, though, if the truth be
known, it was probably only a half-hour or so), I heard the old
serving-maid, who had been watching in yonder chamber, tripping past the
corridor window. Evidently some one else had taken her place.

Her face was now as indifferent as it always was. Her eyes were cried
out; but I am sure I had seen her weep every day, whether in good or in
bad humor; it was all one with her. I addressed her through the window:

"Aunt Susie, come here."

"What do you want, dear little Desi?"

"Susie, tell me truly, why am I not allowed to kiss my father's face?"

The old servant shrugged her shoulders, and with cynical indifference
replied:

"Poor little fool. Why, because--because he has no head, poor fellow."

I did not dare to tell my brother on his return what I had heard from
old Susie.

I told him it was the cold air, when he asked why I trembled so.

Thereupon he merely put my overcoat on, and said, "Let us go to the
carriage."

I asked him if our grandmother was not coming with us. He replied that
she would remain behind. We two took our seats in one carriage; a second
was waiting before the door.

To me the whole incident seemed as a dream. The rainy, gloomy weather,
the houses that flew past us, the people who looked wonderingly out of
the windows, the one or two familiar faces that passed us by, and in
their astonished gaze upon us forgot to greet us. It was as if each one
of them asked himself: "Why has the father of these boys no head?" Then
the long poplar-trees at the end of the town, so bent by the wind as if
they were bowing their heads under the weight of some heavy thought; and
the murmuring waves under the bridge, across which we went, murmuring as
if they too were taking counsel over some deep secret, which had so oft
been intrusted to them, and which as yet no one had discovered--why was
it that some dead people had no heads? Something prompted me so, to turn
with this awful question to my brother. I overcame the demon, and did
not ask him. Often children, who hold pointed knives before their eyes,
or look down from a high bridge into the water, are told, "Beware, or
the devil will push you." Such was my feeling in relation to this
question. In my hand was the handle, the point was in my heart. I was
sitting upon the brim, and gazing down into the whirlpool. Something
called upon me to thrust myself into the living reality, to lose my head
in it. And yet I was able to restrain myself. During the whole journey
neither my brother nor I spoke a word.

When we arrived at our country-house our physician met us, and told us
that mother was even worse than she had been; the sight of us would
only aggravate her illness; so it would be good for us to remain in our
room.

Our grandmother arrived two hours after us. Her arrival was the signal
for a universal whispering among the domestics, as if they would make
ready for something extraordinary which the whole world must not know.
Then we sat down to dinner quite unexpectedly, far earlier than usual.
No one could eat; we only gazed at each course in turn. After dinner my
brother in his turn began to hold a whispered conference with
grandmother. As far as I could gather from the few words I caught, they
were discussing whether he should take his gun with him or not. Lorand
wished to take it, but grandmother objected. Finally, however, they
agreed that he should take gun and cartridges, but should not load the
weapon until he saw a necessity for it.

In the mean while I staggered about from room to room. It seemed as if
everybody had considerations of more importance than that of looking
after me.

In the afternoon, however, when I saw my brother making him ready for a
journey, despair seized hold of me:

"Take me with you."

"Why, you don't even know where I am going."

"I don't mind; I will go anywhere, only take me with you; for I cannot
remain all by myself."

"Well, I will ask grandmother."

My brother exchanged a few words with my grandmother, and then came back
to me.

"You may come with me. Take your stick and coat."

He slung his gun on his shoulder and took his dog with him.

Once again this thought agonized me afresh: "Father is dead, and we go
for an afternoon's shooting, with grandmother's consent as if nothing
had happened."

We went down through the gardens, all along the loam-pits; my brother
seemed to be choosing a route where we should meet with no one. He kept
the dog on the leash to prevent its wandering away. We went a long way,
roaming among maize-fields and shrubs, without the idea once occurring
to Lorand to take the gun down from his shoulder. He kept his eyes
continually on the ground, and would always silence the dog, when the
animal scented game.

Meantime we had left the village far behind us. I was already quite
tired out, and yet I did not utter a syllable to suggest our returning.
I would rather have gone to the end of the world than return home.

It was already twilight when we reached a small poplar wood. Here my
brother suggested a little rest. We sat down side by side on the trunk
of a felled tree. Lorand offered me some cakes he had brought in his
wallet for me. How it pained me that he thought I wanted anything to
eat. Then he threw the cake to the hound. The hound picked it up and,
disappearing behind the bushes, we heard him scratch on the ground as he
buried it. Not even he wanted to eat. Next we watched the sunset. Our
village church-tower was already invisible, so far had we wandered, and
yet I did not ask whether we should return.

The weather became suddenly gloomy; only after sunset did the clouds
open, that the dying sun might radiate the heavens with its
storm-burdened red fire. The wind suddenly rose. I remarked to my
brother that an ugly wind was blowing, and he answered that it was good
for us. How this great wind could be good for us, I was unable to
discover.

When later the heavens gradually changed from fire red to purple, from
purple to gray, from gray to black, Lorand loaded his gun, and let the
hound loose. He took my hand. I must now say not a single word, but
remain motionless. In this way we waited long that boisterous night.

I racked my brain to discover the reason why we were there.

On a sudden our hound began to whine in the distance--such a whine as I
had never yet heard.

Some minutes later he came reeling back to us; whimpering and whining,
he leaped up at us, licked our hands, and then raced off again.

"Now let us go," said Lorand, shouldering his gun.

Hurriedly we followed the hound's track, and soon came out upon the
high-road.

In the gloom a hay-cart drawn by four oxen, was quietly making its way
to its destination.

"God be praised!" said the old farm-laborer, as he recognized my
brother.

"For ever and ever."

After a slight pause my brother asked him if there was anything wrong?

"You needn't fear, it will be all right."

Thereupon we quietly sauntered along behind the hay-wagon.

My brother uncovered his head, and so proceeded on his way bareheaded;
he said he was very warm. We walked silently for a distance until the
old laborer came back to us.

"Not tired, Master Desi?" he asked; "you might take a seat on the cart."

"What are you thinking of, John?" said Lorand; "on this cart?"

"True; true, indeed," said the aged servant. Then he quietly crossed
himself, and went forward to the oxen.

When we came near the village, old John again came toward us.

"It will be better now if the young gentlemen go home through the
gardens; it will be much easier for me to get through the village
alone."

"Do you think they are still on guard?" asked Lorand.

"Of course they know already. One cannot take it amiss; the poor fellows
have twice in ten years had their hedges broken down by the hail."

"Stupidity!" answered my brother.

"May be," sighed the old serving-man. "Still the poor man thinks so."

Lorand nudged the old retainer so that he would not speak before me.

My brain became only more confused thereat.

Lorand told him that we would soon pass through the gardens; however,
after John had advanced a good distance with the cart we followed in his
tracks again, keeping steadily on until we came to the first row of
houses beginning the village. Here my brother began to thread his way
more cautiously, and in the dark I heard distinctly the click of the
trigger as he cocked his gun.

The cart proceeded quietly before us to the end of the long village
street.

Above the workhouse about six men armed with pitchforks met us.

My brother said we must make our way behind a hedge, and bade me hold
our dog's mouth lest he should bark when the others passed.

The pitchforked guards passed near the cart, and advanced before us too.
I heard how the one said to the other:

"Faith, _that_ is the reason this cursed wind is blowing so furiously!"

"_That_" was the reason! What was the reason?

As they passed, my brother took my hand and said: "Now let us hasten,
that we may be home before the wagon."

Therewith he ran with me across a long cottage-court, lifted me over a
hedge, climbing after me himself; then through two or three more strange
gardens, everywhere stepping over the hedges; and at last we reached our
own garden.

But, in Heaven's name, had we committed some sin, that we ran thus,
skulking from hiding-place to hiding-place?

As we reached the courtyard, the wagon was just entering. Three
retainers waited for it in the yard, and immediately closed the gate
after it.

Grandmother stood outside on the terrace and kissed us when we arrived.

Again there followed a short whispering between my brother and the
domestics; whereupon the latter seized pitchforks and began to toss down
the hay from the wain.

Could they not do so by daylight?

Grandmother sat down on a bench on the terrace, and drew my head to her
bosom. Lorand leaned his elbows upon the rail of the terrace and watched
the work.

The hay was tossed into a heap and the high wind drove the chaff on to
the terrace, but no one told the servants to be more careful.

This midnight work was, for me, so mysterious.

Only once I saw that Lorand turned round as he stood, and began to weep;
thereupon grandmother rose, and they fell each upon the other's breast.

I clutched their garments and gazed up at them trembling. Not a single
lamp burned upon the terrace.

"Sh!" whispered grandmother, "don't weep so loudly," she was herself
choking with sobs. "Come, let us go."

With that she took my hand, and, leaning upon my brother's arm, came
down with us into the courtyard, down to the wagon, which stood before
the garden gate. Two or more heaps of straw hid _it_ from the eye; it
was visible only when we reached the bottom of the wagon.

On that wagon lay the coffin of my father.

So this it was that in the dead of night we had stealthily brought into
the village, that we had in so skulking a manner escorted, and had so
concealed; and of which we had spoken in whispers. This it was that we
had wept over in secret--my father's coffin. The four retainers lifted
it from the wagon, then carried it on their shoulders toward the garden.
We went after it, with bared heads and silent tongues.

A tiny rivulet flowed through our garden; near this rivulet was a
little round building, whose gaudy door I had never seen open.

From my earliest days, when I was unable to rise from the ground if once
I sat down, the little round building had always been in my mind.

I had always loved it, always feared to be near it; I had so longed to
know what might be within it. As a little knickerbockered child I would
pick the colored gravel-stones from the mortar, and play with them in
the dust; and if perchance one stone struck the iron door, I would run
away from the echo the blow produced.

In my older days it was again only around this building that I would
mostly play, and would remark that upon its facade were written great
letters, on which the ivy, that so actively clambered up the walls,
scarcely grew. At that time how I longed to know what those letters
could mean!

When the first holiday after I had made the acquaintance of those
letters came, and they took me again to our country-seat, one after
another I spelled out the ancient letters of the inscription on that
mysterious little house, and pieced them together in my mind. But I
could not arrive at their meaning; for they were written in some foreign
tongue.

Many, many times I wrote those words in the dust even before I
understood them:

"NE NOS INDUCAS IN TENTATIONEM."

I strove to reach one year earlier than my school-fellows the so-called
"student class," where Latin was taught.

My most elementary acquaintance with the Latin tongue had always for its
one aim the discovery of the meaning of that saying. Finally I solved
the mystery--

"Lead us not into temptation." It is a sentence of the Lord's Prayer,
which I myself had repeated a thousand times; and now I knew its
meaning still less than before.

And still more began to come to me a kind of mysterious abhorrence of
that building, above whose door was to be found the prayer that God
might guard us against temptations.

Perhaps this was the very dwelling of temptations?

We know what children understand by "temptations."

To-day I saw this door open, and knew that this building was our family
vault.

This door, which hitherto I had only seen covered with ivy, was now
swung open, and through the open porch glittered the light of a lamp.
The two great Virginia creepers which were planted before the crypt hid
the glass so that it was not visible from the garden. The brightness was
only for us.

The four men set the coffin down on the steps; we followed after it.

So this was that house where temptations dwell; and all our prayers were
in vain; "lead us not into temptation." Yet to temptation we were forced
to come. Down a few steps we descended, under a low, plastered arch,
which glittered green from the moisture of the earth. In the wall were
built deep niches, four on either side, and six of them were already
filled. Before them stood slabs of marble, with inscriptions telling of
those who had fallen asleep. The four servants placed the coffin they
had brought on their shoulders in the seventh niche; then the aged
retainer clasped his hands, and with simple devotion repeated the Lord's
Prayer; the other three men softly murmured after him: "Amen. Amen."

Then they left us to ourselves.

Grandmother all this while had without a word, without a movement, stood
in the depth of the crypt, holding our hands within her own; but when we
were alone, in a frenzy she darted to the coffined niche and flung
herself to the ground before it.

Oh! I cannot tell what she said as she raved there. She wept and
sobbed, flinging reproaches--at the dead! She scolded, as one reproves a
child that has cut itself with a knife. She asked why he did _this_. And
again she heaped grave calumny upon him, called him coward, wretch,
threatened him with God, with God's wrath, and with eternal
damnation;--then asked pardon of him, babbled out words of conciliation,
called him back, called him dear, sweet, and good; related to him what a
faithful, dear, loving wife waited at home, with his two sweet
children,--how could he forget them? Then with gracious, reverent words
begged him to turn Christian, to come to God, to learn to believe, to
hope, to love; to trust to the boundless mercy; to take his rest in the
paths of Heaven. And then she uttered a scream, tore the tresses of her
dove-white hair, and cursed God. Methought it was the night of the Last
Judgment.

Every fire-breathing monster of the Revelation, the very disgorging of
the dead from the rent earth, were as naught to me compared with the
terror which that hour heaped upon my head.

'Twas hither we had brought father, who died suddenly, in the prime of
life. Hither we had brought him, in stealth, and slinking; here we had
concealed him without any Christian ceremony, without psalm or toll of
bell; no priest's blessing followed him to his grave, as it follows even
the poorest beggar; and now here, in the house of the dead, grandmother
had cursed the departed, and anathematized the other world, on whose
threshold we stand, and in her mad despair was knocking at the door of
the mysterious country as she beat upon the coffin-lid with her fist.

Now, in my mature age, when my head, too, is almost covered with
winter's snow, I see that our presence there was essential; drop by drop
we were to drain to the dregs this most bitter cup, which I would had
never fallen to our lot!

Grandmother fell down before the niche and laid her forehead upon the
coffin's edge; her long white hair fell trailing over her.

Long, very long, she lay, and then she rose; her face was no more
distorted, her eyes no longer filled with tears. She turned toward us
and said we should remain a little longer here.

She herself sat down upon the lowest step of the stone staircase, and
placed the lamp in front of her, while we two remained standing before
her.

She looked not at us, only peered intensely and continuously with her
large black eyes into the light of the lamp, as if she would conjure
therefrom something that had long since passed away.

All at once she seized our hands, and drew us toward her to the
staircase.

"You are the scions of a most unhappy house, every member of which dies
by his own hand."

So this was that secret that hung, like a veil of mourning before the
face of every adult member of our family! We continuously saw our elders
so, as if some mist of melancholy moved between us; and this was that
mist.

"This was the doom of God, a curse of man upon us!" continued
grandmother, now no longer with terrifying voice. Besides, she spoke as
calmly as if she were merely reciting to us the history of some strange
family. "Your great-grandfather. Job Aronffy, he who lies in the first
niche, bequeathed this terrible inheritance to his heirs; and it was a
brother's hand that hurled this curse at his head. Oh, this is an
unhappy earth on which we dwell! In other happy lands there are
murderous quarrels between man and man; brothers part in wrath from one
another; the 'mine and thine,'[3] jealousy, pride, envy, sow tares among
them. But this accursed earth of ours ever creates bloodshed; this
damned soil, which we are wont to call our 'dear homeland,' whose pure
harvest we call love of home, whose tares we call treason, while every
one thinks his own harvest the pure one, his brother's the tares, and,
for that, brother slays brother! Oh! you cannot understand it yet.

[Footnote 3: That is, the disputes as to the superiority of each other's
possessions, or as to each other's right to possession.]

"Your great-grandfather lived in those days when great men thought that
what is falling in decay must be built afresh. Great contention arose
therefrom, much knavery, much disillusion; finally the whole had to be
wiped out.

"Job's parents educated him at academies in Germany; there his soul
became filled with foreign freedom of thought; he became an enthusiastic
partisan of common human liberty. When he returned, this selfsame idea
was in strife with an equally great one, national feeling. He joined his
fortunes with the former idea, as he considered it the just one. In what
patriots called relics of antiquity he saw only the vices of the
departed. His elder brother stood face to face with him; they met on the
common field of strife, and then began between them the unending feud.
They had been such good brothers, never had they deserted each other in
time of trouble; and on this thorn-covered field they must swear eternal
enmity. Your great-grandfather belonged to the victorious, his brother
to the conquered army. But the victory was not sweet.

"Job gained a powerful, high position, he basked in the sunshine of
power, but he lost that which was--nothing; merely the smiles of his old
acquaintances. He was a seigneur, from afar they greeted him, but did
not hurry to take his hand; and those who of yore at times of meeting
would kiss his face from right and left, now after his change of dignity
would stand before him, and bow their greetings askance with cold
obeisance. Then there was one man who did not even bow, but sought a
meeting only that he might provoke him with his obstinate sullenness,
and gaze upon him with his piercing eyes--his own brother. Yet they were
both honorable, good men, true Christians, benefactors of the poor, the
darlings of their family, and once so fond of each other! Oh, this
sorrowful earth here below us!

"Then this new order of things that had been built up for ten years,
fell into ruins, and Joseph II. on his death-bed drew a red line through
his whole life-work; what had happened till then faded into mere
remembrance.

"The earth re-echoed with the shouts of rejoicing--this earth, this
bitter earth. Job for his part wended his way to the Turkish bath in
Buda, and, that he might meet with his brother no more, opened his
arteries and bled to death.

"Yet they were both good Christians; true men in life, faithful to
honor, no evil-doers, no godless men; in heart and deed they worshipped
God; but still the one brother took his own life, that he might meet no
more with the other; and the other said of him: 'He deserved his fate.'

"Oh, this earth that is drenched with the flow of our tears!"

Here grandmother paused, as if she would collect in her mind the
memories of a greater and heavier affliction.

Not a sound reached us down there--even the crypt door was closed; the
moaning of the wind did not reach so far; no sound, only the beating of
the hearts of three living beings.

Grandmother sought with her eyes the date written upon the arch, which
the moisture that had sweated out from the lime had rendered illegible.

"In this year they built this house of sorrow. Job was the first
inhabitant thereof. Just as now, without priest, without toll of bell,
hidden in a wooden chest of other form, they brought him here; and with
him began that melancholy line of victims, whose legacy was that one
should draw the other after him. The shedding of blood by one's own hand
is a terrible legacy. That blood besprinkles children and brothers. That
malicious tempter who directed the father's hand to strike the sharp
knife home into his own heart stands there in ambush forever behind his
successors' backs; he is ever whispering to them; 'Thy father was a
suicide, thy brother himself sought out death; over thy head, too,
stands the sentence; wherever thou runnest from before it, thou canst
not save thyself; thou carriest with thyself thy own murderer in thine
own right hand.' He tempts and lures the undecided ones with blades
whetted to brilliancy, with guns at full cock, with poison-drinks of
awful hue, with deep-flowing streams. Oh, it is indeed horrible!

"And nothing keeps them back! they never think of the love, the
everlasting sorrow of those whom they leave behind here to sorrow over
their melancholy death. They never think of Him whom they will meet
there beyond the grave, and who will ask them: 'Why did you come before
I summoned you?'

"In vain was written upon the front of this house of sorrow, 'Lead us
not into temptation.' You can see. Seven have already taken up their
abode here. All the seven have cast at the feet of Providence that
treasure, an account of which will be asked for in Heaven.

"Job left three children: Akos, Geroe, and Kalman. Akos was the eldest,
and he married earliest. He was a good man, but thoughtless and
passionate. One summer he lost his whole fortune at cards and was
ruined. But even poverty did not drive him to despair. He said to his
wife and children: 'Till now we were our own masters; now we shall be
the servants of others. Labor is not a disgrace. I shall go and act as
steward to some landowner.' The other two brothers, when they heard of
their elder's misfortune, conferred together, went to him, and said:
'Brother, still two-thirds of our father's wealth is left; come, let us
divide it anew.'

"And each of them gave him a third of his property, that they might be
on equal terms again.

"That night Akos shot himself in the head.

"The stroke of misfortune he could bear, but the kindness of his
brothers set him so against himself that when he was freed from the
cares of life he did not wish to know further the enjoyments thereof.

"Akos left behind two children, a girl and a boy.

"The girl had lived some sixteen summers--very beautiful, very good.
Look! there is her tomb: 'Struck down in her sixteenth year!' She loved;
became unhappy; and died.

"You cannot understand it yet!

"So already three lay in the solitary vault.

"Geroe was your grandfather--my good, never-to-be-forgotten husband. No
tear wells in my eyes as I think of him; every thought that leads me
back to him is sweet to me; and I know that he was a man of high
principles; that every deed of his--his last deed, too--was proper and
right, it is as it should be. It happened before my very eyes; and I did
not seize his hand to stay his action."

How my old grandmother's eyes flashed in this moment! A glowing warmth,
hitherto unknown to me, seemed to pervade my whole being; some
glimmering ray of enthusiasm--I knew not what! How the dead can inspire
one with enthusiasm!

"Your grandfather was the very opposite of his own father; as it is
likely to happen in hundreds, nay, in thousands of cases that the sons
restore to the East the fame and glory that their fathers gathered in
the West.

"But you don't understand that, either!

"Geroe was in union with those who, under the leadership of a priest of
high rank, wished at the end of the last century, to prepare the country
for another century. No success crowned their efforts; they fell with
him--and fell without a head. One afternoon your grandfather was sitting
in the family circle--it was toward the end of dinner--when a strange
officer entered in the midst of us, and, with a face utterly incapable
of an expression of remorse, informed Geroe that he had orders to put him
under guard. Geroe displayed a calm face, merely begged the stranger to
allow him to drink his black coffee. His request was granted without
demur. My husband calmly stirred his coffee, and entered into
conversation with the stranger, who did not seem to be of an angry
disposition. Indeed, he assured my husband that no harm would come of
this incident. My husband peacefully sipped his coffee.

"Then having finished it, he put down his cup, wiped his beautiful long
beard, turned to me, drew me to his breast, and kissed me on both
cheeks, not touching my mouth. 'Educate our boy well,' he stammered.
Then, turning to the stranger: 'Sir, pray do not trouble yourself
further on my account. I am a dead man; you will be welcome at my
funeral.'

"Two minutes later he breathed his last. And I had clearly seen, for I
sat beside him, how with his thumb he opened the seal of the ring he
wore on his little finger, how he shook a white powder therefrom into
the cup standing before him, how he stirred it slowly till it dissolved,
and then sipped it up little by little; but I could not stay his hand,
could not call to him, 'Don't do it! Cling to life!'"

Grandmother was staring before her, with the ecstatic smile of madness.
Oh! I was so frightened that even now my mind wanders at the
remembrance.

This smile of madness is so contagious! Slowly nodding with her gray
head, she again fell all in a heap. It was apparent that some time must
elapse before this recollection, once risen in her mind, could settle to
rest again. After what seemed to us hours she slowly raised herself
again and continued her tragic narrative.

"He was already the fourth dweller in this house of temptations.

"After his death his brother Kalman came to join our circle. To the end
he remained single; very early in life he was deceived, and from that
moment became a hater of mankind.

"His gloom grew year by year more incurable; he avoided every
distraction, every gathering; his favorite haunt was this garden--this
place here. He planted the beautiful juniper-trees before the door;
such trees were in those days great rarities.

"He made no attempt to conceal from us--in fact, he often declared
openly to us that his end could be none other than his brothers' had
been.

"The pistol, with which Akos had shot himself, he kept by him as a
souvenir, and in sad jest declared it was his inheritance.

"Here he would wander for hours together in reverie, in melancholy,
until the falling snow confined him to his room. He detested the winter
greatly. When the first snowflake fell, his ill-humor turned to the
agony of despair; he loathed the atmosphere of his rooms and everything
to be found within the four walls. We so strongly advised him to winter
in Italy, that he finally gave in to the proposal. We carefully packed
his trunks; ordered his post-chaise. One morning, as everything stood
ready for departure, he said that, before going for this long journey,
he would once again take leave of his brothers. In his travelling-suit
he came down here to the vault, and closed the iron door after him,
enjoining that no one should disturb him. So we waited behind; and, as
hour after hour passed by and still he did not appear, we went after
him. We forced open the closed door, and there found him lying in the
middle of the tomb--he had gone to the country where there is no more
winter.

"He had shot himself in the heart, with the same pistol as his brother,
as he had foretold.

"Only two male members of the family remained: my son and the son of
Akos. Loerincz--that was the name of Akos' son--was reared too kindly by
his poor, good mother; she loved him excessively, and thereby spoiled
him. The boy became very fastidious and sensitive. He was eleven years
old when his mother noticed that she could not command his obedience.
Once the child played some prank, a mere trifle; how can a child of
eleven years commit any great offence? His mother thought she must
rebuke him. The boy laughed at the rebuke; he could not believe his
mother was angry; then, in consequence, his mother boxed his ears. The
boy left the room; behind the garden there was a fishpond; in that he
drowned himself.

"Well, is it necessary to take one's life for such a thing? For one
blow, given by the soft hand of a mother to a little child, to take such
a terrible revenge! to cut the thread of life, which as yet he knew not;
How many children are struck by a mother, and the next day received into
her bosom, with mutual forgiveness and a renewal of reciprocal love?
Why, a blow from a mother is merely one proof of a mother's love. But it
brought him to take his life."

The cold perspiration stood out in beads all over me.

That bitterness I, too, feel in myself. I also am a child, just as old
as that other was; I have never yet been beaten. Once my parents were
compelled to rebuke me for wanton petulance; and from head to foot I was
pervaded through and through by one raving idea: "If they beat me I
should take my own life." So I am also infected with the hereditary
disease--the awful spirit is holding out his hand over me; captured,
accursed, he is taking me with him. I am betrayed to him! Only instead
of thrashing me, they had punished me with fasting fare; otherwise, I
also should already be in this house.

Grandmother clasped her hands across her knees and continued her story.

"Your father was older at the time of this event--seventeen years of
age. Ever since his birth the world has been rife with discord and
revolutions; all the nations of the world pursued a bitter warfare one
against another. I scarce expected my only son would live to be old
enough to join the army. Thither, thither, where death with a scythe in
both hands was cutting down the ranks of the armed warriors; thither,
where the children of weeping mothers were being trampled on by horses'
hoofs; thither, thither, where they were casting into a common grave the
mangled remains of darling first-borns; only not hither, not into this
awful house, into these horrible ranks of tempting spectres! Yes, I
rejoiced when I knew that he was standing before the foe's cannons; and
when the news of one great conflict after another spread like a dark
cloud over the country, with sorrowful tranquillity, I lay in wait for
the lightning-stroke which, bursting from the cloud, should dart into my
heart with the news: 'Thy son is dead! They have slain him, as a hero is
slain!' But it was not so. The wars ceased. My son returned.

"No, it is not true; don't believe what I said,--'If only the news of
his death had come instead!'

"No; surely I rejoiced, surely I wept in my joy and happiness, when I
could clasp him anew in my arms, and I blessed God for not having taken
him away. Yet, why did I rejoice? Why did I triumph before the world,
saying, 'See, what a fine, handsome son I have! a dauntless warrior,
fame and honor he has brought home with him. My pride--my gladness? Now
they lie here! What did I gain with him--he, too, followed the rest! He,
too! he, whom I loved best of all--he whose every Paradise was here on
earth!"

My brother wept; I shivered with cold.

Then suddenly, like a lunatic, grandmother seized our hands, and leaped
up from her sitting-place.

"Look yonder! there is still _one_ empty niche--room for _one_ coffin.
Look well at that place; then go forth into the world and think upon
what the mouth of this dark hollow said.

"I had thought of making you swear here never to forsake God, never to
continue the misfortunes of this family; but why this oath? That some
one should take with him to the other world one sin more, in that in the
hour of his death he forswore himself? What oath would bind him who
says: 'The mercy of God I desire not'?

"But instead, I brought you here and related you the history of your
family. Later you shall know still more therefrom, that is yet secret
and obscure before you. Now look once more around you, and then--let us
go out.

"Now you know what is the meaning of this melancholy house, whose door
the ivy enters with the close of a man's life from time to time. You
know that the family brings its suicides hither to burial, because
elsewhere they have no place. But you know also that in this awful
sleeping-room there is space for only _one_ person more, and the second
will find no other resting-place than the grave-ditch!"

With these words grandmother passionately thrust us both from her. In
terror we fell into each other's arms before her frenzied gaze.

Then, with a shrill cry, she rushed toward us and embraced us both with
all the might of a lunatic; wept and gasped, till finally she fainted
utterly away.




CHAPTER II

THE GIRL SUBSTITUTE[4]


[Footnote 4: In former days it was the custom for a Magyar and a German
family to interchange children, with a view to their learning the two
languages perfectly. So Fanny Fromm is interchanged with Desiderius
Aronffy.]

A pleasant old custom was then in fashion in our town: the interchange
of children,--perhaps it is in fashion still. In our many-tongued
fatherland one town is German-speaking, the other Magyar-speaking, and,
being brothers, after all to understand each other was a necessity.
Germans must learn Magyar and Magyars, German. And peace is restored.

So a method of temporarily exchanging children grew up: German parents
wrote to Magyar towns, Magyar parents to German towns, to the respective
school directors, to ask if there were any pupils who could be
interchanged. In this manner one child was given for another, a kind,
gentle, womanly thought!

The child left home, father, mother, brother, only to find another home
among strangers: another mother, other brothers and sisters, and his
absence did not leave a void at home; child replaced child; and if the
adopted mother devoted a world of tenderness to the pilgrim, it was with
the idea that her own was being thus treated in the far distance; for a
mother's love cannot be bought at a price but only gained by love.

It was an institution that only a woman's thought could found: so
different from that frigid system invented by men which founded
nunneries, convents, and closed colleges for the benefit of susceptible
young hearts where all memory of family life was permanently wiped out
of their minds.

After that unhappy day, which, like the unmovable star, could never go
so far into the distance as to be out of sight, grandmother more than
once said to us in the presence of mother, that it would not be good for
us to remain in this town; we must be sent somewhere else.

Mother long opposed the idea. She did not wish to part from us. Yet the
doctors advised the same course. When the spasms seized her, for days we
were not allowed to visit her, as it made her condition far worse.

At last she gave her consent, and it was decided that we two should be
sent to Pressburg. My brother, who was already too old to be exchanged,
went to the home of a Privy Councillor, who was paid for taking him in,
and my place was to be taken by a still younger child than myself, by a
little German girl, Fanny, the daughter of Henry Fromm, baker.
Grandmother was to take us in a carriage--in those days in Hungary we
had only heard rumors of steamboats--and to bring the girl substitute
back with her.

For a week the whole household sewed, washed, ironed and packed for us;
we were supplied with winter and summer clothing: on the last day
provisions were prepared for our journey, as if we had intended to make
a voyage to the end of the world, and in the evening we took supper in
good time, that we might rise early, as we had to start before daybreak.
That was my first departure from my home. Many a time since then have I
had to say adieu to what was dearest to me; many sorrows, more than I
could express, have afflicted me: but that first parting caused me the
greatest pain of all, as is proved by the fact that after so long an
interval I remember it so well. In the solitude of my own chamber, I
bade farewell separately to all those little trifles that surrounded me:
God bless the good old clock that hast so oft awakened me. Beautiful
raven, whom I taught to speak and to say "Lorand," on whom wilt thou
play thy sportive tricks? Poor old doggy, maybe thou wilt not be living
when I return? Forsooth old Susie herself will say to me, "I shall never
see you again Master Desi." And till now I always thought I was angry
with Susie; but now I remark that it will be hard to leave her.

And my dear mother, the invalid, and grandmother, already so
grey-haired!

Thus the bitter strains swept onward along the strings of my soul, from
lifeless objects to living, from favorite animals to human
acquaintances, and then to those with whom we were bound soul to soul,
finally dragging one with them to the presence of the dead and buried. I
was sorely troubled by the thought that we were not allowed to enter,
even for one moment, that solitary house, round the door of which the
ivy was entwining anew. We might have whispered "God be with thee! I
have come to see thee!" I must leave the place without being able to say
to him a single word of love. And perhaps he would know without words.
Perhaps the only joy of that poor soul, who could not lie in a
consecrated chamber, who could not find the way to heaven because he had
not waited till the guardian angel came for him, was when he saw that
his sons love him still.

"Lorand, I cannot sleep, because I have not been able to take my leave
of that house beside the stream."

My brother sighed and turned in his bed.

My whole life long I have been a sound sleeper (what child is not?) but
never did it seem such a burden to rise as on the morning of our
departure. Two days later a strange child would be sleeping in that bed.
Once more we met together at breakfast, which we had to eat by
candle-light as the day had not yet dawned.

Dear mother often rose from her seat to kiss and embrace Lorand,
overwhelmed him with caresses, and made him promise to write much; if
anything happened to him, he must write and tell it at once, and must
always consider that bad news would afflict two hearts at home. She
only spoke to me to bid me drink my coffee warm, as the morning air
would be chilly.

Grandmother, too, concerned herself entirely with Lorand: they enquired
whether he had all he required for the journey, whether he had taken his
certificates with him--and a thousand other matters. I was rather
surprised than jealous at all this, for as a rule the youngest son gets
all the petting.

When our carriage drove up we took our travelling coats and said adieu
in turn to the household. Mother, leaning on Lorand's shoulder, came
with us to the gate whispering every kind of tender word to him; thrice
she embraced and kissed him. And then came my turn.

She embraced me and kissed me on the cheek, then tremblingly whispered
in my ear these words:

"My darling boy,--take care of your brother Lorand!" I take care of
Lorand? the child of the young man? the weak of the strong? the later
born guide the elder. The whole journey long this idea distracted me,
and I could not explain it to myself.

Of the impressions of the journey I retain no very clear recollections:
I think I slept very much in the carriage. The journey to Pressburg
lasted from early morning till late evening; only as twilight came on
did a new thought begin to keep me awake, a thought to which as yet I
had paid no attention: "What kind of a child could it be, for whom I was
now being exchanged? Who was to usurp my place at table, in my bed-room,
and in my mother's heart? Was she small or large? beautiful or ugly?
obedient or contrary? had she brothers or sisters, to whom I was to be a
brother? was she as much afraid of me as I was of her?"

For I was very much afraid of her.

Naturally, I dreaded the thought of the child who was meeting me at the
cross-roads with the avowed intention of taking my place as my mother's
child, giving me instead her own parents. Were they reigning princes,
still the loss would be mine. I confess that I felt a kind of sweet
bitterness in the idea that my substitute might be some dull, malicious
creature, whose actions would often cause mother to remember me. But if,
on the contrary, she were some quiet, angelic soul, who would soon steal
my mother's love from me! In every respect I trembled with fear of that
creature who had been born that she might be exchanged for me.

Towards evening grandmother told us that the town which we were going to
was visible. I was sitting with my back to the horses, and so I was
obliged to turn round in order to see. In the distance I could see the
four-columned white skeleton of a building, which was first apparent to
the eye.

"What a gigantic charnel-house," I remarked to grandmother.

"It is no charnel-house, my child, but it is the ruin of the citadel of
(Pressburg) Pozsony."[5]

[Footnote 5: Pozsony. A town in Hungary is called by the Germans
Pressburg.]

A curious ruin it is. This first impression ever remained in my mind: I
regarded it as a charnel-house.

It was quite late when we entered the town, which was very large
compared to ours. I had never seen such elegant display in shop-windows
before and it astonished me as I noticed that there were paved sidewalks
reserved for pedestrians. They must be all fine lords who live in this
city.

Mr. Fromm, the baker, to whose house I was to be taken, had informed us
that we need not go to an hotel as he had room for all of us, and would
gladly welcome us, especially as the expense of the journey was borne by
us. We found his residence by following the written address. He owned a
fine four-storied house in the Fuersten allee,[6] with his open shop in
front on the sign of which peaceful lions were painted in gold holding
rolls and cakes between their teeth.

[Footnote 6: Princes avenue.]

Mr. Fromm himself was waiting for us outside his shop door, and hastened
to open the carriage door himself. He was a round-faced, portly little
man, with a short black moustache, black eyebrows, and close-cropped,
thick, flour-white hair. The good fellow helped grandmother to alight
from the carriage: shook hands with Lorand, and began to speak to them
in German: when I alighted, he put his hand on my head with a peculiar
smile:

"Iste puer?"

Then he patted me on the cheeks.

"Bonus, bonus."

His addressing me in Latin had two advantages; firstly, as I could not
speak German, nor he Magyar, this use of a neutral tongue removed all
suspicions of our being deaf and dumb; secondly, it at once inspired me
with a genuine respect for the honest fellow, who had dabbled in the
sciences, and had, beyond his technical knowledge of his own business,
some acquaintance with the language of Cicero. Mr. Fromm made room for
grandmother and Lorand to pass before him up a narrow stone staircase,
while he kept his hand continuously on my head, as if that were the part
of me by which he could best hold me.

"Veni puer. Hic puer secundus, filius meus."

So there was a boy in the house, a new terror for me.

"Est studiosus."

What, that boy! That was good news: we could go to school together.

"Meus filius magnus asinus."

That was a fine acknowledgment from a father.

"Nescit pensum nunquam scit."

Then he discontinued to speak of the young student, and pantomimically
described something, from which I gathered that "meus filius," on this
occasion was condemned to starve, until he had learnt his lessons, and
was confined to his room.

This was no pleasant idea to me.

Well, and what about "mea filia?"

I had never seen a house that was like Mr. Fromm's inside. Our home was
only one-storied, with wide rooms, and broad corridors, a courtyard and
a garden: here we had to enter first by a narrow hall: then to ascend a
winding stair, that would not admit two abreast. Then followed a rapid
succession of small and large doors, so that when we came out upon the
balconied corridor, and I gazed down into the deep, narrow courtyard, I
could not at all imagine how I had reached that point, and still less
how I could ever find my way out. "Father" Fromm led us directly from
the corridor into the reception room, where two candles were burning
(two in our honor), and the table laid for "gouter." It seemed they had
expected us earlier. Two women were seated at the window, Mrs. Fromm and
her mother. Mrs. Fromm was a tall slender person; she had grey curls (I
don't know why I should not call them "Schneckles," for that is their
name) in front, large blue eyes, a sharp German nose, a prominent chin
and a wart below her mouth.

The "Gross-mamma" was the exact counterpart of Mrs. Fromm, only about
thirty years older, a little more slender, and sharper in feature: she
had also grey "Schneckles"--though I did not know until ten years later
that they were not her own:--she too had that wart, though in her case
it was on the chin.

In a little low chair was sitting that certain personage with whom they
wished to exchange me.

Fanny was my junior by a year:--she resembled neither father nor mother,
with the exception that the family wart, in the form of a little brown
freckle, was imprinted in the middle of her left cheek. During the whole
time that elapsed before our arrival here I had been filled with
prejudices against her, prejudices which the sight of her made only more
alarming. She had an ever-smiling, pink and white face, mischievous blue
eyes, and a curious snub-nose; when she smiled, little dimples formed in
her cheeks and her mouth was ever ready to laugh. When she did laugh,
her double row of white teeth sparkled; in a word she was as ugly as the
devil.

All three were busy knitting as we entered. When the door opened, they
all put down their knitting. I kissed the hands of both the elder
ladies, who embraced me in return, but my attention was entirely devoted
to the little lively witch, who did not wait a moment, but ran to meet
grandmother, threw herself upon her neck, and kissed her passionately;
then, bowing and curtseying before us, kissed Lorand twice, actually
gazing the while into his eyes.

A cold chill seized me. If this little snub-nosed devil dared to go so
far as to kiss me, I did not know what would become of me in my terror.

Yet I could not avoid this dilemma in any way. The terrible little
witch, having done with the others, rushed upon me, embraced me, and
kissed me so passionately that I was quite ashamed; then twining her arm
in mine, dragged me to the little arm-chair from which she had just
risen, and compelled me to sit down, though we could scarcely find room
in it for us both. Then she told many things to me in that unknown
tongue, the only result of which was to persuade me that my poor good
mother would have a noisy baggage to take the place of her quiet,
obedient little son; I felt sure her days would be embittered by that
restless tongue. Her mouth did not stop for one moment, yet I must
confess that she had a voice like a bell.

That was again a family peculiarity. Mother Fromm was endowed with an
inexhaustible store of that treasure called eloquence: and a sharp,
strong voice, too, which forbade the interruption of any one else, with
a flow like that of the purling stream. The grandmamma had an equally
generous gift, only she had no longer any voice: only every second word
was audible, like one of those barrel-organs, in which an occasional
note, instead of sounding, merely blows.

Our business was to listen quietly.

For my part, that was all the easier, as I could not suspect what was
the subject of this flow of barbarian words; all I understood was that,
when the ladies spoke to me, they addressed me as "Istok,"[7] a jest
which I found quite out of place, not knowing that it was the German for
"Why don't you eat?" For you must know the coffee was brought
immediately, with very fine little cakes, prepared especially for us
under the personal supervision of Father Fromm.

[Footnote 7: "Issdoch," the German for "but eat." (Why don't you eat?)
While Istok is a nickname for Stephan in Magyar.]

Even that little snub-nosed demon said "Issdoch," seized a cake, dipped
it in my coffee, and forcibly crammed it into my mouth, when I did not
wish to understand her words.

But I was not at all hungry. All kinds of things were brought onto the
table, but I did not want anything. Father Fromm kept calling out
continually in student guise "Comedi! Comedi!" a remark which called
forth indignant remonstrances from mamma and grossmamma; how could he
call his own dear "Kugelhuff"[8] a "comedy!!!"

[Footnote 8: A cake eaten everywhere in Hungary.]

Fanny in sooth required no coaxing. At first sight anyone could see that
she was the spoiled child of the family, to whom everything was allowed.
She tried everything, took a double portion of everything and only after
taking what she required did she ask "darf ich?"[9]--and I understood
immediately from the tone of her voice and the nodding of her head, that
she meant to ask "if she might."

[Footnote 9: i. e., darf ich, "may I?"]

Then instead of finishing her share she had the audacity to place her
leavings on my plate, an action which called forth rebuke enough from
Grossmamma. I did not understand what she said, but I strongly suspected
that she abused her for wishing to accustom the "new child" to eating a
great deal. Generally speaking, I had brought from home the suspicion
that, when two people were speaking German before me, they were surely
hatching some secret plot against me, the end of which would be, either
that I would not get something, or would not be taken somewhere, where
I wished to go.

I would not have tasted anything the little snub-nose gave me, if only
for the reason that it was she who had given it. How could she dare to
touch my plate with those dirty little hands of hers, that were just
like cats-paws?

Then she gave everything I would not accept to the little kitten;
however, the end of it all was, that she again turned to me, and asked
me to play with the kitten.

Incomprehensible audacity! To ask me, who was already a school-student,
to play with a tiny kitten.

"Shoo!" I said to the malicious creature; a remark which,
notwithstanding the fact that it seemed to belong to some
strange-tongued nationality, the animal understood, for it immediately
leaped down off the table and ran away. This caused the little snub-nose
to get angry with me, and she took her sensitive revenge upon me, by
going across to my grandmother, whom she tenderly caressed, kissing her
hand, and then nestled to her bosom, turning her back on me; once or
twice she looked back at me, and if at the moment my eye was on her,
sulkily flung back her head; as if that was any great misfortune to me.

Little imp! She actually occupied my place beside my grandmother--and
before my eyes too.

Well, and why did I gaze at her, if I was so very angry with her? I will
tell you truly; it was only that I might see to what extremes she would
carry her audacity. I would far rather have been occupied in the
fruitless task of attempting to discover something intelligent in a
conversation that was being carried on before me in a strange tongue: an
effort that is common to all men who have a grain of human curiosity
flowing in their veins, and that, as is well-known, always remains
unsuccessful.

Still one combination of mine did succeed. That name "Henrik"
often struck my ear. Father Fromm was called Henrik, but he
himself uttered the name: that therefore could not be other than
his son. My grandmother spoke of him in pitiful tones, whereas
Father Fromm assumed a look of inexorable severity, when he gave
information on this subject; and as he spoke I gathered frequently
the words "prosodia,"--"pensum"--"labor"--"vocabularium"--and
many other terms common to dog-Latin: among which words like
"secunda"--"tertia"--"carcer" served as a sufficiently trustworthy
compass to direct me to the following conclusion: My friend Henrik might
not put in an appearance to-day at supper, because he did not know his
lessons, and was to remain imprisoned in the house until he could
improve his standing by learning to repeat, in the language of a people
long since dead, the names of a host of eatables.

Poor Henrik!

I never had any patience with the idea of anyone's starving, and
moreover starving by way of punishment. I could understand anyone being
done to death at once: but the idea of condemning anyone in cold blood
to starve, to wrestle with his own body, to strive with his own heart
and stomach, I always regarded as cruelty. I deemed that if I took one
of those little cakes, which that audacious girl had piled up before me
so forcibly, and put it in my pocket, it would not be wasted.

I waited cautiously until nobody was looking my way, and then slipped
the cake into my pocket without accident.

Without accident? I only remarked it, when that little snub-nose laughed
to herself. Just at that moment she had squinted towards me. But she
immediately closed her mouth with her hand, giggling between her
fingers, the while her malicious, deceitful eyes smiled into mine. What
would she think? Perhaps that I am too great a coward to eat at table,
and too insatiable to be satisfied with what I received. Oh! how ashamed
I was before her! I would have been capable of any sacrifice to secure
her secrecy, perhaps even of kissing her, if she would not tell
anyone.... I was so frightened.

My fright was only increased by the grandmother, who first looked at the
cake-dish, and then looked at each plate on the table in turn,
subsequently resetting her gaze upon that cake-dish; then she gazed up
to the ceiling, as if making some calculation, which she followed up by
considerable shaking of her head.

Who could not understand that dumb speech? She had counted the cakes;
calculated how many each had devoured; how many had been put on the
dish, had added and subtracted, with the result that one cake was
missing: what had become of it? An inquisition would follow: the cake
would be looked for, and found in my pocket, and then no water could
ever wash away my shame.

Every moment I expected that little demoniacal curiosity to point to me
with that never-resting hand of hers, and proclaim: "there in the new
child's pocket is the cake."

She was already by my side, and I saw that father, mother and
Grandmother Fromm turned to me all with inquiring looks, and addressed
some terrible "interpellatio" to me, which I did not understand, but
could suspect what it was. And Lorand and grandmother did not come to my
aid to explain what it all meant.

Instead of which snub-nose swept up to me and, repeating the same
question, explained it by pantomimic gestures; laying one hand upon the
other, then placing her head upon them, gently closed her eyes.

Oh, she was asking, if I were sleepy? It was remarkable, how this
insufferable creature could make me understand everything.

Never did that question come more opportunely. I breathed more freely.
Besides, I made up my mind never to call her "snub-nose devil" any more.

Grandmother allowed me to go: little Fanny was to show me to my room: I
was to sleep with Henrik: I said good-night to all in turn, and so
distracted was I that I kissed even Fanny's hand. And the little bundle
of malice did not prevent me, she merely laughed at me for it.

This girl had surely been born merely to annoy me.

She took a candle in her hand and told me to follow her: she would lead
the way.

I obeyed her.

We had not quite reached the head of the corridor when the draught blew
out the candle.

We were in complete darkness, for there was no lamp burning here of an
evening on the staircase, only a red glimmer, reflected probably from
the bakery-chimney, lit up the darkness, and even that disappeared as we
left the corridor.

Fanny laughed when the candle went out, and tried for a time to blow the
spark into a flame: not succeeding, she put down the candle-stick, and
leaning upon my arm assured me that she could show me the way in this
manner too.

Then, without waiting for a remark from me, she took me with her into
the pitchy darkness. At first she spoke, to encourage me, and then began
to sing, perhaps to make me understand better; and felt with her hands
for the doors, and with her feet for the steps of the staircase.
Meanwhile I continually reflected: "this terrible malicious trifler is
plotting to lead me into some flour-bin, shut the door upon me, and
leave me there till the morning: or to let me step in the darkness into
some flue, where I shall fall up to my neck into the rising dough;--for
of that everything is full."

Poor, kind, good Fanny! I was so angry with you, I hated you so when I
first saw you!... And now, as we grow old....

I should never have believed that anyone could lead me in such
subterranean darkness through that winding labyrinth, where even in
broad daylight I often entirely lost my whereabouts. I only wondered
that this extraordinarily audacious girl could refrain from pulling my
hair as she led me through that darkness, her arm in mine, though she
had such a painful opportunity of doing so. Yes, I quite expected her to
do so.

Finally we reached a door, before which there was no need of a lamp to
assure a man of the room he was seeking. Through the door burst that
most sorrowful of all human sounds, the sound of a child audibly
wrestling with some unintelligible verse, twenty, fifty, a thousand
times repeated anew, and anew, without becoming intelligible, while the
verse had not yet taken its place in the child's head. Through the
boards sounded afar a spiral Latin phrase.

"His atacem, panacem, phylacem, coracem que facemque." Then again:

"His acatem, panacem, phylacem, coracem que facemque."

And again the same.

Fanny placed her ear against the door and seized my hand as a hint to be
quiet. Then she laughed aloud. How can anyone find an amusing subject in
a poor hard-brained "studiosus," who cannot grasp that rule, inevitable
in every career in life, that the second syllable of dropax, antrax,
climax "et caethra graeca" in the first case is long, in the second
short--a rule extremely useful to a man later in life when he gets into
some big scrape?

But Fanny found it extremely ridiculous. Then she opened the door and
nodded to me to follow her.

It was a small room under the staircase. Within were two beds, placed
face to face; on one I recognized my own pillows which I had brought
with me, so that must be my sleeping place. Beside the window was a
writing-table on which was burning a single candle, its wick so badly
trimmed as to prove that he who should have trimmed it had been so
deeply engaged in work that he had not remarked whether darkness or
light surrounded him.

Weeping, his head buried in his hands, my friend Henrik was sitting at
that table; as the door opened he raised his head from the book over
which he was poring. He greatly resembled his mother and grandmother:
he had just such a pronounced nose; but he had bristly hair, like his
father, only black and not so closely cropped. He, too, had the family
wart, actually in the middle of his nose.

As he looked up from his book, in a moment his countenance changed
rapidly from fear to delight, from delight to suspicion. The poor boy
thought he had gained a respite, and that the messenger had come with
the white serviette to invite him to supper: he smiled at Fanny
entreating compassion, and then, when he saw me, became embarrassed.

Fanny approached him with an enquiring air, placed one hand on his
thigh, with the other pointed to the open book, probably intending to
ask him whether he knew his lessons.

The great lanky boy rose obediently before his little confessor, who
scarce reached to his shoulder, and proceeded to put himself to rights.
He handed the book to Fanny, casting a farewell glance at the
disgusting, insufferable words; and with a great gulp by which he hoped
to remove all obstacles from the way of the lines he had to utter,
cleared his throat and began:--

"His abacem, phylacem ..."

Fanny shook her head. It was not good.

Henrik was frightened. He began again:

"His abacem, coracem...."

Again it was wrong. The poor boy began over five or six times, but could
not place those pagan words in the correct order, and as the mischievous
girl shook her head each time he made a mistake, he finally became so
confused that he could not even begin; then he reddened with anger, and,
gnashing his teeth, tore the graceless book out of Fanny's hand, threw
it down upon the table and commenced an assault upon the heathen words,
and with glaring eyes read the million-times repeated incantation: "His
abacem, panacem, phylacem, coracem facemque," striking the back of his
head with clinched fist at every word.

Fanny burst into uncontrollable laughter at this scene.

I, however, was very sorry for my companion. My learning had been easy
enough, and I regarded him with the air of a lord who looks from his
coach window at the bare-footed passers-by.

Fanny was unmerciful to him.

Henrik looked up at her, and though I did not understand her words, I
understood from his eyes that he was asking for something to eat.

The strong-headed sister actually refused his request.

I wished to prove my goodness of heart--my vanity also inclined me to
inform this mischievous creature that I had not put away the bun for my
own sake--So I stepped up to Henrik and, placing my hand on his shoulder
with condescending friendliness, pressed into his hand the cake I had
reserved for him.

Henrik cast a glance at me like some wild beast which has an aversion to
petting, then flung the bun under the table with such violence that it
broke into pieces.

"Dummer kerl!"[10]

[Footnote 10: "Stupid fellow!"]

I remember well, that was the first title of respect I received from
him.

Planting his knuckles on the top of my head, he performed a tattoo with
the same all over my head.

That is called, in slang, "holz-birn."[11] By this process of
"knuckling" the larger boys showed their contempt for the smaller, and
it belongs to that kind of teasing which no self-respecting boy ever
would allow to pass unchallenged. And before this girl, too!

[Footnote 11: Literally "Wild-pear" (_wood-pear_) a method of
"knuckling" down the younger boys.]

Henrik was taller than I, by a head, but I did not mind. I grasped him
by the waist, and grappled with him. He wished to drag me in the
direction of my bed, in order to throw me on to it, but with a quick
movement I cast him on his own bed, and holding his two hands tight on
his chest, cried to him:

"Pick up the bun immediately!"

Henrik kicked and snarled for a moment, then began to laugh, and to my
astonishment begged me, in student tongue, to release him: "We should be
good friends." I released him, we shook hands, and the fellow became
quite lively.

What astonished me most was that, at the time I was throwing her
brother, Fanny did not come to his aid nor tear out my eyes, she merely
laughed, and screamed her approval. She seemed to be thoroughly enjoying
herself.

After this we all three looked for the fragments of Henrik's broken bun,
which the good fellow with an expression of contentment dispatched on
its natural way; then Fanny produced a couple of secreted apples which
she had "sneaked" for him. I found it remarkable beyond words that this
impertinent child's thoughts ran in the same direction as my own.

From that hour Henrik and I were always fast friends; we are so to this
day. When we got into bed I was curious as to the dreams I should have
in the strange house. There is a widely-spread belief that what one
dreams the first night in a new house will in reality come to pass.

I dreamed of the little snub-nose.

She was an angel with wings, beautiful dappled wings, such as I had read
of not long since in the legend of Voeroesmarty.[12] All around me she
fluttered: but I could not move, my feet were so heavy, albeit there was
something from which I ought to escape, until she seized my hand and
then I could run so lightly that I did not touch the earth even with the
tips of my feet.

[Footnote 12: A great Hungarian poet who lived and died in the early
part of this century. He wrote legends and made a remarkable translation
of some of Shakespeare's works.]

How I worried over that dream! A snub-nosed angel-- What mocking dreams
a man has, to be sure.

The next day we were early astir; to me it seemed all the earlier, as
the window of our little room looked out on to the narrow courtyard,
where the day dawned so slowly, but Marton, the principal assistant, was
told off to brawl at the schoolboy's door, when breakfast was being
prepared:

"Surgendum disciple!"

I could not think what kind of an assault it was, that awoke me from my
dream, when first I heard the clamorous clarion call. But Henrik jumped
to his feet at once, and roused me from my bed, explaining, half in
student language, half by gesture, that we should go down now to the
bakery to see how the buns and cakes were baked. There was no need to
dress; we might go in our night clothes, as the bakers wear quite
similar costumes. I was curious, and easily persuaded to do anything; we
put on our slippers and went down together to the bakery.

It was an agreeable place; from afar it betrayed itself by that sweet
confectionery smell, which makes a man imagine that if he breathes it in
long enough he will satisfy his hunger therewith. Everything in the
whole place was as white as snow; everything so clean; great bins full
of flour; huge vessels full of swelling dough, from which six
white-dressed, white-aproned assistants were forming every conceivable
kind of cake and bun; piled upon the shelves of the gigantic white oven
the first supply was gradually baking, filling the whole room with a
most agreeable odor.

Master Marton, when he caught sight of me, began to welcome me in a kind
of broken Hungarian "Jo reggelt jo reggelt!"[13]

[Footnote 13: Good morning.]

He had a curious knack of putting the whole of his scalp into motion
whenever he moved his eyebrows up or down; a comical peculiarity of
which he availed himself whenever he wished to make anyone laugh, and
saw that his words did not have the desired effect.

Henrik set to work and competed with the baker's assistants; he was
clever at making dainty little titbits of cakes quite as clever as
anyone there; and pleasure beamed on his face when the old assistant
praised his efforts.

"You see," Marton said to me, "what a ready assistant he would make! In
two years he might be free. But the old man is determined he shall learn
and study; he wants to make a councillor of him." With these words
Marton, by a movement of his eyebrows, sent the whole of the skin on his
head to form a bunch on the crown, for all the world as if it had been a
wig on springs.

"Councillor, indeed! a councillor who gnaws pens when he is hungry!
Thanks; not if they gave me the tower of St. Michael. A councillor, who,
with paper in hand and pen behind ear, goes to visit the bakers in turn,
and weighs their loaves in the balance to see if they are correct
weight."

It seemed that Marton did not take into consideration any other duties
that a councillor might have besides the examining of bakers'
loaves--and that one could hardly gain his approval.

"Yet, if you take a little pains for their sake, you will find them as
gentle as lambs. Give them a 'heitige striozts,'[14] or All Saints Day,
and you will secure your object. Such is Mr. Dintenklek." At this point
Marton could not refrain from breaking out into an unmelodious
"Gassenhauer"[15] the refrain of which was, "Alas! Mr. Dintenklek."

[Footnote 14: A kind of dainty bit suitable to this "holy" occasion.]

[Footnote 15: A popular air sung in the streets.]

Two or three assistants joined in the refrain, of which I did not
understand a word; but as Marton uttered the final words, "Alas Mr.
Dintenklek," his gestures were such as to lead me to suspect that this
Mr. Dintenklek must be some very ridiculous figure in the eye of baker's
assistants.

"Why, of course, Henrik must learn law. The old man says he, too, might
have become a councillor if he had concluded his studies at school.
What a blessing he did not. As it is, he almost murders us with his
learning. He is always showing off how much Latin he knows. Yes, the old
man Latinizes."

As he said this Marton could scarcely control the skin of his head, so
often did he have to twitch his eyebrows in order to express the above
opinion, which he held about his master's pedantry.

Then with a sudden suspicion he turned to me:

"You don't wish to be a councillor, I suppose?"

I earnestly assured him that, on the contrary, I was preparing for a
vacancy in the county.

"Oho! lieutenant-governor? That is different, quite another thing;
travelling in a coach. No putting on of mud boots when it is muddy. That
I allow." And, in order to show how deep a respect he bore towards my
presumptive office position, he drew his eyebrows up so high that his
cap fell back upon his neck.

"Enough of dough-kneading for the present, Master Henrik. Go back to
your room and write out your 'pensum,' for you will again be forbidden
breakfast, if it is not ready."

Henrik did not listen to him, but worked away for all the world as if he
was not being addressed.

Meanwhile Marton was cutting a large piece of dough into bits of exactly
equal size, out of which the "Vienna" rolls were to be formed. This
delicate piece of work needs an accurate eye to avoid cheating either
one's master or the public.

"You see, he is at home here; he does not want his books. And there is
nothing more beautiful, more refined than our art; nothing more
remunerative; we deal with the blessing of God, for we prepare the daily
bread. The Lord's Prayer includes the baker, 'Give us this day our daily
bread.' Is there any mention anywhere of butchers, of tailors or of
cobblers? Well, does anyone pray for meat, for coats, or for books? Let
me hear about him. But they do pray for their daily bread, don't they?
And does the prayer-book say anything concerning councillors? What? Who
knows anything on that score?"

Some young assistant interrupted: "Why, of course, 'but deliver us from
the evil one.'"

This caused everybody to laugh; it caused Henrik to spoil his buns,
which had to be kneaded afresh. He was annoyed by the idea that he had
learned all he had merely in order to be ridiculed here in the bakery.

"Ha, yes," remarked Master Marton, smiling. "It is a great misfortune
that a man is never asked how he wishes to die, but a still greater
misfortune if he is not asked how he wishes to live. My father destined
me to be a butcher. I learned the whole trade. Then I suddenly grew
tired of all that ox-slaughtering, and cow-skinning. I was always
fascinated by these beautiful brown-backed rolls in the shop-window;
whenever I passed before the confectionery window, the pleasant warm
bread-odors just invited me in:--until at last I deserted my trade, and
joined Father Fromm. At that time my moustache and beard were already
sprouting, but I have never regretted my determination. Whenever I look
at my clean, white shirt, I am delighted at the idea that I have not to
sprinkle it with blood, and wear the blood-stained garment the rest of
the day. Everyone should follow his own bent, should he not, Henrik?"

"True," muttered the youth in a tone of anger. "And yet the butcher's
trade is as far above the councillor's as the weather-cock on St.
Michael's tower is above our own vane. I do not like blood on my hands,
yet at least I could wash it off; but if a drop of ink gets on my finger
from my pen, for three days no pumice stone would induce it to depart.
Yes, it is a glorious thing to be a baker's assistant."

Marton now busied himself in shovelling several dozen loaves of white
bread into the heated oven. Meantime the whole "menage" commenced with
one voice to sing a peculiar air, which I had already heard several
times resounding through the bakers' windows.

It runs as follows:

    "Oh, the kneading trough is fine,
    Very beautiful and fine.

    Straight and crooked, round in form
    Thin and long, three-legged too,
    Here's a stork, and here's a 'ticker,'
    While here's a pair of snuffers too,
    Stork and ticker, snuffers too,
    Bottles, tipsy Michael with them.
    Bottles, tipsy Michael with them,
    Stork and ticker, snuffers too,
    Thin and long, three-legged too,
    Straight and crooked, round in form.

    Oh! the kneading trough is fine,
    Very beautiful and fine."

They sang this air with such a passionate earnestness that, to this day
I must believe, was caused, not by the beauty of the verses, or the
corresponding melody, but rather by some superstitious feeling that
their chanting would prevent the plague infecting the bread while it was
baking, or perhaps the air served as an hour-glass telling them by its
termination that now was the time to take the bread out of the oven. As
they who are wont to use the Lord's Prayer for the boiling of eggs--God
save the mark.

Henrik joined in. I saw he had no longer any idea of finishing his
school tasks, and when the "Oh, the kneading trough" began anew, I left
him in the bakery, and went upstairs to our room. On the table lay
Henrik's unfortunate exercise-book open, full of corrections made in a
different ink; of the new exercise only the first line had been begun.
Immediately I collected the words wanted from a dictionary, and wrote
the translation down on a piece of paper.

Not till an hour later did he return from the scene of his operations,
and even then did not know to what he should turn his hand first. Great
was his delight, then, to see the task already finished; he merely had
to copy it.

He gazed at me with a curious peevishness and said: "Guter kerl."[16]

[Footnote 16: Good fellow.]

From his countenance I could not gather what he had said but the word
kerl made me prepare myself for a repetition of the struggle of
yesterday, for which I did not feel the least inclination.

Scarcely was the copying ready when the steps of Father Fromm resounded
on the staircase. Henrik hastily thrust my writing into his pockets and
was poring over the open book, when the old man halted before the door,
so that when he opened it, such a noise resounded in the room as if
Henrik were trying to drive an army of locusts out of the country: "his
abacem."

"Ergo, ergo; quomodo?" said the old man, placing the palm of his hand
upon my head. I saw that this was his manner of showing affection.

I ventured to utter my first German word, answering his query with a
"Guter morgen;"[17] at which the old fellow shook his head and laughed.
I could not imagine why. Perhaps I had expressed myself badly, or had
astonished him with my rapid progress?

[Footnote 17: Correctly, "Guten Morgen" (wunsch ich): "I wish (you) (a)
good morning."]

He did not enlighten me on the subject; instead he turned with a severe
confessorial face to Henrik: "No ergo! Quid ergo? Quid seis? Habes
pensum? Nebulo!"

Henrik tried whether he could move the skin of his head like Master
Marton did, when he spoke of Mr. Fromm's Latin. For the sake of greater
security he first of all displayed the written exercise to his father,
thinking it better to leave his weaker side until later.

Father Fromm gazed at the deep learning with a critical eye, then
graciously expressed his approval.

"Bonus, Bonus."

But the lesson?

That bitter piece!

Even yesterday, when he had only to recite them to the little snub-nose,
Henrik did not know the verses, and to-day, the book was in the old
man's hand! If he had merely taken the book in his hands! But with his
disengaged hand he held a ruler with the evident intention of
immediately pulling the boy up, if he made a mistake.

Poor Henrik, of course, did not know a single word. He gazed ever
askance at Father Fromm's ruler, and when he reached the first obstacle,
as the old fellow raised the ruler, probably merely with the intention
of striking Henrik's mental capacity into action by startling him,
Henrik was no more to be seen; he was under the bed, where he had
managed to hide his long body with remarkable agility; nor would he come
forth until Father Fromm promised he would not hurt him, and would take
him to breakfast.

And Father Fromm kept the conditions of the armistice, only verbally
denouncing the boy as he wriggled out of his fortress; I did not
understand what he said, I only gathered by his grimaces and gestures
that he was annoyed over the matter--by my presence.

The morning was spent in visiting professors. The director was a
strongly-built, bony-faced, moustached man, with a high, bald forehead,
broad-chested, and when he spoke, he did not spare his voice, but always
talked as if he were preaching. He was very well satisfied with our
school certificates, and made no secret of it. He assured grandmother he
would take care of us and deal severely with us. He would not allow us
to go astray in this town. He would often visit us at our homes; that
was his custom; and any student convicted of disorderliness would be
punished.

"Are the boys musicians?" he asked grandmother in harsh tones.

"Oh, yes; the one plays the piano, the other the violin."

The director struck the middle of the table with his fist: "I am
sorry--but I cannot allow violin playing under any circumstances."

Lorand ventured to ask, "Why not?"

"Why not, indeed? Because that is the fountain-head of all mischief. The
book, not the violin, is for the student. What do you wish to be? a
gypsy, or a scholar? The violin betrays students into every kind of
mischief. How do I know? Why, I see examples of it every day. The
student takes the violin under his coat, and goes with it to the inn,
where he plays for other students who dance there till morning with
loose girls. So I break into fragments every violin I find. I don't ask
whether it was dear; I dash it to the ground. I have already smashed
violins of high value."

Grandmother saw it would be wiser not to allow Lorand to answer, so she
hastened to anticipate him:

"Why, it is not the elder boy, sir, who plays the violin, but this
younger one; besides, neither has been so trained as to wish to go to
any undesirable place of amusement."

"That does not matter. The little one has still less need of scraping.
Besides, I know the student; at home he makes saintly faces, as if he
would not disturb water, but when once let loose, be it in an inn, be it
in a coffee-house, there he will sit beside his beer, and join in a
competition, to see who is the greatest tippler, shout and sing
'Gaudeamus igitur.' That is why I don't allow students to carry violins
under their top-coats to inns, under any circumstances. I break the
violin in pieces, and have the top-coat cut into a covert-coat. A
student with a top-coat! That's only for an army officer. Then, I cannot
suffer anyone to wear sharp-pointed boots which are especially made for
dancing; flat-toed boots are for honest men; no one must come to my
school in pointed boots, for I put his foot on the bench and cut away
the points."

Grandmother hurried her visit to prevent Lorand having an opportunity of
giving answer to the worthy man, who carried his zeal in the defence of
morality to such a pitch as to break up violins, have top-coats cut
down, and cut off the points of pointed boots.

It was a good habit of mine (long, long ago, in my childhood days), to
regard as sacred anything a man, who had the right to my obedience,
might say. When we came away from the director's presence, I whispered
to Lorand in a distressed tone:

"Your boots seem to me a little too pointed."

"Henceforward I shall have them made still more pointed," replied
Lorand,--an answer with which I was not at all satisfied.

In my eyes every serious man was surrounded by a "nimbus" of
infallibility; no one had ever enlightened me on the fact that
serious-minded men had themselves once been young, and had learned the
student jargon of Heidelberg; that this director himself, after a noisy
youth, had arrived at the idea that every young man has malicious
propensities, and that what seems good in him is only make-believe, and
so he must be treated with the severity of military discipline.

Then we proceeded to pay a visit to my class-master, who was the exact
opposite of the director: a slight, many-cornered little man, with long
hair brushed back, smooth shaved face, and such a thin, sweet voice that
one might have taken every word of his as a supplication. And he was so
familiar in his dealings with us. He received us in a dressing gown, but
when he saw a lady was with us, he hastily changed that for a black
coat, and asked pardon--why, I do not know.

Then he attempted to drive a host of little children out of his room,
but without success. They clung to his hands and arms and he could not
shake them off; he called out to some lady to come and help him. A
sleepy face appeared at the other door, and suddenly withdrew on seeing
us. Finally, at grandmother's request, he allowed the children to
remain.

Mr. Schmuck was an excellent "paterfamilias," and took great care of
children. His study was crammed with toys; he received us with great
tenderness, and I remember well that he patted me on the head.

Grandmother immediately became more confident of this good man than she
had been of his colleague, whom we had previously visited. For he was
so fond of his own children. To him she related the secret that made her
heart sad; explained why we were in mourning; told him that father was
unfortunately dead, and that we were the sole hopes of our sickly
mother; that up till now our behaviors had been excellent, and finally
asked him to take care of me, the younger.

The good fellow clasped his hands and assured grandmother that he would
make a great man of me, especially if I would come to him privately;
that he might devote particular attention to the development of my
talents. This private tuition would not come to more than seven florins
a month. And that is not much for the whetting of one's mind; as much
might be paid even for the grinding of scissors.

Grandmother, her spirits depressed by the previous reception, timidly
ventured to introduce the remark that I had a certain inclination for
the violin, but she did not know whether it was allowed?

The good man did not allow her to speak further. "Of course, of course.
Music ennobles the soul, music calms the inclinations of the mind. Even
in the days of Pythagoras lectures were closed by music. He who indulges
in music is always in the society of good spirits. And here it will be
very cheap; it will not cost more than six florins[18] a month, as my
children have a music-master of their own."

[Footnote 18: 1 florin equals 2s English money or 40 cents.]

Dear grandmother, seeing his readiness to acquiesce, thought it good to
make some more requests (this is always the way with a discontented
people, too, when it meets with ready acquiescence in the powers that
be). She remarked that perhaps I might be allowed to learn dancing.

"Why, nothing could be more natural," was the answer of the gracious
man. "Dancing goes hand-in-hand with music; even in Greek days it was
the choral revellers that were accompanied by the harp. In the classics
there is frequent mention of the dance. With the Romans it belonged to
culture, and according to tradition even holy David danced. In the world
of to-day it is just indispensable, especially to a young man. An
innocent enjoyment! One form of bodily exercise. It is indispensable
that the young man of to-day shall step, walk, stand properly, and be
able to bow and dance, and not betray at once, on his appearance, that
he has come from some school of pedantry. And in this respect I obey the
tendency of the age. My own children all learn to dance, and as the
dancing-master comes here in any case my young friend may as well join
my children; it will not cost more than five florins."

Grandmother was extraordinarily contented with the bargain; she found
everything quite cheap.

"By cooeperation everything becomes cheap. A true mental 'menage.' Many
learn together, and each pays a trifle. If you wish my young friend to
learn drawing, it will not cost more than four florins; four hours
weekly, together with the others. Perhaps you will not find it
superfluous, that our young friend should make acquaintance with the
more important European languages; he can learn, under the supervision
oL mature teachers, English and French, at a cost of not more than three
florins, three hours a week. And if my young friend has a few hours to
spare, he cannot do better than spend them in the gymnasium; gymnastic
exercise is healthy, it encourages the development of the muscles along
with that of the brain, and it does not cost anything, only ten florins
entrance fee."

Grandmother was quite overcome by this thoughtfulness. She left
everything in order and paid in advance.

I do not wish anyone to come to the conclusion, from the facts stated
above, that in course of time I shall come to boast what a Paganini I
became in time, what a Mezzofanti as a linguist, what a Buonarotti in
art, what a Vestris in the dance, or what a Michael Toddy in fencing:--I
hasten to remark that I do not even yet understand anything of all
these things. I have only to relate how they taught them to me.

When I went to my private lessons--"together with the others"--the
professor was not at home; we indulged in an hour's wrestling.

When I went to my dancing lessons--"together with the others"--the
dancing master was missing: again an hour's wrestling.

During the French lessons we again wrestled, and during the drawing and
violin hours we spent our time exactly as we did during the other hours;
so that when the gymnastic lessons came round we had no more heart for
wrestling.

I did just learn to swim,--in secret, seeing that it was prohibited, and
truly without paying:--unless I may count as a forfeit penalty that mass
of water I swallowed once, when I was nearly drowned in the Danube. None
even dared to acquaint the people at home with the fact; Lorand saved
me, but he never boasted of his feat.

As we left the house of this very kind man, who quite overcame
grandmother and us, with his gracious and amiable demeanors, Lorand
said:

"From this hour I begin to greatly esteem the first professor: he is a
noble, straight-forward fellow."

I did not understand his meaning--that is, I did not wish to understand.
Perhaps he wished to slight "my" professor.

According to my ethical principles it was purely natural that each
student should admire and love that professor who was the director of
his own class, and if one class is secretly at war with another, the
only reason can be that the professor of one class is the opponent of
the other. My kingdom is the foe of thy kingdom, so my soldiers are the
enemies of thy soldiers.

I began to look at Lorand in the light of some such hostile soldier.

Fortunately the events that followed drove all these ideas out of my
head.




CHAPTER III

MY RIGHT HONORABLE UNCLE


We were invited to dine with the Privy Councillor Balnokhazy, at whose
house my brother was to take up his residence.

He was some very distant relation of ours; however, he received a
payment for Lorand's board, seven hundred florins, a nice sum of money
in those days.

My pride was the greatest that my brother was living in a privy
councillor's house, and, if my school-fellows asked me where I lived, I
never omitted to mention the fact that "my brother was living with
Balnokhazy, P. C.," while I myself had taken up my abode merely with a
baker.

Baker Fromm was indeed very sorry that we were not dining "at home." At
least they might have left me alone there. That he did not turn to stone
as he uttered these words was not my fault; at least I fixed upon him
such basilisk eyes as I was capable of. What an idea! To refuse a dinner
with my P. C. uncle for his sake! Grandmother, too, discovered that I
also must be presented there.

We ordered a carriage for 1:30; of course we could not with decency go
to the P. C.'s on foot. Grandmother fastened my embroidered shirt under
my waistcoat, and I was vain enough to allow the little pugnose to
arrange my tie. She really could make pretty bows, I thought. As I gazed
at myself in the looking-glass, I found that I should be a handsome boy
when I had put on my silver-buttoned attila.[19] And if only my hair
was curled! Still I was completely convinced that in the whole town
there did not exist any more such silver-buttoned attilas as mine.

[Footnote 19: The coat worn by the hussars, forming part, as it does, of
all real Magyar _levee_ dresses.]

Only it annoyed me to watch the little pugnose careering playfully round
me. How she danced round me, without any attempt to conceal the fact
that I took her fancy; and how that hurt my pride!

At the bottom of the stairs the comical Henrik was waiting for me, with
a large brush in his hand. He assured me that my attila had become
floury--surely from Fanny's apron, for that was always floury--and that
he must brush it off. I only begged him not to touch my collar with the
hair brush; for that a silk brush was required, as it was velvet.

I believe I set some store by the fact that the collar of my attila was
velvet.

From the arched doorway old Marton, too, called after me, as we took our
seats, "Good appetite, Master Sheriff!" and five or six times moved his
cap up and down on the top of his head.

How I should have loved to break his nose! Why is he compromising me
here before my brother? He might know that when I am in full dress I
deserve far greater respect from when he sees me before him in my night
clothes.--But so it is with those whose business lies in flour.

But let us speak no more of bakers; let us soar into higher regions.

Our carriage stopped somewhere in the neighborhood of the House of
Parliament, where there was a two-storied house, in which the P. C.
lived.

The butler--pardon! the chamberlain--was waiting for us downstairs at
the gate (it is possible that it was not for us he was waiting). He
conducted us up the staircase; from the staircase to the porch; from the
porch to the anteroom; from the anteroom to the drawing-room, where our
host was waiting to receive us.

I used to think that at home we were elegant people--that we lodged and
lived in style; but how poor I felt we were as we went through the rooms
of the Balnokhazys. The splendor only incited my admiration and wonder,
which was abruptly terminated by the arrival of the host and hostess and
their daughter, Melanie, by three different doors. The P. C. was a tall,
portly man, broad-shouldered, with black eyebrows, ruddy cheeks, a
coal-black moustache curled upward; he formed the very ideal I had
pictured to myself of a P. C. His hair also was of a beautiful black,
fashionably dressed.

He greeted us in a voice rich and stentorian; kissed grandmother;
offered his hand to my brother, who shook it; while he allowed me to
kiss his hand.

What an enormous turquoise ring there was on his finger!

Then my right honorable aunt came into our presence. I can say that
since that day I have never seen a more beautiful woman. She was then
twenty-three years of age; I know quite surely. Her beautiful face, its
features preserved with the enamel of youth, seemed almost that of a
young girl; her long blonde tresses waved around it; her lips, of
graceful symmetry, always ready for a smile; her large, dark blue, and
melancholy eyes shadowed by her long eyelashes; her whole form seemed
not to walk--rather fluttered and glided; and the hand which she gave me
to kiss was transparent as alabaster.

My cousin Melanie was truly a little angel. Her first appearance, to me,
was a phenomenon. Methinks no imagination could picture anything more
lovely, more ethereal than her whole form. She was not yet more than
eight years of age, but her stature gave her the appearance of some ten
years. She was slender, and surely must have had some hidden wings, else
it were impossible she could have fluttered as she did upon those
symmetrical feet. Her face was fine and _distingue_, her eyes artful and
brilliant; her lips were endowed with such gifts already--not merely of
speaking four or five languages--such silent gifts as brought me beside
myself. That child-mouth could smile enchantingly with encouraging
calmness, could proudly despise, could pout with displeasure, could
offer tacit requests, could muse in silent melancholy, could indulge in
enthusiastic rapture--could love and hate.

How often have I dreamed of that lovely mouth! how often seen it in my
waking hours! how many horrible Greek words have I learned while musing
thereon!

I could not describe that dinner at the Balnokhazys to the end. Melanie
sat beside me, and my whole attention was directed toward her.

How refined was her behavior! how much elegance there was in every
movement of hers! I could not succeed in learning enough from her. When,
after eating, she wiped her lips with the napkin, it was as if spirits
were exchanging kisses with the mist. Oh, how interminably silly and
clumsy I was beside her! My hand trembled when I had to take some dish.
Terrible was the thought that I might perchance drop the spoon from my
hand and stain her white muslin dress with the sauce. She, for her part,
seemed not to notice me; or, on the contrary, rather, was quite sure of
the fact that beside her was sitting now a living creature, whom she had
conquered, rendered dumb and transformed. If I offered her something,
she could refuse so gracefully; and if I filled her glass, she was so
polite when she thanked me.

No one busied himself very particularly with me. A young boy at my age
is just the most useless article; too big to be played with, and not big
enough to be treated seriously. And the worst of it is that he feels it
himself. Every boy of twelve years has the same ambition--"If only I
were older already!"

Now, however, I say, "If I could only be twelve years old still!" Yet at
that time it was a great burden to me. And how many years have passed
since then!

Only toward the end of dinner, when the younger generation also were
allowed to sip some sweet wine from their tiny glasses, did I find the
attention of the company drawn toward me; and it was a curious case.

The butler filled my glass also. The clear golden-colored liquor
scintillated so temptingly before me in the cut glass, my little
neighbor would so enchantingly deepen the ruddiness of her lips with the
liquor from her glass, that an extraordinarily rash idea sprang up
within me.

I determined to raise my glass, clink glasses with Melanie, and say to
her, "Your health, dear cousin Melanie." The blood rushed into my
temples as I conceived the idea.

I was already about to take my glass, when I cast one look at Melanie's
face, and in that moment she gazed upon me with such disheartening pride
that in terror I withdrew my hand from my glass. It was probably this
hesitating movement of mine that attracted the P. C.'s attention, for he
deigned to turn to me with the following condescending remark (intended
perhaps for an offer):

"Well, nephew, won't you try this wine?" With undismayed determination I
answered:

"No."

"Perhaps you don't wish to drink wine?"

Cato did not utter the phrase "Victrix causa diis placuit, sed victa
Catoni," with more resolution than that with which I answered:

"Never!"

"Oho! you will never drink wine? We shall see how you keep your word in
the course of time!"

And that is why I kept my word. Till to-day I have never touched wine.
Probably that first fit of obstinacy caused my determination; in a word,
slighted in the first glass, I never touched again any kind of pressed,
distilled, or burnt beverage. So perhaps my house lost in me an
after-dinner celebrity.

"Don't be ashamed, nephew," encouragingly continued my uncle; "this wine
is allowed to the young also, if they dip choice Pressburg biscuits in
it; it is a very celebrated biscuit, prepared by M. Fromm."

My blood rose to my cheeks. M. Fromm! My host! Immediately the
conversation will turn upon him, and they will mention that I am living
with him; furthermore, they will relate that he has a little pug-nosed
daughter, that they are going to exchange me with her. I should sink
beneath the earth for very shame before my cousin Melanie! And surely,
one has only to fear something and it will indeed come to pass.
Grandmother was thoughtless enough to discover immediately what I wished
to conceal, with these words:

"Desiderius is going to live with that very man."

"Ha ha!" laughed uncle, in high humor (his laughter penetrated my very
marrow). "With the celebrated 'Zwieback'[20] baker! Why, he can teach my
nephew to bake Pressburg biscuits."

[Footnote 20: Biscuit.]

How I was scalded and reduced to nothing, how I blushed before Melanie!
The idea of my learning to bake biscuits from M. Fromm! I should never
be able to wash myself clean of that suspicion.

In my despair I found myself looking at Lorand. He also was looking at
me. His gaze has remained lividly imprinted in my memory. I understood
what he said with his eyes. He called me coward, miserable, and
sensitive, for allowing the jests of great men to bring blushes to my
cheeks. He was a democrat always!

When he saw that I was blushing, he turned obstinately toward
Balnokhazy, to reply for me.

But I was not the only one who read his thoughts in his eyes; another
also read therein, and before he could have spoken, my beautiful aunt
took the words out of his mouth, and with lofty dignity replied to her
husband:

"Methinks the baker is just as good a man as the privy councillor."

I shivered at the bold statement. I imagined that for these words the
whole company would be arrested and thrown into prison.

Balnokhazy, with smiling tenderness, bent down to his wife's hand and,
kissing it, said:

"As a man, truly, just as good a man; but as a baker, a better baker
than I."

Now it was Lorand's turn to crimson. He riveted his eyes upon my aunt's
face.

My right honorable uncle hastened immediately to close the rencontre
with a vanquishing kiss upon my aunt's snow-white hand, a fact which
convinced me that their mutual love was endless. In general, I behaved
with remarkable respect toward that great relation of ours, who lived in
such beautiful apartments, and whose titles would not be contained in
three lines.

I was completely persuaded that Balnokhazy, my uncle, had few superiors
in celebrity in the world, for personal beauty (except, perhaps, my
brother Lorand) none; his wife was the most beautiful and happiest woman
under the sun; and my cousin Melanie such an angel that, if she did not
raise me up to heaven, I should surely never reach those climes.

And if some one had said to me then, "Let us begin at the beginning;
that rich hair on Balnokhazy's head is but a wig," I should have
demanded pardon for interrupting: I can find nothing of the least
importance to say against the wearing of wigs. They are worn by those
who have need of them; by those whose heads would be cold without them,
who catch rheumatism easily with uncovered head. Finally, it is nought
else but a head-covering for one of aesthetic tastes; a cap made of hair.

This is all true, all earnest truth; and yet I was greatly embittered
against that some one who discovered to me for the first time that my
uncle Balnokhazy wore a wig, and painted his moustache (with some
colored unguent, of course, nothing else). And I am still the enemy of
that some one who repeated that before me. He might have left me in
happy ignorance.

Even if some one had said that this showy wealth, which indicated a
noble affluence, was also such a mere wig as the other, covering the
baldness of his riches; if some one had said that these hand-kissing
companions, in whose every word was melody when they spoke the one to
the other, that they did not love, but hated and despised one another;
if some one had said that this lovely, ideal angel of mine even--but no
farther, not so much at once!

At the end of dinner our noble relations were so gracious as to permit
my cousin Melanie to play the piano before us. She was only eight years
old as yet, still she could play as beautifully as other girls of nine
years.

I had very rarely heard a piano; at home mother played sometimes, though
she did not much care for it. Lorand merely murdered the scales, which
was not at all entertaining for me.

My cousin Melanie executed opera selections, and a French quadrille
which excited my extremest admiration. My beautiful aunt laid stress
upon the fact that she had only studied two years. A very intricate plan
began to develop within me.

Melanie played the piano, I the violin. Nothing could be more natural
than that I should come here with my violin to play an obligato to
Melanie's piano; and if afterward we played violin and piano together
perseveringly for eight or nine years, it would be impossible that we
should not in the end reach the goal of life on that road.

In consequence I strove to display my usefulness by turning over the
leaves of the music for her; and my pride was greatly hurt by the fact
that my noble relations did not ask grandmother how I understood how to
read music. Finally the end came to this, as to every good thing; my
cousin Melanie was not quite "up" in the remaining pieces, though I
would have listened even to half-learned pieces, but my grandmother was
getting ready to return to the Fromms'. The Balnokhazys asked her to
spend the night with them, but she replied that she had been there
before, and that I was there too; and she would remain with the younger.
I detested myself so for the idea that I was a drag upon my good
grandmother; why, I ought to have kissed the dust upon her feet for
those words:

"I shall remain with the younger." My brother I envied, who for his part
was "at home" with the P. C.

When I kissed my relations' hands at parting, Balnokhazy thrust a silver
dollar[21] into my hand, adding with magnificent munificence:

[Footnote 21: Thaler.]

"For a little poppy-cake, you know."

Why, it is true, that in Pressburg very fine poppy-biscuits are made;
and it is also true, that many poppy-goodies might be bought, a few at a
time, for a dollar; likewise I cannot deny that so much money had never
been in my hand, as my very own, to spend as I liked. I would not have
exchanged it for two other dollars, if it had not been given me before
Melanie. I felt that it degraded me in her eyes. I could not discover
what to do with that dollar. I scarce dared to look at Melanie when he
departed; still I remarked that she did not look at me either when I
left.

At the door Lorand seized my hand.

"Desi," said he severely, "that thing that the P. C. thrust into your
hand you must give to the butler, when he opens the carriage door."

I liked the idea. By that they would know who I was; and my eyes would
no longer be downcast before cousin Melanie.

But, when I thrust the dollar into the butler's hand, I was so
embarrassed by his matter-of-fact grandeur that any one who had seen us
might have thought the butler had presented me with something. I hoped
uncle would not exclude me from his house for that.

Long did that quadrille sound in my ears; long did that
phenomenon-pianist haunt me; how long I cannot tell!

She was the standard of my ambition, the prize of a long race, which
must be won. In my imagination the whole world thronged before her. I
saw the roads by which one might reach her.

I too wished to be a man like them. I would learn diligently; I would be
the first "eminence" in the school, my teacher would take pride in me,
and would say at the public examination: "This will be a great man some
day." I would pass my barrister's exams, with distinction; would serve
my time under a sheriff; would court the acquaintance of great men of
distinction; would win their favor by my gentle, humble conduct; I would
be ready to serve; any work intrusted to me I would punctually perform;
would not mix in evil company; would make my talent shine; would write
odes of encomium, panegyrics, on occasions of note; till finally, I
should myself, like my uncle, become "secretarius," "assessor,"
"septemvir," and "consiliarius."

Ha, ha, ha!

When we returned to Master Fromm's, the delicate attention of little
Miss Pugnose was indeed burdensome. She would prattle all kinds of
nonsense. She asked of what the fine dinner consisted; whether it was
true that the daughter of the "consiliarius" had a doll that danced,
played the guitar, and nodded its head. Ridiculous! As if people of such
an age as Melanie and I interested themselves in dolls! I told Henrik to
interpret this to her; I observed that it put her in a bad temper, and
rejoiced that I had got rid of her.

I remarked that I must go and study, and the lesson was long. So I went
to my room and began to study. Two hours later I observed that nothing
of what I had learnt remained in my head; every place was full of that
councillor's daughter.

In the evening we again assembled in Master Fromm's dining-room. Fanny
again sat next to me, was again in good humor, treating me as familiarly
as if we had been the oldest acquaintances; I was already frightened of
her. It would be dreadful for the Balnokhazys to suspect that one had a
baker's daughter as an acquaintance, always ready to jump upon one's
neck when she saw one.

Well, fortunately she would be taken away next day, and then would be
far away, as long as I remained in the house; we should be like two
opposite poles, that avoid each other.

Before bedtime grandmother came into the room once more. She gave me my
effects, counted over my linen. She gave me pocket-money, promising to
send me some every month with Lorand's.

"Then I beg you," she whispered in my ear, "take care of Lorand!"

Again that word!

Again that hint that I, the child, must take care of my brother, the
young man! But the second time the meaning, which the first time I had
not understood, burst at once clearly upon me; at first I thought,
"Perhaps some mistaken wisdom or serious conduct on my part has deserved
this distinction of looking after my brother." Now I discovered that the
best guardian was eternal love; and mother and grandmother knew well
that I loved Lorand better than he loved himself.

And indeed, what cause had they to fear for him? And from what could I
defend him?

Was he not living in the best place in the world? And did I not live far
from him?

Grandmother exacted from me a promise to write a diary of all that
happened about us, and to send the same to her at the end of each month.
I was to write all about Lorand too; for he himself was a very bad
letter-writer.

I promised.

Then we kissed and took leave. They had to start early in the morning.

But the next day, when the carriage stood at the door, I was waiting
ready dressed for them.

The whole Fromm family came down to the carriage to say adieu to the
travellers.

That girl who was going to occupy my place was sad herself. Methought
she was much more winning, when sadness made her eyes downcast.

One could see from her eyes that she had been weeping, that she was even
now forcibly restraining herself from weeping. She spoke a few short
words to me, and then disappeared behind grandmother in the carriage.

The whip cracked, the horses started, and my substitute departed for my
dear home, while I remained in her place.

As I pondered for the first time over my great isolation, in a place
where everybody was a stranger to me, and did not even understand my
speech, at once all thought of the great man, the violin-virtuoso, the
first eminence, the P. C., the heroic lover, disappeared from within me;
I leaned my head against the wall, and would have wept could I have done
so.




CHAPTER IV

THE ATHEIST AND THE HYPOCRITE


Let us leave for a while the journal of the student child, and examine
the circumstances of the family circle, whose history we are relating.

There was living at Lankadomb an old heretic Samuel Topandy by name, who
was related equally to the Balnokhazy and Aronffy families;
notwithstanding this, the latter would never visit him on account of his
conspicuously bad habits. His surroundings were of the most unfortunate
description, and in distant parts it was told of him that he was an
atheist of the most pronounced type.

But do not let any one think that the more modern freedom of thought had
perhaps made Topandy cling to things long past, or that out of mental
rationalism he had attempted, as a philosopher, to place his mind far
beyond the visible tenets of religion. He was an atheist merely for his
own amusement, that, by his denial of God, he might annoy those
people--priests and the powers that be--with whom he came in contact.

For to annoy, and successfully annoy, has always been held as an
amusement among frail humanity. And what can more successfully annoy
than the ridiculing of that which a man worships?

The County Court had just put in a judicial "deed of execution," and had
sent a magistrate, and a lawyer, supported by a posse of twelve armed
gendarmes, for the purpose of putting an end, once for all, to those
scandals, by which Topandy had for years been arousing the indignation
of the souls of the faithful, causing them to send complaint after
complaint in to the court.

Topandy offered cigars to the official "bailiffs." The magistrate,
Michael Daruszegi, a young man of thirty, appeared to be still younger
from his fair face. They had sent the under, not the chief magistrate,
because he was a new hand, and would be more zealous. There is more
firmness in a young man, and firmness was necessary when face to face
with the disbeliever in God.

"We did not come here to smoke, sir," was the dry reply of the young
officer. "We are on official business."

"The devil take official business. Don't 'sir' me, my dear fellow, but
come, let us drink a 'chartreuse,' and then tell your business, in
company with the lawyer, to my steward. If money is required, break open
the granaries, take as much wheat as will settle your claims, then dine
with me; there will be some more good fellows, who are coming for a
little music. And to-morrow morning we can make out the report and enter
it in the protocol."

As he said this he kept continuous hold on the "bailiff's" wrist, and
led him inward into the inner room: and as he was far stronger by nature
than the latter, it practically amounted to the leader of the attacking
force being taken prisoner.

"I protest! I forbid every kind of confidence! This is serious
business!"

In vain did the magistrate protest against his enforced march.

Soon the second part of the "legale testimonium;" Mr. Francis Butzkay,
the lawyer, came to his aid with his stumpy, short-limbed figure: he had
gazed for a time in passive inactivity at the fruitless struggle of his
principal with the "in causam vocatus."

"I hope the gentleman will not give cause for the use of force; for we
shall fetter him hand and foot in such a manner that no better safeguard
will be necessary." So saying, our friend the lawyer smiled
complaisantly, all over his round face, looking, with his long
moustache, for all the world like the moon, when a long cloud is
crossing its surface.

"Fetters indeed!" Topandy guffawed, "I should just like to see you! I
beg you, pray put those fetters on me, merely for the sake of novelty,
that I may be able to say: I also have had chains on me: at any rate on
one of my legs, or one of my arms. It would be a damned fine amusement."

"Sir," exclaimed the magistrate, freeing his hand. "You must learn to
respect in us the 'powers that be.' We are your judges, sent by the
County Court, entrusted with the task of putting an end to those
scandals caused by you, which have filled every Christian soul with
righteous indignation."

Topandy raised his eyes in astonishment at the envoys of the "powers
that be."

"Oho, so it is not a case of a 'deed of execution?'"

"By no means. It is a far more important matter that is at stake. The
Court considers the atheistical irreligious 'attentats' have gone too
far and therefore has sent us--"

"--To preach me a sermon? No, sir magistrate, now you must really bring
those irons, and put me in chains, and bind me, for unbound I will not
listen to your sermon. Hold me down if you wish to preach words of
devotion to me, for otherwise I shall bite, like a wild animal."

The magistrate retreated, in spite of his youthful daring; but the
lawyer only smiled gently and did not even take his hands from behind
his back.

"Really, sir, you must not get mad, or we shall have to take you to the
Rokus hospital,[22] and put the strait-jacket on you."

[Footnote 22: A hospital in Pest.]

"The devil blight you!" roared Topandy, making for the two judges, and
then retiring before the undisturbed smiling countenance of the lawyer.
"Well, and what complaint has the Court to make of me? Have I stolen
anything from anybody? Have I committed incendiarism? Have I committed a
murder, that they come down so hard upon me?"

The magistrate was a ready speaker: immediately he answered with:

"Certainly, you have committed a theft: you have stolen the welfare of
others' souls. Certainly you are an incendiary: you have set fire to the
peace of faithful souls. Certainly you are a murderer: you have murdered
the souls entrusted to you!"

Topandy, seeing there was no escape, turned entreatingly to the
gendarmes who accompanied the magistrate.

"Boys, cherubims without wings, two of you come here and seize me, that
I may not run away."

They obeyed him and laid hands on him.

"Well, my dear magistrate, fire away."

The worthy magistrate was annoyed, that this sorry business could not in
any way assume a serious aspect.

"In the first place I come to see the execution of that judgment which
the honorable Court has passed upon you."

"I bow my head,"--growled Topandy in a tone of derisive subservience.

"You have in your household youths and young girls growing up in various
branches of service, who, born here, have never yet been baptized,
thanks to your sinful neglect."

"Excuse me, the general drying up of wells...."

"Don't interrupt me," bawled the magistrate. "You should have produced
your defence then and there, when and where you were accused; but as you
did not appear at the appointed time, and obstinately procrastinated,
you must listen to the sentence. All those boys and girls brought up
within your premises must be taken into the country town and baptized
according to the ordinances of religion."

"Could not the matter be finished here at once by the spring?"

The magistrate was beside himself with anger. But the good lawyer only
smiled and said:

"Pray, sir, show a little common sense. The County Court compels none,
against his will, to be a Christian: still one must belong to some
religion. So if your lordship will not take the trouble to go with his
household to the 'pater,' well, we shall take him to the rabbi: that
will do just as well."

Topandy laughingly shook a menacing fist at the lawyer.

"You're a great gibbet! You always manage me. Well, let us rather go to
the 'pater' than to the rabbi; but at least let my servants keep their
old names."

"That is also inadmissible," answered the magistrate severely. "You have
given your servants names, of a kind not usually borne by men. One is
called Pirok,[23] another Czinke:[24] the name of one little girl--God
save the mark--is Beelzebub! Who would register such names as these?
They will all receive respectable names to be found in the Christian
calendar; and any one, who dares to call them by the names they have
hitherto borne shall pay as great a fine as if he had purposely
calumniated a fellow-man. How many are there whom you have kept back in
this manner from the water of Christianity?"

[Footnote 23: Chaffinch.]

[Footnote 24: Titmouse, names of birds given as pet names to these
servants.]

"Four butlers, three maid-servants and two parrots."

"Perjurer! Your every word is spittle in the face of the true
believers."

"Oh, gag me. I beg you to save me from perjury."

"Kindly call the people in question."

Topandy turned round and called to his butler who stood behind him:

"Produce Pirok, Estergalyos,[25] Sepruenyel,[26] then Kakukfue,[27] and
Macskalab;[28] comfort them with the news that they are going to enter
Heaven, and will receive a fur-coat, a pair of boots, and a good gourd,
from which the wine will never fail: all the gift of the honorable
County Court."

[Footnote 25: Turner.]

[Footnote 26: Broom.]

[Footnote 27: Thyme.]

[Footnote 28: Catsfoot.]

"For my part," said the young representative of the law, standing on
tip-toe, "I must ask you seriously to answer, with the moderation due to
our presence, have you hidden any one?"

"Whether I have stolen away someone on hell's account? No, my dear
fellow, I don't court Satan's acquaintance either: let him catch men for
himself, if he can."

"I have a mandatum for your examination on oath."

"Keep your mandatum in your pocket, and measure out thirty florins'
worth of oats from my granary: that's the fine. For I don't intend to be
examined on oath."

"Indeed?"

"Of course. If you bid me, I will swear: I'm a rare hand at it; I can
swear for half an hour at a stretch without repeating myself."

Again the smiling lawyer intervened:

"Give us your word of honor, then, that besides those produced, there is
no servant in your household who has not yet been baptized."

"Well, I give you my word of honor that there is not 'in my household'
even a living creature who is a pagan."

Topandy's word of honor only just escaped being broken for that
gypsy-girl, whom he had bought in her sixth year from encamping gypsies
for two dollars and a sucking pig, now, ten years later, did not belong
any more to the household, but presided at table when gentlefolk came to
dinner. But she still bore that heathen name, which she had received in
the reedy thicket. She was still called Czipra.

And the godless fellow had snatched her away from the water of
Christianity.

"Has the honorable Court any other complaint to make against me?"

"Yes, indeed. Not merely do you force your household to be pagan, but
you are accused of disturbing in their religious services others who
make no secret of their devout feelings."

"For example?"

"Just opposite you is the courtyard of Mr. Nepomuk John Sarvoelgyi,[29]
who is a very righteous man."

[Footnote 29: Mud-valley.]

"As far as I know, quite the opposite: he is always praying, a fact
which proves that his sins must be very numerous."

"It is not your business to judge him. In our common world it is a
merit, if someone dares to display to the public eye the fact that he
still respects religion, and it is the duty of the law to protect him."

"Well, and how have I scandalized the good fellow?"

"Not long ago Mr. Sarvoelgyi had a large Saint Nepomuk painted on the
facade of his house, in oils on a sheet of bronze, and before the chief
figure he was himself painted, in a kneeling position."

"I know: I saw it."

"From the lips of St. Nepomuk was flowing down in 'lapidarig' letters to
the kneeling figure the following Latin saying: 'Mi fili, ego te nunquam
deseram.'"

"I read the words."

"An iron grating was placed before the picture, and covered the whole
niche, that infamous hands might not be able to touch it."

"A very wise idea."

"One morning following a very stormy night, to the astonishment of all,
the Latin inscription had disappeared from the picture, and in its place
there stood: 'Soon thou wilt pass from before me, thou old hypocrite!'"


"I can't help it, if the person in question changed his views."

"Why, certainly you can help it. The painter who prepared that picture,
upon being cross-questioned, confessed and publicly affirmed that, in
consideration of a certain sum of money paid by you, he had painted the
latter inscription in oils, and over it, in water-colours, the former:
so that the first shower washed off the upper surface from the picture,
making the honest, zealous fellow an object of ridicule and contempt in
his own house. Do you believe, sir, that such practical jokes are not
punished by the hand of justice?"

"I am not in the habit of believing much."

"Among other things, however, you are bound to believe that justice will
condemn you, first to pay a fine for blackmail; secondly, to pay for the
repairs your tricks have made necessary."

"I don't see an atom of plaintiff's counsel here."

"Because plaintiff left the amount due him to the pleasure of the Court,
to be devoted to charitable purposes."

"Good: then please break into the granaries."

"That we shall not do," interrupted the lawyer: "later on we shall take
it out of the 'regalia.'"

Topandy laughed.

"My dear, good magistrate. Do you believe all that is in the Bible?"

"I am a true Christian."

"Then I appeal to your faith. In one place it stands that some invisible
hand wrote, in the room of some pagan king--Belshazzar, if the story be
true,--the following words,'Mene, Tekel, Upharsin.' If that hand could
write then, why could it not now have written that second saying? And if
it was the rain that washed away the righteous fellow's words, you must
accuse the rain, for the fault lies there."

"These are indeed very weighty counter-charges: and you might have
declared them all before the Court, to which you were summoned: you
might have appealed even to the septemvirate, but as you did not appear
then, you must bear the consequences of your obstinacy."

"Good; I shall pay the price," said Topandy laughing:--"But it was a
good joke on my part after all, wasn't it?"

The magistrate showed an angry countenance.

"There will be other good jokes, too. Kindly wait until the end."

"Is the list of crimes still longer?"

"A severe enquiry into the sources would never find an end. The gravest
charge against you is the profanation of holy places."

"I profane some holy place? Why, for twenty years I have not been in the
precincts even of a church steeple."

"You desecrated a place used long ago for holy ceremonies by riotous
revels."

"Oh, you mean that, do you? Let us make distinctions, if you please.
Great is the difference between place and place. Do you mean the convent
of the Red Brothers? That is no church. The late Emperor Joseph drove
them out, and their property was put up to auction by the State,
together with all the buildings situate thereon. Thus it was that I came
into possession of the convent garden: I was there at the auction; I bid
and it was knocked down to me. There were buildings on it, but whether
any kind of church had been there I do not know, for they took away all
the movables, and I found only bare walls. No kind of 'servitus'
(engagement), as to what I would use the building for, had been included
in the agreement of purchase. In this matter I know of others who were
no more scrupulous. I know of a convent at Maria-Eich,[30] where in
place of the ancient altar stands the peasant-chimney, and here the
Swabian, into whose hands this honorable antiquity passed, keeps his
maize; why, in a town beside the Danube may be seen what was once a
convent, the 'aerarium' of which has been turned into a hospital."

[Footnote 30: A place in Austria where sacred relics exist.]

"Examples cannot help you. If the Swabian peasant keeps 'the blessing of
God' in that place, from which they had once prayed for it, that is not
profanity: the 'aerarium' too is pursuing an office of righteousness, in
nursing bodily sufferings in the place where once mental sufferings
gained comfort; but you have had disgusting pictures painted all over
the walls that have come into your possession."

"I beg your pardon, the subjects are all chosen from classical
literature: illustrations to the poems of Beranger and Lafontaine--'Mon
Cure,' 'Les Clefs Du Paradis,' 'Les Capulier,' 'Les Cordeliers Du
Catalogue,' etc. Every subject a pious one."

"I know: I am acquainted with the originals of them. You may cover the
walls of your own rooms with them, if you please: but I have brought
four stone-workers with me, who, according to the judgment of the Court,
are to erase all those pictures."

"Genuine iconoclasm!" guffawed Topandy, who found great amusement in
arousing a whole county against him by his caprices. "Iconoclasts!
Picture-destroyers!"

"There is something else we are going to destroy!" continued the
magistrate. "In that place there was a crypt. What has become of it?"

"It is a crypt still."

"What is in it?"

"What is usually in a crypt: dead men of hallowed memory, who are lying
in wooden coffins and waiting for the great awakening."

The magistrate made a face of doubt. He did not know whether to believe
or not.

"And when you and your revelling companions hold your Bacchanalia
there?"

"I object to the word 'Bacchanalia.'"

"True, it is still more. I should have used a stronger expression for
that riot, when in scandalous undress, carrying in front a steak on a
spit, the whole company sings low songs such as 'Megalljon Kend'[31]
and 'Hetes, nyloczas,'[32] and in this guise makes scandalous
processions from castle to cloister."

[Footnote 31: "Stop (you)," "Kend" being the pleasant abbreviation for
"Kegyed," one method of addressing (literally "your grace"),
corresponding to our "you."]

[Footnote 32: "Seven and eight," referring to the number on the playing
cards: the Austrian National Hymn is sung by great patriots to these
words: the "king" and "ace" being the highest two cards, come together;
and this is in Magyar kiraly (king), diszno (ace); is also "swein."]

"The authorities must indeed be greatly embittered against me, if they
see anything scandalous in the fact that a body of good-humored men
undress to the skin, when they are warm. As far as the so-called low
songs are concerned, they have such innocent words, they might be
printed in a book, while the melodies are very pious."

"The scandal is just that, that you parody pious songs, setting them to
trivial words. Tell me what is the good of singing the eight cards of
the pack[33] as a hymn. And if you are in a good humor, why do you go
with it to the crypt?"

[Footnote 33: In Magyar cards the pack begins with the 7.]

"You know we go there for a little mumony feast."

"Yes, for a little 'Mumon,'" interrupted the lawyer.

"That's just what I meant," said the atheist, laughing.

"What?" roared the magistrate, who now began to understand the enigma of
the dead lying in their wooden coffins: "perhaps that is a cellar?"

"Of course: I never had a better cellar than that."

"And the dead, and the coffins?"

"Twenty-five round coffins, full of wine. Come, my dear sir, taste them
all. I assure you you won't regret it."

The magistrate was now really in a fury: fury made a lion of him, so
that he was quite capable of tearing his wrists by sheer force out of
the imprisoning hands.

"An end to all familiarity! You stand before the authority of the law,
with whom you cannot trifle. Give me the keys of the cloister, that I
may clean the profaned place."

"Please break open the door."

"Would you not be sorry to ruin a patent lock?" suggested the lawyer.

"Well, promise me that you will taste at least 'one' brand: then I will
open the door, for I don't intend to open any door under the title of
'cloister,' but any number under the title of 'cellar;' and in that case
I shall pay in ready money."

The worthy lawyer tugged at the magistrate's sleeve; prudence yielded,
and there are bounds to severity, too.

"Very well, the lawyer will taste the wine, but I am no drinker."

Topandy whispered some words in his butler's ears, whereupon that worthy
suddenly disappeared.

"So you see, my dear fellow, we are agreed at last: now I should like to
see the account of how much I owe to the county for my slight upon the
Brotherhood."

"Here is the calculation: two hundred florins with costs, which amount
to three florins, thirty kreuzer."

(This happened thirty years ago.)

"Further?"

"Further, the repair of the damage caused by you, the expenses of the
present expedition, the daily pay and sustenance of the stone-masons
aforesaid: making in all a sum total of two hundred and forty-three
florins, forty kreuzers."

"A large sum, but I shall produce it from somewhere."

With the words Topandy drew out from his chest a drawer, and carrying it
bodily as it was, put it down on the great walnut table, before the
authorities of the law.

"Here it is!"

The interesting members of the law first drew back in alarm, and then
commenced to roar with laughter. That drawer was filled with--I cannot
express it in one word--but generally speaking--with paper.

A great variety of aged bank notes, some before the depreciation of
value, others of a late date, still in currency: long bank-notes, black
bank-notes, red spotted bank-notes; then, old cards: Hungarian, Swiss,
French; old theatre-tickets, market pictures, the well-known product of
street-humor; the tailor riding on a goat, the devil taking off bad
women, a portrait of the long-moustached mayor of Nuremberg: a pile of
envelopes, all heaped together in a huddle.

That was Topandy's savings bank.

He would always spend silver and gold money, but money paid to him in
bank-notes, which he had to accept, he would put by year by year among
this collection of cards, funny pictures, and theatrical programmes;
this heap of value was never disturbed except when, as at present, some
enforced visit had to be put up with, some so-called "execution."

"Please, help yourselves."

"What?" cried the magistrate. "Must we pick out the value from the
non-value in this rubbish?"

"Now I am not so well-informed an expert as to distinguish what is
recalled from what is still in circulation. Still my good friend is
right, it is my duty to count out, yours to receive."

Then he plunged his hand into the treasure-heap, and counted over the
bits of paper.

"This is good, this is not. This is still new, this is surely torn.
Here's a five florin, here a ten florin note. This is the Knave of
Hearts."

A little discussion occurred when he counted a label that had been
removed from an old champagne bottle, as a ten florin note.

The gentlemen took exception to that: it must be thrown away.

"What, is this not money? It must be money. It is a French bank-note.
There is written on it ten florins. Cliquot will pay if you take it to
him."

Then he began to explain several comical pictures, and bargained with
the authorities--how much would they give for them? he had paid a big
price for them.

Finally the worthy lawyer had again to intervene: otherwise this
liquidation might have lasted till the following evening; then, after a
strict search in a critical manner, he withdrew two hundred and
forty-three florins from the pile.

"A little water if you please, I should like to wash my hands," said the
lawyer after his work, feeling like one who has separated the raw wheat
from the tares.

"Like Pilate after passing judgment," jested Topandy. "You shall have
all you want at once. Already there is an end to the legal manipulation:
we are no longer 'legale testimonium' and 'incattus,' but guest and
host."

"God forbid," repudiated the magistrate retiring towards the door. "We
did not come in that guise. We do not wish to trouble you any longer."

"Trouble indeed!" said the accused, guffawing. "What, do you think this
matter has been any trouble to me?--on the contrary, the most exquisite
amusement! This annoyance of the county against me I would not sell for
a thousand florins. It was glorious. 'Execution!' Legally erased
pictures! An investigation into my private behavior! I shall live for a
year on this joke. And you will see, my friends, I shall do so again
soon. I shall find out some plan for getting them to take me in irons to
the Court: a battalion of soldiers shall come for me, and they shall
make me the son of the warden! Ha! ha! May I be damned if I don't
succeed in my project! If they would but put me in prison for a year,
and make me saw wood in the courtyard of the County Court, and clean the
boots of the Lieutenant Governor. That is a capital idea! I shall not
die until I reach that."

In the meantime a butler arrived with the water, while a second opened
another door and invited the guests with much ceremony to partake in the
pleasure of the table.

"Her ladyship invites the honorable gentlemen's company at dejeuner."

The magistrate looked in perplexity at the lawyer, who turned to the
basin and hid his laughing face in his hands.

"You are married?" the magistrate enquired of Topandy.

"Oh dear no," he answered, "she is not my wife, but my sister."

"But we are invited to dinner in the neighborhood."

"By Mr. Sarvoelgyi? That does not matter. If a man wishes to dine at
Sarvoelgyi's, he will be wise to have dejeuner first. Besides I have your
word to drink a glass as a 'conditio sine qua non;' besides a chivalrous
man cannot refuse the invitation of a lady."

The last pretext was conclusive; it was impossible to refuse a lady's
invitation, even if a man has armed force at his command. He is obliged
to yield to the superior power.

The magistrate allowed the third attempt to succeed, and was dragged by
the arm into the dining-room.

Topandy audibly bade the butlers look after the wants of the gendarmes
and stone-masons, and give them enough to eat and drink: and, when our
friend, the magistrate, prepared to object, interrupted him with:
"Kindly remember the 'execution' is over, and consider that those good
fellows are tearing off plaster from the cloister walls, and the
paint-dust will go to their lungs: and it shall not be my fault if any
harm touches the upholders of public security. This way, if you please:
here comes my sister."

Through the opposite door came the above mentioned "ladyship."

She could not have been taken for more than fifteen years old: she was
wearing a pure white dress, trimmed with lace, according to the fashion
of the time, and bound round her slender waist with a broad rose-colored
riband; her complexion was brunette, and pale, in contrast to her ruddy
round lips, which allowed to flash between their velvet surfaces the
most lovely pearly set of teeth imaginable: her two thick eyebrows
almost met on her brow, and below her long eyelashes two restless black
eyes beamed forth: like coal, that is partly aglow.

Sir Magistrate was surprised that Topandy had such a young sister.

"My guests," said Topandy, presenting the servants of the law to her
ladyship.

"Oh! I know," remarked the young lady in a gay light-hearted tone. "You
have come to put in an 'execution' against his lordship. You did quite
right: you ought to treat him so. You don't know the hundredth part of
his godless dealings. For did you know, you would long since have
beheaded him three times over."

The magistrate found this sincere expression of sisterly opinion most
remarkable; still, notwithstanding that he took his seat beside her
ladyship.

The table was piled with cold viands and old wines.

Her ladyship entertained the magistrate with conversation and tasty
tit-bits, meanwhile the lawyer was quietly drinking his glasses with the
host,--nor was it necessary to ask him to help himself.

"Believe me," remarked her ladyship: "if this man ever reaches hell,
they will give him a special room, so great are his merits. I have
already grown tired of trying to reform him."

"Has your ladyship been staying long in this house?" enquired the
magistrate.

"Oh, ten years already."

("How old could the lady have been then?" the magistrate thought to
himself: but he could not answer.)

"Just imagine what he does. A few days ago he put up an old saint among
the vines as a scarecrow, with a broken hat on his head."

The magistrate turned with a movement of scorn towards the accused. It
would not be good for him if that, too, came to the ears of the Court.

"Do not speak, for you do not understand what you're saying," replied
Topandy by way of explanation. "It was an ugly statue of Pilate, a
relic of the ancient Calvary."[34]

[Footnote 34: Many such Calvaries exist in Hungary: they may be seen by
the roadside, and are used as places of pilgrimage by pious peasants and
others: there is always a picture of Christ crucified or a figure of the
same.]

"Well, and wasn't that holy?" enquired the flashing-eyed damsel.

The magistrate began to rise from his chair. (Her ladyship must have had
a curious education if she did not even know who Pilate was.)

Topandy broke out in unrestrained laughter. Then, as if he desired by an
earnest word to repair the insult his language had given, he said to the
lady with a pious face:

"Well, if you are right, was it not a gracious act on my part to give a
permanent occupation to such an honest fellow, who had been degraded
from office; and as he was bare-headed I gave him a hat to protect him
against changes of the weather. However, don't treat our friend to a
series of incriminations, but rather to that deer-steak; you see he does
not venture to taste it."

Her ladyship did as she was told.

The magistrate was obliged to eat: in the first place because it was a
beautiful woman that offered the viands to him, secondly because
everything she offered was so good. He had to drink, too, because she
kept filling his glass and calling on him to "clink" with her, herself
setting the example. She drained that sparkling liquor from her glass
just as if it had been pure water. And those wines were truly remarkably
strong. The magistrate could not refuse the appeal of her ladyship's
beautiful eyes.

"Forbidden fruit is sweet." The magistrate experienced the truth of the
saying keenly, in so far as one may place among forbidden fruit the
_dejeuner_ of which a man partakes in the house of a godless fellow,
destroying his appetite for the ensuing dinner to which he is invited by
a pious man.

The courses seemed endless: cold viands were followed by hot, and the
beautiful young damsel could offer so kindly, that the magistrate was
powerless to resist.

"Just a little of this 'majoraine' sausage. I myself made it yesterday
evening."

The magistrate was astonished. Her ladyship busied herself with such
things? When the sausage had disappeared, he made a remark about it.

"Yet no one would imagine that these delicate hands could busy
themselves with other things than sewing, piano-playing, and the turning
over of gold-bordered leaves. Have you read the almanacs of the
parliament?"

At this question Topandy burst into loud laughter, while the lawyer
covered his mouth with his napkin, the laughter stuck in his throat: the
magistrate could not imagine what there could be to ridicule in this
question.

Her ladyship answered quite unconsciously:

"Oh! there are some fine airs in it: I know them. If you will listen, I
will sing them."

The magistrate thought there must be some misunderstanding: still, if
her ladyship cared to sing, he would be only too delighted to listen.

"Which do you want 'Vienna Town' or 'Rose-bud?'"

"Both," said the host, "and into the bargain the latest parliamentary
air, 'Come Down from the Cross, and Fly to the Poplar-tree.' But let us
go out of the dining-room to hear the songs; the forks and plates are
rattling too much here: we'll go to my sister's room. There she will
sing to the accompaniment of a Magyar piano. Have you ever seen a Magyar
piano, my friend?"

"I don't remember having done so."

"Well, it is beautiful: you must hear it. My sister plays it
wonderfully."

The magistrate offered his arm to her ladyship, and the company entered
the next room, which was the lady's apartment.

It was an elegant, finely-decorated room, with mahogany and ebony
furniture, richly carved and gilded, with huge glass-panelled chests,
and heavy silk curtains yet there was a striking difference between this
room and those of other ladies; all these expensive draperies, as far as
their form and ordering was concerned, did not at all correspond with
the usual appanage of a boudoir.

In one corner stood a loom of mahogany, richly inlaid with ivory: it was
still covered with some half-finished work, in which flowers,
butterflies, and birds had been worked with remarkable refinement.

"You see," said the lady, "this is my work-table. I am responsible also
for that table-cloth on which we breakfasted to-day."

Indeed she had received an unusual education.

Beside the loom was a spinning wheel.

"And this is my library," said the lady, pointing to the cupboards
against the wall.

Through the glass panels was to be seen a host of every kind of culinary
bottles. On the bottom shelf the great folios; every kind of vinegar
that grows in hot-houses; the second row was full of preserved
cucumbers; and then on the top shelf different sorts of confitures in
brilliant perfection; last of all, a row of fruit extracts was visible,
in colors as numerous as the bottles that contained them.

"A magnificent library!" said the lawyer. But the magistrate could not
yet clearly make out what kind of lady it might be, who called such
things a library.

The heavy velvet curtains, which made a kind of tent of the alcove, also
had their secret: the young lady; raised the curtain and said naively,

"This is my sleeping place."

An embroidered quilt laid out on a plank, nothing more.

Indeed, a curious, most remarkable education.

Beside the bed stood a large copper cage.

"This is my pet bird," said the fair lady, pointing at the creature
within.

It was a large black cock, which rose angrily as the strangers
approached, and crowed in an agonized manner, shaking its red comb
furiously.

"You see, this is my old comrade, who takes care of me! and is at the
same time my clock, waking me at daybreak." And the lady's look became
quite tender, as she placed her hand on the wrathful creature. At her
gentle touch the bird clucked his satisfaction.

"When I go outside, he accompanies me, loose, like a dog."

The black monster, as long as he saw strangers, only noted in quiet
tones the fact that he had remarked their presence, but as soon as
Topandy stepped forward, he suddenly broke out into a clarion cry, as if
he wished to arouse every hen-roost in the property to the fact that
there was a fox in the garden. Every feather on his neck stood bolt
upright, like a Spanish shirt-collar.

"He will soon be quiet," the young lady assured the guests:--"for he
will listen to music."

So we are about to see the Magyar piano? It was but a "czimbalom."[35]
It is true that it was a marvellous work of art, inlaid with ebony and
mother-of-pearl; the nails on which the strings were stretched were of
silver, the groundwork a mosaic of coloured woods; the two drumsticks
lying upon the strings had handles of red coral; the stand on which the
"czimbalom" rested was a marvellously perfected specimen of the
carpenter's art, giving a strong tone to the instrument; and before it
was a little, round, armless chair covered with red velvet, its feet
golden tiger-claws. Yet it was certainly strange that a young lady
should play the "czimbalom," that country instrument which they are
wont to carry under the covering of a ragged coat, and to place upon
inn-tables, or up-turned barrels.--Here it appeared among mahogany
furniture, to serve as accompaniment to a young lady's voice, while she
herself with her delicate fingers beat the melody out of the plaintive
instrument for all the world as if she were seated beside a piano.
Incongruous enough, for we have always thought of the "czimbalom-artist"
as a gawky bushy-bearded fellow with the indispensable short-stemmed
clay-pipe--all burned out and being sucked only for its bitter taste.

[Footnote 35: The peculiar and characteristic Magyar instrument which is
indispensable to every gypsy orchestra, taking the place of harp and
piano. It is in the form of a zither of large size, played with padded
sticks, and forms the foundation of these wandering bands.]

And the whole "czimbalom" playing is such a jest, so grotesque; the
player's arms jerk and wave continuously; his whole shoulder and head
are in perpetual motion; whereas, with the piano, the five fingers do
all; the artist's relation to the piano is that of my lord to his
children, whom he addresses from a far-off height; the czimbalom-player
is "_per tu_" with his instrument.

But the young lady had the grace of one born to the instrument. As she
took the sticks in her hands and struck a chord upon the outstretched
strings, her face assumed a new expression; so far, we must confess,
there had been much "naivete" in it, now she felt at home; this was her
world.

She sang two songs to the guests, both taken from what are called in our
country "Parliamentary airs;" they used to break forth in "juratus"
coffee-houses, during the sitting of Parliament, when there was more
spirit in the youths of the country than now.

The one had a fine impassioned refrain: "From Vienna town, from west to
east, the wind hath a cold blast." The end of it was that the Danube
water is bitter, for at Pressburg many bitter tears have flowed into it,
"Which the great ones of our land have shed, because Ragalyi was not
sent to be ambassador." Now patriots are more sparing with their tears;
but in those days much bitterness was expressed with the air of "Vienna
town."

The other air was "Rose-bud, laurel," which had also a pretty refrain;
it is full of such expressions as "altars of freedom," "angels of
freedom," "wreaths of freedom," and other such mythological things. How
the strings responded to the young woman's touch, what expression was in
her refrain! It was as if she felt the meaning of those beautiful
"flosculi" best of all, and must suffer more than all for them.

Then she introduced a third parliamentary song, the contents of which
were satirical; but the satire was purely local and personal, and would
not be intelligible to people of modern days.

Topandy was inexpressibly pleased by it: he asked for it again. Someone
had ridiculed the priests in it, but in such a manner that no one,
unless he had had it explained could understand it.

The magistrate was quite enraptured by the simple instrument; he would
never have believed that anyone could play it with such masterly skill.

"Tell me," he asked her ladyship, not being able any longer to conceal
his astonishment, "where you learned to play this instrument."

At these words her ladyship broke into such a fit of laughter, that, if
she had not suddenly steadied herself with her feet against the
czimbalom stand, she would have fallen over. As it was, her hair being,
according to the fashion of the day, coiled up "a la Giraffe" round a
high comb, and the comb falling from her head, her two tresses of raven
hair fell waving over her shoulders to the floor.

At this the young lady discontinued laughing, and not succeeding at all
in her efforts to place her dishevelled hair around the comb again,
suddenly twisted it together on her head and fastened it with a spindle
she snatched from the spinning wheel.

Then to recover her previous high spirits, she again took up the
czimbalom sticks, and began to play some quiet melody on the instrument.

It was no song, no variations on well-known airs; it was some marvellous
reverie; a frameless picture, a landscape without horizon. A plaint, in
a voice rather playful over something serious that is long past, and
that can never come back again, avowed to no one by word of mouth, only
handed down from generation to generation on the resounding strings--the
song of the beggar who denies that he has ever been king:--the song of
the wanderer, who denies that he ever had a home and yet remembers it,
and the pain of the recollection is heard in the song. No one knows or
understands, perhaps not even the player, who merely divines it and
meditates thereon. It is the desert wind, of which no one knows whence
it comes and whither it goes; the driving cloud, of which no one knows
whence it arose, and whither it disappears. A homeless, unsubstantial,
immaterial bitterness ... a flowerless, echoless, roadless desert ...
full of mirages.

The magistrate would have listened till evening, no matter what became
of the neighbor's dinner, if Topandy had not interrupted him with the
sceptical remark that this lengthened steel wire has far more soul than
a certain two-footed creature, who affirms that he was the image of God.

And thus he again drew the attention of the worthy gentleman to the fact
that he was in the home of a denier of God.

Then they heard the mid-day curfew, which made the black cock, with
fluttering wings, begin his monotonous clarion, for all the world like
the bugle call of some watch-tower, whose _taran-tara!_ gives the sign
to its inhabitants.

At this the lady's face suddenly lost its sad expression of melancholy;
she put down the czimbalom-sticks, leaped up from her chair, and with
natural sincerity asked,

"It was a beautiful song, was it not?"

"Indeed it was. What is it?"

"Hush! that you may not ask."

The lawyer had to call the magistrate's attention to the fact that it
was already time to depart, as there was still another "entertainment"
in store for them.

At this they all laughed.

"I am very sorry that it was my fortune to make your acquaintance, on
such an occasion as the present," said the young officer of the law, as
he bade farewell, and shook hands with his host.

"But I rejoice at the honor, and I hope I may have the pleasure of
seeing you again--on the occasion of the next 'execution'."

Then the magistrate turned to her ladyship, to thank her for her kind
hospitality.

To do so he sought the young lady's hand with intention to kiss it; but
before he could fulfill his intention, her ladyship suddenly threw her
arms around his neck and imprinted as healthy a kiss on his face as
anyone could possibly wish for.

The magistrate was rather frightened than rejoiced at this unexpected
present. Her ladyship had indeed peculiar habits. He scarcely knew how
he arrived in the road; true, the wine had affected his head a little,
for he was not used to it.

From Topandy's castle to Sarvoelgyi's residence one had to cross a long
field of clover.

The lawyer led his colleague as far as the gate of this field by the
arm, sauntering along by his side. But, as soon as they were within the
garden, Mr. Buczkay said to the magistrate:

"Please go in front, I will follow behind; I must remain behind a little
to laugh myself out."

Thereupon he sat down on the ground, clasped his hands over his stomach,
and commenced to guffaw; he threw himself flat upon the grass, kicking
the earth with his feet, and shouting with merriment the while.

The young officer of the law was beside himself with vexation, as he
reflected: "This man is horribly tipsy; how can I enter the house of
such a righteous man with a drunken fellow?"

Then when Mr. Buczkay had given satisfaction to the demands of his
nature, according to which his merriment, repressed almost to the
bursting point, was obliged to break loose in a due proportion of
laughter, he rose again from the earth, dusted his clothes, and with the
most serious countenance under the sun said, "Well, we can proceed
now."

Sarvoelgyi's house was unlike Magyar country residences, in that the
latter had their doors night and day on the latch, with at most a couple
of bulldogs on guard in the courtyard--and these were there only with
the intention of imprinting the marks of their muddy paws on the coats
of guests by way of tenderness. Sarvoelgyi's residence was completely
encircled with a stone wall, like some town building: the gate and small
door always closed, and the stone wall crowned with a continuous row of
iron nails:--and,--what is unheard of in country residences--there was a
bell at the door which he who desired to enter had to ring.

The gentlemen rang for a good quarter of an hour at that door, and the
lawyer was convinced that no one would come to open it; finally
footsteps were heard in the hall, and a hoarse, shrill woman's voice
began to make enquiries of those without.

"Who is there?"

"We are."

"Who are 'we'?"

"The guests."

"What guests?"

"The magistrate and the lawyer."

Thereupon the bolts were slipped back with difficulty, and the
questioner appeared. She was, as far as age was concerned, a little
"beyond the vintage." She wore a dirty white kitchen apron, and below
that a second blue kitchen apron, and below that again a third dappled
apron. It was this woman's custom to put on as many dirty aprons as
possible.

"Good day, Mistress Boris," was the lawyer's greeting. "Why, you hardly
wished to let us in."

"I crave your pardon. I heard the bell ring, but could not come at once.
I had to wait until the fish was ready. Besides, so many bad men are
hereabouts, wandering beggars, 'Arme Reisenden,'[36] that one must
always keep the door closed, and ask 'who is there?'"

[Footnote 36: Poor travellers.]

"It is well, my dear Boris. Now go and look after that fish, that it
may not burn; we shall soon find the master somewhere. Has he finished
his devotions?"

"Yes; but he has surely commenced anew. The bells are ringing the
death-toll, and at such times he is accustomed to say one extra prayer
for the departed soul. Don't disturb him, I beg, or he will grumble the
whole day."

Mistress Boris conducted the gentlemen into a large room, which, to
judge from the table ready laid, served as dining room, though the
intruder might have taken it for an oratory, so full was it of pictures
of those hallowed ones, whom we like to drag down to ourselves, it being
too fatiguing to rise up to them.

And in that idea there is much that is sublime. A picture of Christ in
the mourning widow's chamber; a "mater dolorosa," in the distracted
mother's home; a "kerchief" of the Holy Virgin, spotlessly white, like
the glorious spirit, above the bed of olden times, are surely elevating,
and honorable presences, the recollections which lead us to them are
holy and imperishable, as is the devotion which bows the knee before
them. But a repugnant sight is the home of the Pharisee, who surrounds
himself with holy images that men may behold them.

Sarvoelgyi allowed his guests to wait a long time, though they were, as
it happened, not at all impatient.

Great ringing of bells announced his coming; this being a sign he was
accustomed to give to the kitchen, that the dinner could be served. Soon
he appeared.

He was a tall, dry man, of slight stature, and so small was his head
that one could scarce believe it could serve for the same purposes as
another man's. His smoothly shaven face did not betray his age; the skin
of his cheeks was oil yellow, his mouth small, his shoulders rounded,
his nose large, mal-formed and unpleasantly crooked.

He shook hands very cordially with his guests; he had long had the honor
of the lawyer's acquaintance, but it was his supreme pleasure to see the
magistrate to-day for the first time. But he was extremely courteous,
not a feature of his countenance betraying any emotion.

The magistrate seemed determined not to say a word. So the brunt of the
conversation fell on the lawyer.

"We have happily concluded the 'execution'."

That was naturally the most convenient topic for the commencement of the
conversation.

"I am sorry enough that it had to be so," sighed Sarvoelgyi. "Apart from
the fact that Topandy is unceasingly persecuting me, I respect and like
him very much. I only wish he would turn over a new leaf. He would be an
excellent fellow. I know I made a great mistake when I accused him out
of mere self-love. I am sorry I did so. I ought to have followed the
command of scripture, 'If he smite thee on thy right cheek, offer him
thy left cheek also.'"

"Under such circumstances there would be very few criminal processes for
the courts to consider."

"I confess I rejoiced this morning when the commission of execution
arrived. I felt an inward happiness, due to the fact that this foe of
mine had fallen, that he was trampled under my feet. I thought: he is
now gnashing his teeth and snapping at the heels of justice that stamp
upon his head. And I was glad if it. Yet my gladness was sinful, for no
one may rejoice at the destruction of the fallen, and the righteous
cannot be glad at the danger of a fellow creature. It was a sin for
which I must atone."

The simplest atonement, thought the lawyer, would be for him to return
the amount of the fine.

"For this I have inflicted a punishment upon myself," said Sarvoelgyi,
piously bowing his head. "Oh, I have always punished myself for any
misdemeanor, I now condemn myself to one day's fasting. My punishment
will be, to sit here beside the table and watch the whole dinner,
without touching anything myself."

It will be very fine! thought the lawyer. He is determined to fast,
while we have taken our fill yonder. So we shall all look at the whole
dinner, without tasting anything,--and Mistress Boris will sweep us out
of the house.

"My friend the magistrate's head is doubtless aching after his great
official fatigue!" Sarvoelgyi said, hitting the nail right on the head.

"It is indeed true," remarked the lawyer assuringly. The young official
was in need rather of rest than of feasting. There are good, blessed
mortals, whom two glasses of wine immediately send to sleep, and to whom
it is the most exquisite torture to be obliged to remain awake.

"My suggestion is," said the lawyer, "that it would be good for the
magistrate to repose in an armchair and rest himself, until the cleaning
of the cloister is finished, and we can again take our seats in the
carriage."

"Sleep is the gift of Heaven," said the man of piety: "it would be a sin
to steal it from a fellow-man. Kindly make yourself comfortable at once
in this room."

It was an extremely difficult process to make oneself comfortable on
that apology for an arm-chair; it seemed to have been prepared as a
resting place for ascetics and body-torturers: still the magistrate sat
down in it, craved pardon,--and fell asleep. And then he dreamed that he
saw before him again that laid-out table, where one guest sat two yards
from the other while all round holy pictures were hanging on the walls,
with their faces turned away, as if they did not wish to gaze upon the
scene. In the middle of the room there was hanging from the ceiling a
heavy chandelier with twelve branches, and on it was swaying the host
himself.

What a cursed foolery is a dream! The host was actually sitting there
vis-a-vis with the lawyer, at the other end of the long table; for
Mistress Boris had so laid the places. And as the magistrate's place
remained empty, host and guest sat so far apart that the one was
incapable of helping the other.

At last the door opened, with such a delicate creaking that the lawyer
thought somebody was ringing to be admitted:--It was Mistress Boris
bringing in the soup.

The lawyer was determined to make some sacrifice, in order to maintain
the dignity of the "legale testimonium," by dining a second time. He
thought himself capable of this heroic deed.

He was deceived.

There is a peculiarity of the Magyar which has not yet been the subject
of song: his stomach will not stand certain things.

This a stranger cannot understand: it is a "specificum."

When Voeroesmarty sang that "in the great world outside there is no place
for thee,"[37] he found it unnecessary to add the reason for that, which
every man knows without his telling them:--"in every land abroad they
cook with butter."

[Footnote 37: From the celebrated Szozat (appeal) calling on the
Hungarian to be true to his fatherland.]

A Magyar stomach detests what is buttery. He becomes melancholy and
sickly from it; he runs away from the very mention of it, and if some
sly housekeeper deceitfully gives him buttery things to eat, all his
life long he considers that as an attempt upon his life, and will never
again sit down to such a poison-mixer's table.

You may place him where you like abroad, still he will long to return
from the cursed butter-smelling world, and if he cannot he grows thin
and fades away: and like the giraffe in the European climate, he cannot
reproduce his kind in a foreign land. Roughly speaking, all his
neighbors cook with butter, oil and dripping: and "be harsh or kind, the
hand of fate, here thou must live, here die."[38]

[Footnote 38: Also from the "Szozat."]

The lawyer was a true Magyar of the first water. And when he perceived
that the crab soup was made with butter, he put down his spoon beside
his plate and said he could not eat crabs. Since he had learned that the
crab was nought else but a beetle living in water, and since a company
had been formed in Germany for making beetles into preserves for
dessert, he had been unable to look with undismayed eye upon these
retrograde monsters.

"Ach, take it away, Boris," sighed the host. He himself was not eating,
for was he not atoning for his sins?

Mistress Boris removed the dish with an expression of violent anger.

Just imagine a housekeeper, whose every ambition is the kitchen, when
her first dish is despatched away from the table without being touched.

The second dish--eggs stuffed with sardines--suffered the same fate.

The lawyer declared on his word of honor that they had buried his
grandfather for tasting a dish of sardines, and that every female in the
family immediately went into spasms from the smell of the same. He would
rather eat a whale than a sardine.

"Take this away, too, Mistress Boris. No one will touch it." Mistress
Boris began to mutter under her breath that it was absurd and affected
to turn up one's nose at these respectable eatables, which were quite as
good as those they had eaten in their grandfather's house. Her last
words were rather drowned by the creaking of the door as she went out.

Then followed some kind of salad, with bread crumbs. The lawyer had in
his university days received such a dangerous fever from eating such
stuff, that it would indeed be a fatal enterprise to tackle it now.

This was too much for the housekeeper. She attacked Mr. Sarvoelgyi:

"Didn't I tell you not to cook a fasting dinner? Didn't I say so? You
think everyone is as devout as you are in keeping Friday? Now you have
it. Now I am disgraced."

"It is part of the punishment I have inflicted on myself," answered
Sarvoelgyi, with humble acquiescence.

"The devil take your punishment; it is me that will come in for ridicule
if they hear about it yonder. You become more of a fool every day."

"Say what is on your tongue, my good Boris; heaven will order you to do
penance as well as me."

Mistress Boris slammed the door after her, and cried outside in bitter
disappointment.

The lawyer swore to himself that he would eat whatever followed, even if
it were poison.

It was worse: it was fish.

We have medical certificates to enable us to assert that whenever the
lawyer ate fish he promptly had to go to bed. He was forced to say that
if they chased him from the house with boiling water he could not
venture to put his teeth into it.

Mistress Boris said nothing now. She actually kept silent. As we all
know, the last stage but one of a woman's anger is when she is silent,
and cannot utter a word. There is one stage more, which was imminent.
The lawyer thought the dinner was over, and with true sincerity begged
Mistress Boris to prepare a little coffee for him and the magistrate.

Boris left the room without a word, placing the coffee machine before
Sarvoelgyi himself; he did not allow anyone else to make it, and occupied
himself with the preparations till Mistress Boris came back.

The magistrate was just dreaming that that fellow swinging from the
ceiling turned to him, and said "will you have a cup of coffee?" It did
him good starting from his doze, to see his host, not on the chandelier,
but sitting in a chair before him, saying: "Will you have a cup of
coffee?"

The magistrate hastened to taste it, with a view to driving the
sleepiness from his eyes, and the lawyer poured some out for himself.

Just at that moment Mistress Boris entered with a dish of omelette.

Mistress Boris with a face betraying the last stage of anger, approached
the lawyer:--she smiled tenderly.

It is not the pleasantest sight in the world when a lady with a plate
of omelette in her hand, smiles tenderly upon a man who is well aware of
the fact that only a hair's breadth separates him from the catastrophe
of having the whole dish dashed on his head.

"Kindly help yourself."

The lawyer felt a cold shiver run down his back.

"You will surely like this!--omelette."

"I see, my dear woman, that it is omelette," whispered the lawyer; "but
no one of my family could enjoy omelette after black coffee."

The catastrophe had not yet arrived. The lawyer had his eyes already
shut, waiting for the inevitable; but the storm, to his astonishment,
passed over his head.

There was something else to attract the thunderbolt. The magistrate had
again taken his seat at the table, and was putting sugar in his coffee;
he could not have any such excuse.

"Kindly help yourself ..."

The magistrate's hair stood on end at her awful look. He saw that this
relentless dragon of the apocalypse would devour him, if he did not
stuff himself to death with the omelette. Yet it was utterly impossible.
He could not have eaten a morsel even if confronting the stake or the
gallows.

"Pardon, a thousand pardons, my dear woman," he panted, drawing his
chair farther away from the threatening horror: "I feel so unwell that I
cannot take dinner."

Then the storm broke.

Mistress Boris put the dish down on the table, placed her two hands on
her thighs, and exploded:

"No, of course not," she panted, her voice thick with rage. "Of course
you can't dine here, because you were simply crammed over yonder by--the
gypsy girl."

The hot coffee stuck in the throats of the two guests at these words! In
the lawyer's from uncontrollable laughter, in the magistrate's from
still more uncontrollable consternation.

This woman had indeed wreaked a monstrous vengeance.

The good magistrate felt like a boy thrashed at school, who fears that
his folks at home may learn the whole truth.

Luckily the sergeant of gendarmes entered with the news that the unholy
pictures had been already erased from the walls, and the carriages were
waiting. He too "got it" outside, for, as he made inquiries after his
masters, Mistress Boris told him severely to go to the depths of hell:
"he too smelt of wine; of course, that gypsy girl had given him also to
drink!"

That gypsy girl!

The magistrate, in spite of his crestfallen dejection, felt an actual
sense of pleasure at being rid of this cursed house and district.

Only when they were well on their dusty way along the highroad did he
address his companion:

"Well, my dear old man, that fine lady was only a gypsy girl after all."

"Surely, my dear fellow."

"Then why did you not tell me?"

"Because you did not ask me."

"That is why you lay on your stomach and laughed, is it?"

"Naturally."

The magistrate heaved a deep sigh.

"At least, I implore you, don't tell my wife that the gypsy girl kissed
me!"




CHAPTER V

THE WILD CREATURE'S HAUNT


In those days the Tisza regulations did not exist--that plain around
Lankadomb where now turnips are hoed with four-bladed machines was at
that time still covered by an impenetrable marsh, that came right up to
Topandy's garden, from which it was separated by a broad ditch. This
ditch wound in a meandering, narrow course to the great waste of rushes,
and in dry summer gave the appearance of a rivulet conveying the water
of the marsh down to the Tisza. When the heavy rains came, naturally the
stream flowed back along the same route.

The whole marsh covered some ten or twelve square miles. Here after a
heavy frost, they used to cut reeds, and on the occasion of great
hunting matches[39] they would drive up masses of foxes and wolves; and
all the huntsmen of the neighborhood might lie in wait in its expanse
for fowl from morn till eve, and if they pleased, might roam at will in
a canoe and destroy the swarms of winged inhabitants of the fen: no one
would interrupt them.

[Footnote 39: A hunting match in which the vassals of the landlord form
a ring of great extent and advancing and narrowing the circle by
degrees, drive the animals together towards a place where they can be
conveniently shot. (Walter Scott.)]

Some ancestor of Topandy had given the peasantry permission to cut peat
in the bog, but the present proprietor had discontinued this industry,
because it completely defiled the place: the ditches caused by the old
diggings became swampy morasses, so that neither man nor beast could
pass among them without danger.

Anyone with good eyes could still descry from the castle tower that
enormous hay-rick which they had filled up ten or twelve years before in
the middle of the marsh; it was just in the height of summer and they
had mown the hillocks in the marsh; then followed a mild winter, and
neither man nor sleigh could reach it. The hay was lost, it was not
worth the trouble of getting; so they had left it there, and it was
already brown, its top moss-covered and overgrown with weeds.

Topandy would often say to his hunting comrades, who, looking through a
telescope, remarked the hay-rick in the marsh:

"Someone must be living in that rick; often of an evening have I seen
smoke coming from it. It might be an excellent place for a dwelling.
Rain cannot penetrate it, in winter it keeps out the cold, in summer the
heat. I would live in it myself."

They often tried to reach it while out hunting; but every attempt was a
failure; the ground about the rick was so clogged with turfy peat that
to approach it by boat was impossible, and one who trusted himself on
foot came so near being engulfed that his companions could scarcely haul
him out of the bog with a rope. Finally they acquiesced in the idea that
here within distinct view of the castle, some wild creature, born of
man, had made his dwelling among the wolves and other wild beasts; a
creature whom it would be a pity to disturb, as he never interfered with
anybody.

The most enterprising hunter, therefore, even in broad daylight avoided
the neighborhood of the suspicious hay-rick; who then would be so
audacious as to dare to seek it out by night when the circled moon
foretelling rain, was flooding the marsh-land with a silvery, misty
radiance, adding a new terror to the face of the landscape; when the
exhalations of the marsh were sluggishly spreading a vaporous heaviness
over the lowland; while the eerie habitants of the bog (whose time of
sleep is by day, their active life at night) the millions of frogs and
other creatures were reechoing their cries, announcing the whereabouts
of the slimy pools, where foul gases are lord and master; when the
he-wolf was howling to his comrades; and when, all at once, some
mysterious-faced cloud drew out before the moon, and whispered to her
something that made all nature tremble, so that for one moment all was
silent, a death-like silence, more terrible than all the night voices
speaking at once;--at such a time whose steps were those that sounded in
the depths of the morass?

A horseman was making his way by the moonlight, in solitude.

His steed struggled along up to the hocks in the swamp which showed no
paths at all; the tracks were immediately sucked up by the mud:--nothing
lay before to show the way, save the broken reed. No sign remained that
anyone had ever passed there before.

The sagacious mare carefully noted the marks from time to time,
instinctively scenting the route, that tracks trodden by wild beasts
should not lead her astray; cleverly she picked out with her sharp eyes
the places where the ground was still firm; at times she would leap from
one clod of peat to another. The space between these spots might be
overgrown by green grass, with yellow flowers dotted here and there, but
the sagacious animal knew, felt, perhaps had even experienced, that the
depth there was deceptive; it was one of those peat-diggings, filled in
by mud and overgrown by the green of water-moss; he who stepped thereon
would be swallowed up in an instant. Then she trotted on picking her way
among the dangerous places.

And the rider?

He was asleep.

Asleep on horseback, while his steed was going with him through an
accursed spot: where to right and left were graves, where below was hell
and around him the gloom of night. The horseman was sleeping, his head
nodding backwards and forwards, swaying to and fro. Sometimes he
started, as those who travel in carriages are wont to do when the
jolting is more pronounced than ordinary, and then settled down again.
Though asleep he kept his seat as if he had grown to the saddle. His
hands seemed wide awake for all he held the reins in one and a
double-barrelled gun in the other.

By the light of the moon his dark face seemed even darker; his long,
crisp, curly hair, his hat pressed down over his eyes, his black beard
and moustache, his strongly aquiline nose, all proclaimed his gypsy
origin. He wore a threadbare blue doublet, braided with cords, which
were buttoned here and there at random, and over this was fastened some
tattered lambskin covering.

The rider was really fast asleep: surely he must have travelled at such
a pace that he had no time, or thought for sleep, and now, strangely
enough, he felt at home.

Here, where no one could pursue him, he bowed his head upon his horse's
neck.

And the horse seemed to know that his master was sleeping, for he did
not shake himself once, even to rid himself of the crowds of biting,
sucking insects that preyed upon his skin, knowing that such a motion
would wake his master.

As the mare broke through a clump of marsh-willows, in the darkness of
the willow forest, little dancing fire-flies came before her in scores,
leaping from grass to grass, from tree to tree, dissolving one into the
other, then leaping apart and dancing alone; their flames assumed a
pale, lustreless brilliance in the darkness, like some fire of mystery
or the burning gases of some moldering corpses.

The mare merely snorted at the sight of these flickering midnight
flames; surely she had often met them, in journeys across the marsh, and
already knew their caprices: how they lurked about the living animals,
how they ran after her if she passed before them, how they fluttered
around, how they danced beside her continuously, how they leaped across
above her head, how they strove to lead her astray from the right path.

There they were darting around the heads of horse and horseman as if
they were burning night-moths; one lighted upon the horseman's hat, and
swayed with it, as he nodded his head.

The steed snorted and breathed hard upon those living lights. But the
snorting awakened the rider. He gazed askance at his brilliant
demon-companions, one of which was on the brim of his hat; he dug the
spurs into the mare's flanks, to make her leap more speedily from among
the jeering spirits of the night.

When they came to a turn in the track, the crowd of graveyard
mystery-lights parted in twain: most of them joined the rushing
air-current, while some careful guardians remained constantly about the
rider, now before, now behind him.

Darting from the willows, a cold breeze swept over the plain: before it
every mystery-light fled back into the darkness, and still kept up its
ghostly dance. Who knows what kind of amusement that was to them?

The horseman was sleeping again. The terrible hay-rick was now so near
that one might have gone straight to it, but the steed knew better;
instead, she went around the spot in a half-circle, until she reached a
little lake that cut off the hay-rick. Here she halted on the water's
edge and began to toss her head, with a view to quietly awakening the
rider from his sleep.

The latter looked up, dismounted, took saddle and bridle off his horse,
and patted her on the back. Therewith the steed leaped into the water,
which reached to her neck, and swam to the other side.

Why did she not cross over dry ground? Why did she go only through the
water? The horseman meanwhile squatted down among the broom, rested his
gun upon his knee, made sure that it was cocked and that the powder had
not fallen from the pan, and noiselessly crouched down, gazing after the
retreating steed, as she reached the opposite bank. Suddenly she drew in
her tail, bristled her mane, pricked up her ears. Her eyes flashed fire,
her nostrils expanded. Slowly and cautiously she stepped forward, so as
to make no noise, bowed her head to the earth, like some scenting hound,
and stopped to listen.

On the southern side of the hay-rick,--the side away from the
village,--there was a narrow entrance cut into the pile of hay: a
plaited door of willow-twigs covered it, and the twigs were 

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