Hungarian Sketches in Peace and War
by Mór Jókai · English · Gutenberg #32204 · 558,281 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Hungarian Sketches in Peace and War
Author: Mór Jókai
Commentator: Emeric Szabad
Release date: May 2, 2010 [eBook #32204]
Most recently updated: January 6, 2021
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HUNGARIAN SKETCHES IN PEACE AND WAR ***
Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
HUNGARIAN SKETCHES
IN
PEACE AND WAR.
FROM THE HUNGARIAN OF
MORITZ JÓKAI.
WITH PREFATORY NOTICE BY
EMERIC SZABAD,
Author of "Hungary Past and Present."
EDINBURGH: THOMAS CONSTABLE AND CO.
HAMILTON, ADAMS, AND CO., LONDON.
JAMES M'GLASHAN, DUBLIN.
MDCCCLIV.
CONSTABLE'S MISCELLANY
OF
FOREIGN LITERATURE.
VOL. I.
EDINBURGH: THOMAS CONSTABLE AND CO.
HAMILTON, ADAMS, AND CO., LONDON.
JAMES M'GLASHAN, DUBLIN.
MDCCCLIV.
EDINBURGH: T. CONSTABLE, PRINTER TO HER MAJESTY.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
PREFACE, v
DEAR RELATIONS, 1
THE BARDY FAMILY, 87
CRAZY MARCSA, 133
COMORN, 151
MOR PERCZEL, 167
GERGELY SONKOLYI, 173
THE UNLUCKY WEATHERCOCK, 205
THE TWO BRIDES, 213
THE BREWER, 237
THE SZEKELY MOTHER, 279
A BALL, 295
PREFACE.
Jokai is one of the most popular of the Hungarian prose writers of
fiction that sprang up a few years before the late war. His wit,
flowing style, and vivid descriptions of Hungarian life as it is,
joined to a rich fancy and great intensity of feeling, soon made him a
favourite with Hungarian readers.
Among the earlier of his productions, those best known are a novel
entitled, "The Common Days," and a collection of minor tales,
published under the title of "Wild Flowers."
The present volume has been written for the most part since the late
memorable national movement, and embodies descriptions of several of
the direst scenes in the civil war which devastated Hungary from the
year 1848 to 1850.
Most of the Hungarian literati were, at the close of the war, either
roaming in foreign countries, or wandering in disguise through their
native land; and the field of literature for a long time threatened to
remain neglected and barren--a monument of national grief and
desolation! Those patriotic writers who had for years wielded the pen
with the noblest impulses thought to do their duty best by letting
their highest faculties lie dormant; and laid aside the lyre rather
than bring unacceptable offerings to a fatherland laid low, and at
the mercy of foreign swords. And who will deny that there is sometimes
great virtue in silence, and that the tongue that speaks not is often
more eloquent and heroic than that which dares to utter sublime truths
even at the foot of the gibbet? Many of the noble-hearted of Hungary
resigned themselves to such a martyr-like silence, and persevere in it
to the present day; while the great bulk of the people, unwilling to
enhance the triumph of their victorious enemies by a show of
unavailing lamentation, followed their example. Pesth, which had been
the scene of literary activity, was at once deserted; the bards of
Hungary, abandoning their homes to the wantonness of a foreign
soldiery, went back to the districts whence they had come, there to
mingle with those peasants whose chivalry and patriotism afforded
constant themes to their lyres. Their renewed intercourse with their
rustic countrymen served again to revive their hopes, quenched as in
the grave.
In the sketches of Jokai, the reader will find many original
delineations of Hungarian life among the middle-class nobility--a race
of men whose manner of life and thought cannot fail to be interesting,
however cursorily described. But the Hungarian peasant is in his way
no less attractive. Nothing can be wilder than his dress, consisting
of a sheepskin cloak (bunda), or a similar habit of the coarsest
cloth, a shirt, scarcely reaching below the waist, and wide linen
drawers, to which boots do not often form the necessary complement;
yet his easy demeanour, delicate feelings, and especially his
language, are such as to put him on a level with the educated
classes. In conversation he will often use a more dignified style
than a noble, who, by his exclusive privileges, has had ample scope
for oratory in the county assemblies--select with astonishing tact the
best lyrical productions of the day, and immortalize the lay by a tune
of his own composition. These qualities of the Hungarian rustic--an
insight into whose character will be given to the reader by a few camp
scenes contained in this volume--must appear the more striking if we
remember that the class to which he belongs was for centuries in a
state of serfdom, from which it was only liberated by the late
Revolution.
Independently of the various other calamities which prevented the
development of the physical and mental resources of Hungary during the
last three hundred years, the feudal system alone was an
insurmountable barrier in the way of progress. The privileged classes
were for the most part devising how to kill the time, while the labour
of the peasant provided them with the means of gratifying their
propensities, rarely disquieted by the backward state of the country,
which in their eyes seemed all perfection. Properly speaking, it was
only since the year 1825 that matters had begun to exhibit a material
change in this respect. Many of the most conceited and thoughtless
among the nobles had gradually allowed themselves to be convinced that
arts and sciences might add to the charms of an easy life; and that
national greatness demanded something more than hospitable roofs,
fertile plains, and vast herds of cattle. The political and literary
activity displayed by Counts Szecheny and Kolcsey found noble
followers, and produced unexpected and astonishing results during the
last twenty-five years. Still, compared with other countries, the
progress of literature was slow; and the works of the most popular
authors, though thrown off in comparatively small impressions, were
long of reaching second editions. The cause of this result must be
sought in the fact that reading is by no means universal among the
Hungarians. Among the nobles, who had the means of buying books, only
a few cared to do so, while the condition of the peasants prevented
them from becoming in any way the patrons of literature. This apathy
was undoubtedly owing in great part to the absence of a central
national government; the effect of Hapsburg rule had always been to
crush the political institutions of the country, and repress its
noblest efforts, regarded as the sure forerunners of revolution. The
Court of Vienna, besides excluding from public office and emolument
such as were known for their independent principles and national
feelings, now began gradually to arrogate to itself the right of
censorship--an institution which alone would have sufficed to cripple
the intellectual progress of the country.
Such, however, was the mental activity of the present generation, that
Hungarian literature, despite the numerous obstacles it had to
encounter, made rapid progress, and created in the minds of the people
a spirit of inquiry and a desire after intellectual pursuits hitherto
unknown. Never before had the cultivated tongues of the West been so
much studied, or so many valuable translations made from the German,
French, and English literatures. That the influence of the first was
originally the strongest, and that several of the leading writers in
philosophy and history took for their model the German school, will
appear no matter of surprise. The rising writers of a more recent
date, however, insensibly turned their attention to the more lively
literature of France, and afterwards to that of Britain; and while
some read with rapture the fictions of Scott, Bulwer, and Dickens,
politicians learned to admire the doctrines of Adam Smith and Jeremy
Bentham. Of poets, none were more extensively read and more generally
admired than Byron and Moore. Thus did the merely literary progress
march on boldly and combine with the new political movement to further
a change which had already made itself felt in every grade of society,
and which was the more remarkable and satisfactory from having
followed a too long period of stagnation.
A few words will suffice, and perhaps not be superfluous, to bring to
the English reader's mind the deplorable causes of this long neglect.
The fifteenth century, which illumined the sky of Italy, and thence
reacted on the rest of Europe, brought for Hungary nothing but an
endless series of wars, distinguished by dazzling military
achievements, against the hosts of the Sultans, and turning out in the
end but useless victories, productive of most ruinous effects and
general exhaustion. The next age proved still more disastrous. The
race of the Hunyadis, who in the preceding century had struck terror
into the hearts of the Ottomans, had disappeared; the weak princes
that ruled after them perished among the carnage of battle, to leave
the crown of St. Stephen vacant, and to open a way for the Hapsburgs
to the Hungarian throne. At this juncture, coinciding with the great
religious movement in Germany, which was rapidly spreading to the
banks of the Theiss, the position of Hungary became more desperate
than ever, although the events that followed far surpassed the
gloomiest anticipations. While the majority of the people chose a
native for their king, a part of the aristocracy declared for
Ferdinand of Austria. The rival kings, unable to vanquish each other,
called in to their aid the two most powerful monarchs of Europe. The
former invoked the assistance of Solyman the Great; Ferdinand found a
willing ally in his brother, Charles V. Thus it happened that, till
the beginning of the eighteenth century, Hungary presented the aspect
of a vast camp, exposed to the insolence of foreign mercenaries and
the tyranny of the Hapsburg emperors, and at once protected and laid
waste by its allies the Turks. Unfortunately, the Mussulman military
colonies, which subsisted in Hungary from the time of Solyman to
Achmet III., while adding to the distress of the people continually
menaced by famine even during the years of temporary peace, were more
ignorant than those whom they affected to protect, and therefore
failed to produce on the Hungarians those effects which the Moors, in
circumstances somewhat similar, had wrought upon the Spaniards. Nor is
anything now left to call to mind the presence of the Turks in
Hungary, except a few words that slipped into the Hungarian language.
The state of the country in the eighteenth century, somewhat relieved
by the reign of Maria Theresa, was, after such a long series of
calamities, not much calculated to foster the cultivation of science
and poetry; nor did any fresh symptoms of the national life spring
clearly into view before the beginning of the present century. True,
that even amid the storms of the past generations, there appeared from
time to time writers, whose names survive to the present day. But,
with a few exceptions, chiefly in the department of poetry, all the
works of that time were but insipid imitations which aspired to be
thought original, but were little fitted either to please or to
instruct.
After such a gloomy past as has been here shortly described, it will
seem very natural, that with the awakening of the national mind the
career of literature, suddenly interrupted by the late war, should be
bold, steadily progressive, and triumphant, despite the narrow and
contemptible canons of censors. As to prose fiction, it must be
observed that it is of quite recent growth. The beginning of this
species of composition was made about fifteen years ago by Baron
Nicholaus Josika, who soon found successful rivals in Kuthy and Baron
Eötvös. Jokai, who is now the favourite of the public, belongs, as has
been already observed, to the younger staff of writers.
It would be a mistake to imagine, from the Eastern origin of the
Magyars, that the tales and romances to be found in the Hungarian
language bear any resemblance to the _Arabian Nights_, or the familiar
poetry of the East in general. None of the writers above mentioned
carries the reader to fairy realms, and superhuman characters. In
plot, tendency, and execution, Hungarian prose fiction is identified
with the modern novel of the rest of Europe--deriving, withal, its
most pleasing characteristics from the peculiar features of Hungarian
life and history, as well as from the native idiom, which differs
entirely in its figures, and many of its expressions, from the other
cultivated languages. It must, however, here be added, that the more
the time approached to the great catastrophe, the more the general
literature partook of a political character--a circumstance
attributable to the censorship, which did not allow political
questions to be discussed in their proper place. The novel or romance
writer, not being so suspicious to the censor as the politician, often
intermingled his love scenes and adventures with single touches,
unfinished periods, and marks of exclamation, which escaped the
vigilance and attention of the scissors-holder, but were only too well
understood by those to whom they were addressed. Even the literary
journals, sternly interdicted from meddling with politics, swarmed
with allusions to the questions of the day; and while tending to
cultivate the taste of the public, their usefulness was greater than
might have been expected in rearing new labourers for the field of
literature. In the presence of a public eminently conservative as
regards book buying, not a tenth part of the more highly gifted youth
would have gone farther than the composing of some slight specimens
while at college, had it not been for the encouragement given by three
weekly journals. The first of these periodicals, entitled the
_Honderu_, was started by Lazarus Horvath, a gentleman who had
travelled much in Europe, and was familiar with high life, and who is
known as the unsuccessful translator of _Childe Harold_. The two other
journals, started afterwards, were conducted by Frankenburg and
Vachot. It was through the medium of these latter papers that the
young bard Petöfi sent forth his wild, touching strains, and that
Jokai, his intimate friend, became gradually known, when the
unexpected events of 1848 changed the face of the whole country.
Disastrous civil feuds, commenced on the one hand by the Slavonic
population in the south of Hungary, and on the other by the
Wallachians or Roumins in Transylvania, were followed by a desolating
general war; and for nearly two years nothing was heard but the din of
arms. Two or three daily papers alone testified that literary life was
not yet extinct in the nation. As almost every one did who felt in any
way capable of serving his country, Jokai followed the Government
(obliged to abandon the capital to the Austrians in the beginning of
1849) to the town of Debreczin, on the other side of the Theiss, where
he conducted for a short time a small political Journal. The rapid
progress of the Hungarian arms in the same year, followed by the
Russian invasion, was, as the reader may be aware, suddenly converted
into a most disastrous defeat. The subjugated country was handed over
to General Haynau; the nationality of its people was destroyed, and
its noblest defenders fled into other lands, or awaited certain death
in their own. The country people, struck with fear and amazement,
confined themselves in sombre silence to their homes, which were
filled with disguised literati, and other classes of delinquents; the
different races of the population, their hands yet wet with blood,
gazed confusedly on the ruins of their own working; the streets of
Pesth, the gay capital, were deserted, and the single voice that broke
the deep silence was that which pronounced in its official organ
sentences of death, imprisonment, and confiscation. In such a state
the country continued for several months, when even Haynau, a few days
before being removed from his post, began to loathe his work, and to
sign pardons as carelessly as he had hitherto subscribed sentences of
death. It was at that juncture that a few straggling literati,
gradually assembling at Pesth, commenced to issue a literary
periodical, to which Jokai largely contributed. The press, it must be
observed, was placed under the control of the police, established on
an Austrian model. The head and chief members of the police belonging
to the other parts of the Austrian empire, and totally ignorant of the
Hungarian language, were naturally obliged to employ some natives to
peruse the literary productions and translate their contents; after
due consideration of these, the verdict was passed. The consequence of
such a state of things was, that very frequently a single seemingly
portentous phrase, or even the mere title, doomed to oblivion the most
innocent work of the brain, while more substantial writing was allowed
to make its way into the country, and frequently to be again
prohibited, after having become familiar to thousands.
Most of the sketches contained in this volume, and which Jokai wrote
under the name of Sajo, underwent this fate. The latest production of
Jokai's pen is a novel entitled _The Magyar Nabob_, which is highly
praised. His strictly historical pieces, depicting scenes of the civil
war, though recalling the more vividly to mind the dreary and not yet
forgotten past, were most eagerly read in Hungary; nor will the
English reader peruse without deep emotion the fate of the Bardy
family, contained in this volume.
Within the last two years, the state of literature in Hungary, if
judged by the number of new books published, appears astonishingly
progressive. The chief reason of this phenomenon may be found in the
denationalizing measures of the Government, attempting to suppress the
national idiom by excluding it from the public schools, and
substituting in its place the German--a policy attempted without
success by Joseph II. about the end of the last century.
That the people--though now perhaps more willing than ever to give
their full support to literature--are inclined to look with some
suspicion at the productions of a press in the hands of foreign
authorities, and that many branches of a more serious nature than
novel-writing must remain excluded from the sphere of literary
activity in a country subjected to martial law, need hardly be
remarked.
Besides, some of the more prominent and elder authors still persevere
in their sad mournful silence, while others have sunk from a state of
patriotic gloom into mental imbecility. But whatever shape Hungarian
literature may henceforth assume, it is undoubtedly true that much
that has issued within the last few years from the Hungarian press is
worth translating; and I believe that the present volume, presented in
a faithful and easy translation, and likely to be soon followed by
several others of a similar class, will be found to introduce the
English reader to scenes hitherto undescribed, and to characters as
interesting as unusual.
EMERIC SZABAD.
HUNGARIAN SKETCHES.
DEAR RELATIONS.
One evening, towards the end of summer, my uncle, Lorincz Kassay, the
sub-sheriff of the county, was seated on a bench before his
_porte-cochère_, which stood wide open, without bar or gate, as
beseemed the entrance to the house of an hospitable Hungarian
gentleman.
True, half a dozen dogs, nearly as large as bears, were lying lazily
about the court, and might have rendered the entrance embarrassing to
persons of hostile intention; but as for strangers in general, these
honest guards were too well accustomed to see them treated as the
angels were by Abraham, to take any further notice than by a friendly
bark, and a slow shake of the tail.
Uncle Lorincz Kassay sat enjoying his pipe, and calling across the
road to his assistant, who was likewise seated at the door of his
house, enveloped in the same comfortable fumes. The conversation might
have been carried on with more facility had one of these worthy
gentlemen crossed to the other side--the road being wide, and a
stentorian voice necessary to make one's-self understood--but the mud
lay so deep between the two houses, that it was severe work for carts
and carriages to get through; and when it was absolutely necessary to
cross the road, the passenger was obliged to make a considerable
circuit, by the garden and meadow, holding on by the rail, besides
returning the same way: consequently Uncle Lorincz and his ally found
it less troublesome, and more convenient on the whole, to exert their
lungs in the manner above mentioned.
Meanwhile my readers may be curious to learn how I am related to this
worthy gentleman; but this indeed I cannot tell. I only know that he
is called by all who know him Lorincz Kassay, bacsi;[1] and I would
advise my friends likewise to adopt him as such, for he is a
thoroughly honest and honourable country gentleman, and will never
give them cause to blush at his name. Let us keep up the good old
Magyar custom of calling our elders by the familiar titles of uncle
and aunt, while we are privileged to those of nephews and nieces.
[Footnote 1: _Bacsi_, contraction for _batya_--"elder brother," or
"uncle."]
Uncle Lorincz belonged to that medium class whose duty is to manage
the laws and rights of the people, keep up their national
prerogatives, look after their interests, in short, to labour without
noise or fame,--a man of whom neither history nor poets speak, for the
upright and honourable man is not so rare a character among us as to
render it necessary to emblazon his name in history; and what could a
poet make of an honest man who has neither romance enough to carry off
his neighbour's wife, nor to shoot his best friend through the head
for looking askance at him? Such a man as Uncle Lorincz, for instance,
who comes into the world without the aid of star or horoscope, grows
up without becoming a virtuoso on the piano, goes through his classes
satisfactorily, and without occasioning any mutiny, and, finally,
returns like a dutiful son to his parents, who assist him to look out
for a good wife, whom he marries without any poetical occurrences; and
who, when his parents are gathered to their fathers, inherits their
blessing and their property unencumbered by debt--for this class of
our countrymen consider debt as a species of crime; their principle
being that an honest man should not spend more than his income. This
principle had taken such root in Uncle Kassay's mind, that, rather
than run up an account at the shoemaker's, he has been known, in his
scholar days, to feign illness and keep his room, when his boots
needed mending, until the necessary money arrived from home; and the
same sense of honour, combined with the most lavish hospitality,
characterized him through life.
Having been directly called upon by the county, he had accepted the
situation of szolgabiro or sheriff--which the Hungarian takes upon
himself _ex nobili officio_--from a generous sense of duty, rather
than for the lucrative advantages attached to it, which by no means
compensate for the dinners he is obliged to give; but he readily makes
a sacrifice for the honour of the employment, and the confidence of
the people in that incorruptible conscience which is chosen as the
earthly providence of an entire district, to keep order and administer
justice among twenty or thirty thousand people.
At the time our story commences, Lorincz and his worthy assistant were
actually discussing some affair of great moment across the road, when
their attention was attracted by shrill voices, and, looking in the
direction of the sounds, they perceived a conveyance which it will be
worth while to describe at length, as such things are not to be met
with every day, particularly now that railroads are making so great
innovations in our old habits and fashions.
It was a gentleman's calèche; the leather was somewhat spotted and
gray, which may be easily accounted for, however, by the continual
roosting of poultry on its roof. When or where the machinery had been
contrived, it would be impossible to decide, for, according to
historical date, suspended calèches existed in the days of Lajos I.
The form of the body might be compared to a water-melon cut in half,
which body was so convulsed by its four high springs at each
irregularity of the road, that the tongues within ran the risk of
being severed in twain when they attempted to speak, while their
owners would certainly have been pitched out, had they not held well
on by the sides. It was as impossible to open the doors as it was to
shut them, for which reason they were permanently secured by
well-knotted ropes. Above the two hinder wheels a large bundle of
straw was attached, which threatened at every jerk to light on the
heads of the inmates. Before this worthy ancestral memorial three very
quiet horses were attached, a pie-bald, a bay, and a white, all three
up to their ears in mud, and assisting one another with their shaggy
tails to whip the reins out of the coachman's hand, while their hides
exhibited various graphic traces of the whip.
In truth, the noble animals did not lack good-will, but only the
necessary capabilities for the station they now filled, being honest
cart-horses, neither born nor bred to draw an iron-springed calèche;
and, sensible no doubt of their inability, they paused every ten
minutes to draw breath instead, and to regard each other with doleful
expressions.
On one of these occasions--namely, when the horses paused, and did not
seem disposed to proceed further--one of the four individuals inside
thrust forth a head, and called in a shrill voice to the coachman to
stop.
The voice proceeded from one of the fair sex, whom we cannot at
present describe, as the shawls and mufflers in which she was
enveloped only permitted a glimpse of her respectable nose to be
seen; three other individuals filled the vehicle. Beside the lady sat
a figure in a fur mantle, whose only visible points were a vast beard
and a meerschaum pipe, the bowl of which must have been guarded by
some singular providence, from having its neck broken at every jolt of
the carriage.
Opposite to mamma sat a hopeful sprig, whose head was so well thrust
into his lambskin cap, that only two scarlet ears protruded to view,
turning and perking with unwearied scrutiny to suit their owner's
curiosity. The last place was occupied by a smaller boy, whose large
wondering eyes were fixed on the muddy world around, and whose legs
and feet coming constantly in contact with those of the gentleman
opposite, obliged the latter to draw up in the most inconvenient
manner possible.
The horses having again paused, the lady, working her way with great
exertions through various cloaks and mufflers, called to the coachman
as before to stop, and, addressing one of the bystanders, who stood
gaping at the carriage, asked various questions relative to the
position of Mr. Lorincz Kassay's house; and having received
satisfactory answers, she once more muffled herself in her wrappings,
and desired Marczi to proceed; on which he gave a lash to one horse,
and the half-turned pole giving a blow to the second, the third took
the hint, and they all three began to move, and proceeded in order for
a few minutes, until they arrived in the village, where they once more
paused and hung their heads, while the lady, for the third time,
called to Marczi to stop, fixing as usual on some person whom she
wished to address.
This time, the gentleman of the fur cloak and meerschaum pipe, losing
all patience, cried out, "Zsuzsi, my dear, why the tartar are you
calling to Marczi again, when the plague is our having to stop so
often?"
"Cannot you see, you thick-skull?" rejoined the fair lady sharply,
"that is just the reason I call to him to stop, that folks may not see
we cannot get on!"
Fortunately the last person addressed happened to be the sheriff's
footman, who offered to conduct them to the house, desiring the
coachman to follow, which was easy to say, but not so easy to put in
execution, until the good steeds had recovered breath in due time.
Meanwhile, Uncle Lorincz, observing that the carriage was coming to
his house, blew the embers out of his pipe, and arranging his beard in
two points, advanced to meet his guests. After a good deal of labour,
the vehicle at length struggled into the court, and, unfortunately, in
the confusion occasioned by the general efforts to rise from the heaps
of wrappings, the good man managed to tread on some sensitive member
of his wife's foot. She returned the compliment with a thrust from her
elbow, which caused him to stumble, thereby bringing the hot bowl of
his pipe in contact with the face of his youngest boy, who, uttering a
cry of pain, raised both hands to protect his face, at the same time
striking up the pipe, which broke between the old gentleman's teeth.
"Which of you did that?" cried he furiously, pulling the piece out of
his mouth, and raising his hand threateningly over the heads of the
youngsters. But before the stroke of chastisement could be
administered, Marczi, throwing back his muddy coat, directed it so
skilfully as to fall right over the boys' heads, filling the eyes of
the whole party with dust and mud; and in the confusion of this
unexpected attack, the delinquent thought fit to make his escape as
best he could out of the carriage, smearing his clean white trousers
with the wheels. All these accidents took place in a much shorter
period than I have taken to describe them.
The sub-sheriff, his footman, and other retainers, had now come up to
the assistance of the travellers, and after many ineffectual efforts
to open the carriage doors, they were obliged to give up that point,
and lift out the inmates like so many bundles.
The noise had brought down the lady of the mansion, who waited at the
foot of the stairs to welcome her guests. She was a comely little
round-faced woman, attired in a simple but well-made costume, to which
the small flounced apron and blue-ribbon cap gave an air of coquettish
smartness. She held by the hand a little, dark-eyed, strawberry-lipped
maiden of about six years old, who, half hiding behind her mother's
dress, looked like an amourette preparing to take aim.
The travellers being at last safely landed, the lady advanced to Uncle
Lorincz with an air of amiable confidence, and began a formal
introduction.
"Dear and worthy cousin, I have the pleasure of presenting to you in
my own person Susanna Sajtari, a cousin on the maternal side; being
_en route_, we could not think of passing our dear cousin's house."
"Welcome, welcome; God bless you!" cried Uncle Lorincz, saluting the
lady with several hearty kisses on each cheek. "I am overjoyed at this
unexpected happiness; pray come in, the servants will carry up
everything directly."
"Allow me to present my husband," began the lady.
"Whist! don't tell my name," interrupted the gentleman in the fur
cloak; "let me see if my dear cousin remembers me," and laughing
heartily, he seized both of Uncle Lorincz's hands, and waited for him
to remember.
It was rather an embarrassing situation for Uncle Lorincz, who had not
the slightest recollection of ever having seen his dear cousin before.
"Pooh! how can he recognise you in that cap?" cried his faithful
partner, snatching from her husband's head the prodigious two-eared
fur cap, and exposing a good-natured countenance, with a large, bald
forehead, and features which we meet in a thousand faces, without ever
distinguishing one from the other.
"Ay, do you know me now?" asked the worthy gentleman in a tone of
confidence.
Uncle Lorincz blushed to the ears, and would have given his best
meerschaum to have been helped out of the unpleasant dilemma.
"Oh! certainly, I remember--quite well," he replied, rubbing his
forehead with the tip of his forefinger; "perfectly remember; only the
name will not come into my head."
"Well, do you remember when we sat together at the Gyor elections in
1830?"
"Exactly, the name is on the tip of my tongue."
Among the four thousand people who had assembled for the Raab
elections ten years before, it would have been difficult to recall the
features of one in particular.
"Well, I am that Menyhert Gulyas"--
"Gulyasi!--exactly, so you are! Welcome with all my heart!" cried
Uncle Lorincz, much relieved at being at length freed from such a tax
on his memory, although not a bit the wiser even after hearing the
name.
"And these are my two sons, Sandor and Peter," continued the worthy
lady. "Go and kiss your aunt's hand, boys."
Sandor and Peter rushed forward in obedience to their mother's
command; the younger succeeded in taking possession of his aunt's
hand, which he fervently pressed against lips and nose, while she
slily put the other behind her back.
"You are too old to kiss hands, my dear nephew," she said, at the same
time proffering her cheek to Sandor, who was so embarrassed at the
idea of kissing his aunt, that he scarcely knew what he was about;
and, after the ceremony, was thrown into such a tremor, that he trode
successively on his father's, mother's, and brother's toes.
The great house-dogs now approached to take their part in the
patriarchal reception, thrusting in their cold noses, and licking the
hands of the guests. And here we must observe, the house-dog is an
infallible index of his master's character. Where the great fellow
comes forward with marks of affection, you are always sure of a hearty
welcome; but where, on the contrary, he lies still and growls, you may
expect the question: "When will you be pleased to continue your
route?"
Having entered the hall, the compliments were renewed, according to
the Hungarian fashion: "Hozta Isten (God has brought you); receive us
into your good graces," &c. &c. Bundas and pelisses, shawls and
kerchiefs, began to unwind from the persons of the travellers, and by
degrees each assumed his natural form.
The worthy father of the family was a simple, good-natured looking man
of about fifty, though the blackness of his teeth, caused by incessant
smoking, made him look considerably older. An amiable grin played on
his large, good-humoured countenance, while the colour which bloomed
on his cheeks might have still passed for that of the spring-time of
life, had not the deeper tint in his nose told more of autumn, and the
good red grape.
He wore a green dolmany, descending to the knees, with broad braid,
and oval buttons; and, standing with his hands behind his back, and
his two spurred feet apart, he looked round on the company with a
good-natured smile.
His worthy partner was a short, spare figure, with a tolerably
good-looking face, the most remarkable feature of which was the nose.
This nose could be turned up or down, and twisted right and left, at
its owner's inclination, to suit the pleasure or displeasure she
desired to express; and the family had learned to interpret its
various evolutions so well, that in strange company their eyes were
constantly fixed upon it, as the steersman's on the prow; and good Mr.
Menyhert Gulyasi has been observed, on more than one occasion, to stop
short in the midst of his speech at some sudden contortion of the
leading feature of his better half.
Nephew Sandor was a long strip of a youth, with smooth, puffy cheeks,
and a snub nose. Nature had amply provided him with hands and feet, of
which he seemed painfully aware; for he kept the former in perpetual
motion, as if endeavouring to get rid of them, while the latter had a
peculiar call for stumbling over and treading on everything they came
in contact with.
The smaller boy never left his mother's side, holding fast by her
dress--finding it at the same time a convenient place of refuge for
his nose.
When the guests were made tolerably comfortable, and their hosts had
sufficiently insisted on their considering themselves at home, the
lady of the house disappeared for a few minutes to give some hasty
orders in the kitchen, to the execution of which, sudden cacklings of
various feathered tribes in the court-yard bore conclusive testimony.
When she returned, Uncle Lorincz invited Menyhert and nephew Sandor to
his own sitting-room, to smoke a pipe with him. Before reaching the
apartment, however, it was necessary to pass through several doors, at
each of which a scuffle ensued with nephew Sandor, who could not be
prevailed on to enter before Uncle Lorincz. There was a cheerful fire
in the open stove, with a large wood-basket beside it; comfortable
arm-chairs were ranged around, and the pipe-stand stood forth
invitingly with its many silver-covered meerschaums.
"Pray sit down," said Uncle Kassay, rolling out the arm-chairs, and
showing his guests a good example.
Gulyasi seated himself opposite; but Sandor could by no means think of
such a thing.
"He is not accustomed to much sitting," observed his father.
"Well, well, let him do as he likes," said Uncle Lorincz, leaving him
to stand like a propping-post against the wall; for he was not aware
that our nephew required to have the chair pulled under him, and to be
forcibly pushed into it, before his modesty would allow him to accept
such an offer.
"Take a pipe," said Uncle Lorincz, handing to him the tobacco-bag. The
youth declined.
"Much obliged," said his father for him; "Sandor does not smoke." He
did smoke, however; but was too well brought up to let strangers see
that he knew anything of the comforts of life.
Uncle Lorincz and his guest were soon engaged in an interesting
conversation, by which it appeared that Menyhert had his own ideas,
and ventured to express them too, in the absence of his better half,
and uninfluenced by the motions of her nose.
He declared, in the first place, that it would be much more prudent to
make steam-horses to draw boats instead of steam-boats, and there
would be no risk of the boats being blown up if the boiler burst. Then
he remarked that it would be advisable to propose at the next Diet a
prohibition of the cultivation of potatoes, as the increase of this
article in the market would be highly prejudicial to the growth and
sale of wheat.
Then he uttered imprecations against the new system of pasturage, by
which Government proposed introducing sheep instead of the great studs
which had hitherto been kept on the heaths; "so that in case of war,"
continued the worthy gentleman, "the noblemen would be obliged to ride
on sheep-back."
Finally, he expressed his opinion that the rising generation should be
interdicted the use of mantles, as the students were in the habit of
concealing their violins beneath them, and amusing themselves at the
public houses, dancing and fiddling, to the neglect of their studies,
thereby making this garment a cloak to all bad morals.
A loud "Ha, ha, ha! he, he, he!" suddenly broke forth from the corner
in which Sandor was standing. Both gentlemen turned to see what was
the matter.
"Father's shadow on the wall is so funny when he speaks!" exclaimed
the youth, holding both hands over his mouth to restrain his laughter.
"Perhaps you are cold, nephew, as you are standing with your back
against the stove?" said Uncle Lorincz, fearing that Menyhert was
about to reprove his hopeful son. "Come, my boy, you will never get a
wife if the girls catch you standing behind the stove."
"That would be a sad story," said the father, making grimaces to his
son; "for we are now _en route_ to get a wife for him."
"The tartar!" exclaimed Uncle Lorincz, turning to the stripling with
interest; "so we have a bridegroom here! come, man, let us look at you
a little nearer."
But it would have required a large pair of tongs to draw our nephew
from behind the stove.
"And what does the young man say to the prospect of a fireside of his
own? and who is the chosen fair one?" asked Uncle Lorincz.
Menyhert crossed his legs and looked up to the ceiling, as he was wont
to do when discussing matters of weight. "Well, the girl is no other
than Carolina Berkessy, the only child of my worthy friend, Gabor
Berkessy, pronotarius of the county of Csongrad; her father promised
her to my eldest son, when she was still in the cradle."
"Well, all I can say is, she is a very fine girl," replied Uncle
Lorincz; "a very fine family altogether, and not a thing to be
rejected, if he gives his consent."
"Gives his consent!" cried Menyhert, not without some offence; "and
why should he withhold his consent?"
"Why, only because my nephew is rather young--that's all," replied
Uncle Lorincz.
"What of that?" said his father proudly; "he has sense enough: I will
venture to say that in any company. He attained eminence in every
department at school--But what the tartar smells so strong? You are
singeing your coat, boy! I desired you not to lean against the stove."
Sandor lifted up one of the flaps of his coat, in which a large hole
was already burned.
"Sit down, you ass!" said Menyhert to his accomplished son, who eyed
the damage, as if considering how to get it washed out.
Uncle Lorincz, seeing that the conversation was taking rather an
unparliamentary turn, endeavoured to revive the former subject. "And
probably my nephew has passed his examination too?" he asked.
"And with great credit," replied his father, forgetting the burnt
coat; "that severe G----, who puzzled all the young men, was an
examiner. Tell us what he asked you, Sandor; come, say it off."
Sandor was quite ready to say it all off, but he required to be
pressed.
"Well: _Quomodo_"--
But at that instant the wood-basket swallowed up our nephew, who had
sat down upon it, and, unfortunately, not having been intended for
such service, the lid had broken under him, and he disappeared inside,
with the exception of his hands and feet, which still remained
without.
At this sight Uncle Lorincz could no longer contain himself, but burst
into such a hearty laugh that he almost rolled off his chair. Happily,
by dint of struggling, the basket overturned, and Sandor succeeded
with some difficulty in creeping forth.
His father, having first looked to see that no bones were broken,
prepared to make a terrible explosion; and it is impossible to say how
the affair might have ended, had not the footman entered to announce
that supper was ready.
* * * * *
Meanwhile Aunt Zsuzsi had also initiated her hostess in the mysteries
of their journey, with all its circumstances, and various innocent
additions, such as, that her son Sandor had attained the highest
honours, and that all the girls in their neighbourhood were
desperately in love with him, although he never looked at one of them,
considering it his duty only to fall in love with whoever his parents
should choose for him, and so forth. This interesting conversation was
suddenly interrupted by loud cries issuing from the nursery; and
little Klarika appeared, sobbing out that Peterke had first twisted
her doll's neck, and then threatened to strike her.
"You naughty boy!" said mamma, as the little urchin came sliding in
behind, "where shall I find a rod to punish you with? Is this the way
you behave in your aunt's house? Come here, directly."
Peterke not only would not come out, but retreated under the bed,
looking out from below at dear mamma, and neither threats nor
entreaties could prevail on him to quit his position. Supper was now
announced.
"Just stay where you are," said mamma, "and I shall lock the door till
we return from supper."
The head of the family having entered with his guests, the whole party
proceeded to supper, with the exception of little Peterke, and took
their places round the table, which latter ceremony, however, did not
take place without a good deal of trouble, each person paying
compliments to his neighbour, during which the lady of the house was
obliged to use force to make her guest sit at the head of the table;
while a complete struggle took place at the opposite side between
Uncle Lorincz and Sandor; the former, however, being the stronger of
the two, at last succeeding in placing our nephew beside him.
"You must learn, my dear boy," said Uncle Lorincz, "what the high
sheriff of Bihar taught me while I was his clerk; when I was invited
to my principal's table, and I too pleaded for the lowest place--'Just
sit down where you like,' said the excellent man, 'and rest assured,
wherever that is, it will always be the lowest place.'"
When a blessing had been asked, the savoury gulyas hus[2] was brought
round, the very name of which, even on paper, seems to emit that
delicious flavour which every Hungarian housewife knows so well to
give it.
[Footnote 2: A favourite national dish. It is a stew or hash of beef,
with onions and red pepper, and other spices.]
After the gulyas came the fogas;[3] fortunately the footman carried it
round, otherwise the company would have been obliged to draw lots who
should be helped first. When it came to Sandor's turn, he declined, to
the surprise of every body.
[Footnote 3: A fish said to be peculiar to the Balaton or Platten Lake
in Hungary, and to the Black Sea and the Wolga. It is the _Perca
Lucioperca_.]
"You don't eat fogas?" said Uncle Lorincz, opening his eyes wide.
"Thank you," replied his father for him; "he eats very little in
general."
"Hm! perhaps the boy is particular," thought Uncle Lorincz.--"Well,
there may be something else which he will be able to eat."
Then came a dish of good turos galuska,[4] the crisp pastry smiling
from out of the rich curds and cream, and still hissing on the dish.
[Footnote 4: Balls of pastry in curds.]
"You will eat some of this?" said Uncle Lorincz, turning to his
neighbour, as the dish came round.
"I thank you, I am not hungry; and I have a little headache."
But our nephew was as hungry as anybody else, and had not the
slightest headache. The fact was, he was not accustomed to eat till
after he had been pressed a dozen times, and his plate filled
perforce.
For once, however, there was short work with our nephew's customs; for
Uncle Lorincz, believing what he said, sent on the good turos galuska
with a sigh, admitting it was certainly no cure for a headache; and
consequently Sandor was obliged to keep up the farce during the whole
time of dinner, while his eyes were actually starting from his head
with hunger.
"Drink something, at least, if you do not eat--it will do your
headache good," said Uncle Lorincz, taking up the good Eger[5] wine.
But Sandor would never have forgiven himself had he not snatched aside
his glass as Uncle Lorincz was in the act of pouring out the wine.
[Footnote 5: From Eger or Erlau, a town between Pesth and Tokay.]
"Much obliged," said his father, "but he does not drink wine."
"The tartar! he does not!" exclaimed Uncle Lorincz; "well, he is a
rare child--neither eats, drinks, nor smokes! why, he will be a
millionnaire! I am heartily sorry that you have got a wife for him
already; otherwise I should have asked you to wait until my girl is
marriageable."
Meanwhile there was another individual who followed quite a different
course from that of nephew Sandor, and that was little Peterke.
Finding himself locked in, he first only pettishly came out from his
stronghold, waiting for some one to coax him to come to dinner; but,
finding that the door was locked, and that knives and forks were
actually clattering without him, he took it quite to heart, and began
calling to mamma to let him out.
"Never mind him, let him cry," said mamma, who found this little
episode highly interesting. But the kindly Klarika, when she thought
nobody was observing, hastily concealed a turkey's pinion and a large
piece of apple-tart, and ran off with them to the nursery--contenting
herself with this generous revenge for the havoc done to her
playthings. On this the little urchin became quiet.
When supper was over, the mutual compliments were repeated, during
which Sandor took an opportunity of thrusting into his pocket a roll
of bread, which he had not ventured to touch at dinner.
Aunt Zsuzsi now opened the door with great solemnity, to release the
little delinquent, whom they found dancing about with greasy cheeks,
and holding up in triumph the remains of the turkey's leg.
"Oh, you rascal!" exclaimed mamma, catching hold of him, and wiping
his cheeks; "go directly and kiss your aunt's hand, and beg her pardon
for being so rude."
Peterke slid over, drawing his mouth and nose to one side, as if he
expected that the hand he was ordered to kiss was preparing to give
him a box in the ear; and it was only on being convinced of the
contrary that he resumed his former confidence, and ventured to ask
for another piece of apple-tart, on receiving which he had the
complaisance to show the company, by way of a return, how a large
piece of pastry might be crammed into two cheeks.
Who was enduring greater torment than our nephew Sandor all this time?
Hungry as a wolf, with only a small white roll in his pocket--and how
to eat it! Wherever he went, he was sure to be seen; his only resource
was to wait till everybody went to bed, and then eat it in the dark;
but the two gentlemen, meanwhile, got so deeply engaged in
conversation, that there was no saying when it might end.
At last he summoned up courage to say he would go out a little, and
walk in the garden.
"In the garden!" repeated Uncle Lorincz; "why, it is quite dark, and
the mud is very deep."
"I will sit upon a bench."
"That will be a fine walk--ha, ha, ha!"
"Perhaps the air would do my head good."
"Well, do as you like, my boy; you are at home here."
Sandor, finding himself at liberty, descended to the garden in great
delight. Just below the back window of Uncle Lorincz's apartment,
which looked out upon the garden, stood a winter pear. Uncle Lorincz
thought he heard this tree shaking, and going to the window, he could
distinguish our nephew pulling the unripe pears, and cramming them
into his mouth.
"Well, he is a strange youth!" thought Uncle Lorincz, as he returned
to his seat.
Before retiring for the night, the guests took leave of their kind
hosts--declaring that they must set out at break of day, and would not
disturb them--after which they were conducted to their apartments,
and soon lay buried in the great down feather-beds and snow-white
pillows, with their neat laced and ribboned covers. The coachman had
been desired to harness the horses at four o'clock, and not to awake
anybody; but when our provident guests rose in the morning, they found
the whole household on foot, and a comfortable breakfast prepared, of
coffee, rolls, cold meat, and plum brandy. This time, Uncle Lorincz
gave his bashful nephew no peace until he had actually forced down his
throat all that was eatable and drinkable--seeing that he was in the
habit of being thus treated. When breakfast was over, there was a
mutual interchange of affectionate speeches, and Uncle Lorincz once
more packed up his guests in their cloaks and furs, thrusting a long
cylindrical bottle of plum-brandy into Uncle Menyhert's pocket, while
his wife put a large, fresh-baked cake into Aunt Zsuzsi's hand, and
little Klarika provided the young Sphinx with an ample supply of cold
pastry; and after exacting from their guests a promise to visit them
again on their return, they all took leave--Uncle Lorincz accompanying
them a few miles on horseback, to point out the best road across the
plains.
* * * * *
And now we must beg our readers to draw on their three-leagued boots,
and step into the neighbouring county. Here, too, the roads lie deep
in mud; for the rain continues during seven weeks in these districts,
as it does in the East Indies. Here, too, are villages on the
highroad, and houses with open doors, and travellers hastening towards
them. But now it is question of a house whose doors are shut, and of
travellers who do not stick in the mud.
A handsome carriage, drawn by four spirited grays, was driven by a
young gentleman, while the smart-liveried coachman sat beside him.
The youth was slightly flushed with the exercise: he wore a
low-crowned hat, and light summer dolmany, while his embroidered fur
cloak lay across the seat. Guiding the horses dexterously over the
difficult roads and rickety bridges, he finally turned aside about
half way through the village, and drove rapidly towards a dilapidated
house, before which he was obliged to rein up his horses, as the
_porte-cochère_ was closed.
"Hej! ho!" cried the coachman, leaping from the box, and knocking at
the door.
"Go in at the side-door, and open the _porte-cochère_ yourself, Matyi;
but take the whip with you, or else the dogs will tear you to pieces."
The coachman did as he was desired. No sooner had he reached the
court, than a terrible encounter took place between the dogs and
Matyi, who swore and lashed away with his whip until he had succeeded
in opening the gate.
The tumult brought out a buxom dame, whose appearance betokened
somewhat more than a cook, and somewhat less than the lady of the
house. Standing at the entrance, with her arms a-kimbo, she exclaimed
in a sharp, shrill voice: "What diabolical noise is this, I should
like to know? are the Turks or the French coming, eh?"
Meanwhile, Matyi having opened the _porte-cochère_, the carriage drove
into the gateway; and the young man, leaping from the box, and
throwing the reins to the coachman, stepped up to the dame, who eyed
him askance, with an expression of dried plums, as if doing her best
to make herself as disagreeable as possible to the new-comers.
"Ah! my sweet Boriska," said the young man gaily, "how handsome you
have grown since we last met! I thought you were to be married that
carnival; but I suppose it was premature, eh?"
"Well, you have grown ugly enough yourself, Master Karely, since I saw
you last: you were a pretty child, but I should not have known you
again."
"Thank you, Boriska, dear. Is my uncle at home?"
"Where else should he be?"
"Because I have come to see him, with my mother and sister."
"What! are they here too?" said the dame, fixing her sharp eyes on the
carriage, like a two-pronged fork. "Well, I can't understand how folks
can leave home, and wander abroad for weeks."
"Call my uncle, there's a dear girl, and you can help one another to
scold."
The beauty cast another sour glance at the vehicle, and disappeared
into the kitchen. Karely, meanwhile, opened the carriage door, and the
mud being deep in the gateway, he lifted out the two ladies in his
arms. One was his mother--a calm, ladylike person about forty, with a
sweet, melancholy expression: the other was his sister--a merry,
mischievous looking little fay of about twelve, with bright sparkling
eyes and rosy cheeks, and a constant smile on the never-closed lips.
"Welcome kindly! We will not wait for them," said Karely, laughing, as
he lifted them out and opened the door, which Boriska had shut behind
her.
Our readers having had a slight glance at the travellers, I must
inform them that the lady who has just arrived is Mrs. Erzsebet
Hamvasi, sister of Abraham Hamvasi, to whose house they have come, and
which had been left equally to the lady and her brother by their
parents--although Erzsebet Hamvasi, subsequently Tallyai, had left her
brother in undisturbed possession, only desiring an occasional
reception when _en route_.
As Karely opened the door, Boriska appeared at the farther end of the
room, calling into the stove: "Come out; you have guests here." To
which a voice from within responded: "Let them wait." After a few
minutes, a door opened behind the stove, and a man of spare bent
figure advanced towards the travellers. His face was disfigured by
small-pox, and rendered grotesque by a pair of stiff gray moustaches,
which grew straight forward from under the nose, leaving only the
extremities of the lips visible, and giving him very much the
appearance of an otter. He wore an old stuff coat--too cool for winter
and too warm for summer--the sleeves of which were turned up to the
elbow; for he had just come out of the stove, which he had been
plastering, and both hands were covered with mortar.
To judge by his countenance, he certainly did not seem endeavouring to
look pleased to see his dear relations; and though the lady greeted
him amiably, he did not seem much inclined to open the other side of
the door at which she was standing, waiting for her brother's welcome.
"What! so many of you!" he exclaimed, pushing open the door with his
elbow; "where the tartar are you all going?"
The lady shook her head placedly, and pointing to her brother's dirty
hands--"How now, dear brother!" she said, in a half reproachful and
half jesting tone; "must you really do such work yourself?"
"It is no shame to work," replied her brother; "never trust to others
what you can do yourself."
"I would kiss your hand, dear Uncle Abris, if you would put on
gloves," said Karely, laughing.
"Easy enough for fine gentlemen like you to speak, but a poor man must
do what he can.--Boris! bring me a bowl of water to wash my hands, for
these gentle folks are ashamed to stand in the room with me."
"Dirty the dishes, indeed!" cried Boris sharply; "there is the tub."
Master Abris went and washed in the tub; then, lifting up the
bed-quilt, he wiped his hands and face in the sheet, with so many
grimaces, that it was evident he was undergoing an unusual penance.
The guests meanwhile entered the sitting-room. Every room has its own
peculiar perfume. On entering some apartments an agreeable friendly
odour, which we cannot account for, greets the sense, while others are
so close and so unpleasant that we involuntarily retreat. The
apartment of Uncle Abris was among the latter. The walls were soiled
and daubed with pencil scrawls of several years' standing; there was a
thick carpet of straw and feathers beneath the beds; the furniture was
an inch deep in dust, and it was impossible to see out of the windows,
which had cobwebs in every corner.
The lady sighed deeply as she entered this apartment; one could almost
read on her countenance, that she was recalling brighter days, when
everything in the house looked very different from what it did now.
Uncle Abris, having very coldly kissed each of the party, endeavoured
to smile a little; but not succeeding, he gave it up, and his features
resumed their usual hard, anxious expression.
His guests would gladly have taken off their cloaks, but where should
they put them down? It would have been ruin to clean clothes to come
in contact with anything in the room.
"I should like to sit down somewhere, Uncle Abris," said Sizika,
looking round her with innocent scrutiny.
"Well, my dear, here are plenty of chairs, and a sofa," said Uncle
Abris.
"What! _may_ I brush off all this pretty dust?" asked Sizika
roguishly. "I thought it was put here to dry."
Karely laughed; while his mother put her finger to her lips, and shook
her head; and Uncle Abris answered quietly, "Dust we are, and unto
dust we must return, and therefore we need not despise dust;" and, in
order to strengthen the golden precept, he lifted the flaps of his
coat, and, wiping three chairs for his guests, seated himself on a
fourth.
The lady placed herself down opposite to her brother. One was silent,
the other did not speak; and so they remained nearly an hour.
Occasionally one or other would sigh deeply, "Heighho!" on which the
other would reply, a quarter of an hour after, "Ay, ay!"
Karely having gone out to look at the horses, Erzsike went to the
window, and, wiping one of the panes with her pocket handkerchief,
tried to look through it. You must not be perplexed, dear readers, at
our having first called this merry little fairy Sizika, then Erzsike;
both denominations come from the same source, and there is perhaps no
name in the Hungarian language which admits of so many variations to
represent the various gradations from the utmost refinement to the
greatest coarseness; hence the tender, caressing Siza, the gay,
roguish Erzsike, the robust, noisy Erzsu, and the dirty, untidy Boske.
It never entered Uncle Abraham's head to ask his guests if they wanted
anything; he only sat and sighed. Matyi, the coachman, a smart lad
from Lower Hungary, now entered; he had been a csikos,[6] and was an
inveterate specimen of cleverness and roguish insolence.
[Footnote 6: _Csikos_, who take care of the horses and studs of the
vast meadows or heaths, called _puszta_.]
"Is there any hay to be sold here, sir?" he asked, saluting the master
of the house.
"Hay! hay! for whom do you want hay?"
"Not for myself, sir, but for my horses--that is, not for my horses,
but for my master's."
"Well, let's see; I believe I can give you a little," said Hamvasi,
weighing each word, as he took the key of the barn from his pocket,
and went out. The guests could hear the murmurs of Boris outside the
door:--"The tartar take them all! to come to an honest man's house
with four horses, just that they might devour more hay, as if two were
not enough!"
Master Abraham gave the key to Matyi, making him promise not to drop
any of the hay about, because it was dear; and, after watching till he
had returned, he re-entered, and resumed his seat without speaking.
In a few minutes, Matyi came in again: "Where shall I find a tavern
sir?"
"A tavern! what do you want a tavern for?"
"Not for the horses, sir, but for myself. I want to get a glass of
wine."
"Well, I will give you one just now," said Uncle Abris, and taking the
key of the cellar, he went out, desiring Matyi to wait at the
entrance.
Boriska stormed and dashed about, scolding and holding forth to
herself.
Scarcely had the old gentleman re-entered and silence resumed her
reign, than Matyi appeared a third time: "Boriska wants to know, sir,
what she shall cook for supper?"
"Supper! are you used to sup?" asked Uncle Abris, turning to his
guests.
"That we are," replied Karely quickly, before his gentle mother had
time to say the contrary.
Master Abris sighed deeply, rose and went into the kitchen, whence he
was heard talking in a low voice to Boriska, who, on the contrary,
spoke as loud as possible, so as to be heard in the next room.
"What! that beautiful fowl!--have you lost your senses? I make a fire
now! there is no wood cut. Let them eat cheese, there is plenty of
bread. Indeed I shall not open the pot of preserves--I can't knead
puddings, I've a sore hand. I am not a cook; and why don't you keep
one, if you want to turn innkeeper?"
All this was heard distinctly by the guests within. And now, for once,
Uncle Abris really got into a passion, and, going out to the court, he
struck down a renowned cock with the rolling-pin, and, lighting a fire
himself, he set to work to pluck it, till Boriska, seeing it was in
vain to oppose, snatched the cock from his hands and turned him out of
the kitchen.
In about two hours the banquet was ready. The unhappy cock had been
burnt to a cinder, and his bones were not harder than his flesh. The
half-baked bread stuck to the knife when it was cut, and to the palate
when it was chewed; and the dishes were so full of salt and cayenne
that tears came into the eyes of the eaters.
The lady sat at the head of the table, and scarcely tasted anything;
she sighed deeply on seeing the worm-eaten holes in her dear mother's
table-linen, the well-known knives and forks loosened from their
deer's-horn handles, and the old family plate all bruised and broken.
What may not a man come to who has no wife to keep his house in order!
During supper Uncle Abris, having taken some wine, ventured to break
the silence, and asked his sister whither she was _en route_.
She replied, smiling, that they were going to visit Gabor Berkessy.
"What! to that detestable man!" exclaimed Uncle Abris, somewhat under
the influence of the wine.
"Why is he a detestable man?" asked Karely, half amused, half
annoyed.
"Because when I was a student in Debreczen he informed upon me once
for visiting a tavern. I was punished by twenty-four hours'
confinement, and I have never forgotten it since."
And yet it was good thirty years ago!
"And what are you going there for, if I may ask?" continued Uncle
Abris.
The lady did not answer; on which Siza took up the conversation: "We
are going to look out for a wife. Mr. Berkessy has a daughter who
would just suit my brother."
"Hm!" replied the old man, ungraciously looking over his shoulder at
Karely; "you are still a child."
"That is just the reason we want to get him married," replied Sizike
demurely. "He is a good lad, but somewhat unsteady; when he has a
wife, his understanding will come. And then," she continued, "it is
much better to marry young, than to grow old, and fall into the hands
of some virago."
The child spoke these words with such peculiar gravity, that Karely
could scarce restrain his laughter; her mother shook her head, and
Uncle Abris looked as if he were sharpening his teeth to devour her.
"Hm! you know how to talk at least; can you bake bread too?"
"Oh! that I can, uncle, though I do not know that I could dress the
szalonna[7] for it."
[Footnote 7: Szalonna is a kind of fat which they are fond of eating
with bread in this district; but the same name is applied to the wet
dough which is found in badly-baked bread.]
Uncle Abris saw that he was losing ground, and moved back his chair,
which was a signal to the rest of the party to rise; and, after the
usual ceremonies on leaving table, the guests asked to be shown to
their apartments, whither Uncle Abris conducted them, giving each a
candle, which he begged them to put out as soon as they went to bed.
There were rooms enough in the house, but it was melancholy to see
them. Pease, maize, and onions lay in every corner; and the beds were
just in the condition in which they had been left by the last
occupants.
Karely went to the smaller of the two rooms which had been allotted
them, and in a few minutes he was in bed.
"Dear mamma, we shall freeze here," said little Sizike, feeling the
ice-cold pillows; "what shall we do?" and knocking at Karely's door,
she asked if he were asleep.
"What do you want, Sizike?"
"We cannot undress here, Karely, there are no curtains on the
windows."
"Well, blow out the candle."
"O dear! I am afraid in the dark!"
"Then lock the door."
"The door will not shut properly."
"Well, wait, Boske, I will get up and sleep there, and you can come
here with mother," and, jumping up and out of bed, he dressed and came
into the next room, putting the ladies into his.
"And now confess, Erzsu," he said, trembling with cold; "why did you
cheat me out of my warm bed into this cold one?"
"Because you had warmed it already," replied Erzsike, merrily.
There is nothing gayer than the childish mirth between brother and
sister. Even the mild lady laughed heartily. But it was no easy matter
to get warm, even under feather beds. Such rooms attract the cold all
the winter; and even in summer, if the weather is damp, one is apt to
get chilled and cold. Scarcely had our travellers fallen into an
uneasy sleep, than an inconsiderate cock crew loudly just under their
windows.
"Karely, do you hear the ghost of the cock we ate last night?" cried
Sizike, waking up.
It was out of the question trying to sleep again; and in a short time
they all rose and dressed, feeling in every limb as if they had been
beaten.
There is a great art in making beds. In some beds you fall asleep
immediately on lying down: the pillows, which have been placed out in
the sun, have still the freshness and natural heat which they have
attracted; the mattresses and feather-beds are so skilfully arranged,
that every limb feels at home, and on whichever side you lie, you
awake on it next morning; while in others, turn which way you will,
you can never find a place--now shivering, now perspiring, you try to
sleep, but start up in a fright,--the woodworm gnaws and bores, the
bed creaks and cracks. If at last you do fall asleep, it is to dream
of robbers, and when you awake you cannot turn your head. Strange that
no book has yet been written on this very necessary science!
Our travellers had still a grievous ordeal to go through, and this was
breakfast. They would gladly have avoided it; but Uncle Abris gravely
declared, that having fulfilled his part of the obligation--having
roasted the coffee, and boiled the milk--they must not be wasted. So
they all sat down; and although the coffee was a little burned, and
the milk a little run, and the rolls somewhat stale, no one grumbled;
but, finishing as quickly as possible, prepared to depart. The
carriage then drove up, and Uncle Abraham assisted his guests into it.
He now smiled in good earnest. "They are off at last, and will want
nothing more"--it was easy interpreting his smile. Having kissed them
all, and wished them a prosperous journey, he thought he had passed
all dangers, when Matyi exclaimed: "I quite forgot to drink that glass
of brandy which your honour wanted to give me."
Uncle Abris once more grew pale, and retreating into the parlour, came
out with a glass about as large as a thimble.
"Is this all for me, sir?" asked Matyi, holding up the little glass in
surprise; and having emptied it, he looked round, as if to say, Was
there anything in it?
"Will you have half a glass more?" asked Uncle Abris, with
extraordinary generosity.
"Thank you, sir," replied Matyi; "I am afraid of overturning the
carriage. Bless your honour! bless you, Boriska! we shall be back
again in a week."
It was lucky that the horses now set off, for the party could no
longer contain their laughter. Uncle Abris and Boriska thrust their
heads out of the door, and it was not until the carriage had totally
disappeared from view that they ventured to return into the house.
Boris never ceased scolding all that day. "Is it for this, indeed, one
has relations--that they may come and lay waste the house, while we
are stinting all the year round just to stuff these locusts! The cows
don't eat so much in a week as they used for their horses; and that
little, saucy girl could only make bullets of the good bread, and
throw it about. She will eat it some day though, I'll answer for that,
the delicate dear! And then the work they gave folks!" In fine, good
Mrs. Boriska summed up her complaints by declaring, that if they ever
set foot in the house again she should leave it, and let Master Abris
shift for himself; and then, slamming the door in his face, she left
him to his solitary reflections.
* * * * *
Our readers are by this time aware that there is a certain Gabor
Berkessy who has a marriageable daughter, to obtain whose hand two
marriageable young men are hastening from different parts of the
country, accompanied by their respective families, as beseemed.
We entreat our readers' patience to accompany us once more to a third
county, and then we shall all hasten to Uncle Berkessy's together.
In the capital town of the county of S----, a young widow resided,
called Julia Csalvari. It was the general opinion among the
ill-natured gossips of this town that the fair widow was a great
coquette. The fact is, that Julia, during the few years of her wedded
life, had been kept very strictly by her husband--an old gentleman,
who was miserly, stupid, and jealous in an equal degree; and
consequently, after his death, the restrained feelings of a vivacious
nature burst out the more vehemently. Her husband had left her the
mistress of a considerable fortune, and thus the handsome young widow
found herself surrounded by admirers, who flattered her vanity without
touching her heart. She rode, gave soirées, and frequented balls, and
dressed in great style; all this was enough to make her be spoken of
in the capital town of S----. Besides, an old gentleman who had
formerly been an assessor, who was a sort of uncle of Julia, and lived
with her as protector and secretary, supplied the good neighbours with
constant theme. Everything that occurred in Julia's house was repeated
by him in the noble and bourgeois casinos of S----; even that she
never wore the same pair of silk stockings more than once, and that
she was vaccinated every year! In short, the smallest circumstances,
from love-quarrels downwards, might be procured fresh-hatched every
morning from Uncle Nanasy, who was thus continually getting into
scrapes--at one time running the risk of being called out by one of
his niece's reported admirers, while at another some discarded
cavalier threatened to thrash him; and more than once he was obliged
to remain at home for fear of being shot through the head. And then he
had even more to endure from the fair Julia's caprice than from the
dangers without. But all this did not cure the old gentleman: he
still gossiped as much as he could, denied as much as he could, and
bore the results with wonderful patience.
Julia's relations constantly pressed her to marry, and give up this
sort of life; but Julia was little disposed to exchange her present
freedom. And indeed she was so wilful and capricious, that had she
preferred any one person in particular, she was quite capable of
rejecting his suit, and never seeing him again, if her relations urged
her to marry him. Her marriage was thus put off from year to year; as
soon as anything serious began to be reported, some quarrel was sure
to take place on one side or other, and not unfrequently the whole
affair would pass over, while those most nearly concerned knew nothing
of it.
About the time when our story commences, Uncle Nanasy entered the
kitchen one afternoon to discover what was being cooked, after which
he announced himself to the _dame de compagnie_, to ascertain in what
humour his fair niece was to be found that day; and having satisfied
himself on that point, he entered Julia's room, to tell her all that
had been spoken of in the _cafés_ that morning. He found her at her
toilet; her maid was curling her long golden hair, while she reclined
carelessly in her arm-chair and played with the silken tresses, which
descended to the floor.
"Good morning, my sweet pretty little niece!" lisped Uncle Nanasy,
tripping over to Julia with galopade steps, and seizing her small
hand, which he covered with kisses from the wrist to the tips of the
nails, exclaiming between each one: "Ah, what a dear little hand! how
charming to get a box on the ear from such a soft hand! And how is my
sweet little niece to-day? whose head is she going to turn with these
long ringlets _à l'Anglaise_? Ah, you merciless Penelope! do you know
that a duel took place on your account this very morning? The
handsome Lajos, that dark-eyed youth, got a cut across his forehead,
he, he, he!--he is a lucky man. Let me arrange this ribbon--there's a
love, just through these tresses. See, is it not tastefully placed?
would not Uncle Nanasy make a capital tirewoman?--he, he, he!"
Julia did not wish to laugh at all this nonsense; and turning to her
maid, desired her to bring her shoes.
"No, I shall not allow anybody to bring them but myself!" cried Uncle
Nanasy, holding back the maid, and running to fetch them; then,
kissing them a dozen times, he placed them before her, while Julia
took off her small embroidered slippers, and let Uncle Nanasy put on
her satin shoes, as little embarrassed by his presence as if he had
been her maid. Then rising, she continued her toilette before the
Psyche; while Uncle Nanasy stood by, exclaiming, "How angelic! how
lovely!" until he almost poked his chin out of joint with admiration
and wonder.
"Nanasy bacsi," said Julia gravely, and still looking at herself in
the mirror, "I am going to intrust you with a very serious affair, and
one about which you must not gossip until it has been duly brought
into execution."
"Well, my love; am I not the most trustworthy keeper of secrets?"
Julia frowned. "I am not joking, bacsi; but I tell you seriously, that
if you speak of this affair to anybody before it takes place, I will
tear your hair."
"Nanasy bacsi will be grateful for the favour," said the old
gentleman, pulling off his peruke and holding down his head, which was
as smooth as a water-melon. At this sight, the waiting-damsel burst
into an immoderate fit of laughter; on which her mistress, frowning,
ordered her to leave the room.
Uncle Nanasy tried every means to amuse his niece--put on his wig
awry, opened his snuff-box with a variety of grimaces, performing
pirouettes and courtesies of the _renaissance_ era; but all in
vain--Julia would not laugh.
When they were alone, she shut the doors, seated the old gentleman on
the balzac, and standing before him--"Listen to me now, Nanasy bacsi,"
she began; "I am going to be married."
Nanasy bacsi became all surprise and curiosity.
"You must go to-day," she continued, "to V----, find out the high
sheriff, and get me a dispensation.[8] You need not come back from
there, but go straight on to Pesth, and order all that is requisite
for a wedding--what that is, you know better than I do; arrange
everything for this day week at the latest. I want to have it all over
by that time."
[Footnote 8: A dispensation is required when the marriage is not
proclaimed three times in the church.]
"Depend upon me, my angel--in three days all shall be ready, or you
will hear that Nanasy bacsi is no more."
"You must have my bridal dress made in Pesth, within the shortest time
possible."
"Depend on me, my darling; I shall employ the most celebrated
milliners, Varga or Sovari--and if I do not bring the most magnificent
bridal dress within a week, advertise me in the papers as a stray dog,
for which the lucky finder will receive five florins!"
"Write to my relations at the same time," continued Julia, "and invite
them to the ceremony on this day week; but for this you will have time
enough in Pesth. I have ordered the carriage, and now you have nothing
to do but to get into it and drive off."
"Yes, my dear, I understand; but what am I to say to our relations?"
"Why, what have we been talking about?--that I am going to be
married!"
"Yes, but to whom?"
"Why, is it necessary to know that too?"
"Ha, ha, ha, ha! why, that is the _facit_ of the matter."
"How odd!--well, say Kalman Sos."
"Kalman Sos--Kalman Sos; I have heard the name once before. How do you
spell it--with two _o_'s or two _s_'s?"
"With as many as you like!"
"Who, or what is this fine young man?"
"A poet!" replied Julia, with a grave sigh.
"But what else?"
Julia stared at her uncle, partly in surprise, partly in anger, as if
to say, How simple you old people are! and then, with a disdainful
shrug, she replied, "Fate was generous enough, I think, in bestowing
on him a rich mind, without adding a rich position too."
Nanasy bacsi did not understand this logic, but contented himself by
thus filling up the rubric: Whoever he may be, actor, dancing-master,
or what else, she will certainly be able to manage him.
Julia left the old man to think what he pleased, while she prepared
with her own hands all that was necessary for his journey--not
forgetting his shaving materials--wrote her commissions in a
pocket-book, in which she placed a heap of uncounted notes, and,
thrusting it into Uncle Nanasy's pocket, she assisted him to put on
his great-coat and fur cloak, drew his travelling-cap over his head,
and would not let him breathe until she saw him seated in the
carriage, that he might have no time to betray her secret.
Nanasy bacsi, however, bursting with the importance of his mission,
happened to meet one or two friends as he was passing through the
town, and, thrusting his head out of the carriage, without stopping,
he told the first that his niece was going to be married in a week,
the second, that he was on his way for a dispensation, and the third,
that he was going to Pesth for dresses and confectionary; and, in
about an hour afterwards, the whole town was talking of the secret
marriage, and guessing who the happy bridegroom might be--for Nanasi
bacsi had not told his name, husbanding his news, like all true
gossips, that he might have something new to relate when he came back.
Meanwhile, Julia returned to her room, with the placid conviction of
having arranged all her affairs to satisfaction, and gave orders to
her servants not to admit any person except Kalman.
In a short time the sound of steps echoed along the corridor, and
Julia assumed her sweetest smiles; for our readers are no doubt aware
that, under such circumstances, namely, when one is in love, even the
sound of a boot-heel may be recognised. In this respect, only the
editors of newspapers have a finer instinct--who, it is said, tell,
even from the sound of a step in the street, whether it is the postman
with subscribers or a poet with his verses. In this case the magnetism
was reversed; Julia expected the poet, not the postman, and she was
not deceived--
Kalman Sos opened the door.
He was a pale, interesting youth--not that his paleness alone made him
interesting, but he entered the room as Hamlet is expected to enter
with the skull, and, walking with pathetic steps towards Julia, he
raised the fair lady's hand to his lips, where he held it for a long
time, and would probably have been holding it still, had not Julia
withdrawn it, exclaiming, "Something is the matter, Kalman, that you
are so sad to-day?"
"Sad I am, indeed!" replied the poet.
"For mercy's sake!" exclaimed Julia, in alarm, "what has taken place?"
"Nothing, nothing," replied Kalman, but in a tone which left his fair
bride to surmise the worst; and then, sinking into an arm-chair, he
gazed vacantly before him.
"Yes, yes, there is something the matter with you," cried the lady,
really frightened; "I entreat, I desire you will tell me instantly!"
The poet rose _à tempo_, and once more taking Julia's hand, he gazed
long and earnestly into her eyes. "Do you believe in presentiments?"
he asked at last, in a faltering voice.
"How! Why?"
"Have you never known that feeling, something like a waking dream,
which overtakes us in our gayest hours, as if some cold hand passed
across the brow, and the smile which had risen on the lip dies away;
as if suddenly a magic mirror rose before us, reflecting our own
countenance, but pale and dark, as if warning us not to rejoice?"
"O stop!" cried Julia, on whom these words made an uncomfortable
impression; "it is not right to speak of such things; let us talk
rather of our wedding. Have you heard from your relations yet?"
Kalman assumed a Byronic look, and, turning up his eyes, "You are
happy, Julia," he replied; "ah! you are still a child, and can rejoice
at everything."
"Now, what nonsense, Kalman! you know I am at least five years older
than you are, if not more."
"Ah, Julia! years alone do not constitute time. You are still a child
at eight-and-twenty, while I am an old man at twenty-four. Not he who
is furthest from the cradle is the oldest, but he who is nearest the
grave. It is the weight of days, not their number, that brings
wrinkles. I have suffered as much as would suffice for a life of fifty
years!"
"Poor Kalman!" sighed Julia, laying her fair hand on the poet's
shoulder. Her delicacy prevented her asking what the deuce had caused
him so much suffering; besides, Kalman might have been shocked at
hearing her give utterance to such an expression.
"See!" continued Kalman, "at the very moment when I first beheld your
angel face, and my heart began to burn with the thought that I might
possess you--call you mine for ever--an ice-cold whisper seemed to
say, 'Rejoice not, all is uncertain till the day has come.'"
"But it is certain now," replied Julia, "for I have sent for the
dispensation, and invited my relations; we shall celebrate the wedding
this day week."
"Ha! this day week! do you not know that will be the thirteenth of the
month!"
"Indeed, I did not consult the calendar."
"Ah, Julia! that number has a fearful influence over my fate!"
"Well, let it be the previous day."
"Julia, you speak as securely as if you held the hand of fate within
your own."
"Well, if you wish it, and I have no objection, should I speak
otherwise than of a certainty?"
Kalman raised his finger, and with it his eyes, so that Julia began to
think he had discovered a spider's web hanging from the ceiling, and
was pointing it out to her. "Fate hangs over us," he exclaimed, "and
fate is capricious, Julia; broken hearts and withered hopes are
offerings in which she takes delight. Ah, Julia! you are happy if this
feeling has never breathed across your soul; if within your bosom's
world there are no magic chords on which the hand of prophecy strikes
wildly; it would have banished the roses from your face, as it has
done from mine."
Julia was getting tired of all these unpleasant visions and magnetic
influences; and to give the conversation another turn, she seated
herself at the piano, and began to play a gay fantasia.
Kalman leant his elbow on the back of her chair; his dark countenance
seemed to pierce the future, while his eyes glared, and his hair stood
erect--Julia could observe all this in the opposite mirror. Then,
again, he folded his arms and drooped his head on his bosom, till, no
longer able to bear the excess of his feelings, he started up, struck
his forehead, and exclaimed, in a state of exultation, "Ah! one such
moment were sufficient for life; to hear those sweet accents, and,
hand in hand, heart to heart, expire together, breathing forth our
souls in one long embrace. Julia, do you not desire to die with me?"
"Indeed it will be very nice, when we have both of us reached a good
old age; meanwhile let us live a little while together."
Kalman gazed at Julia with an expression of pity: he felt with pain
how far beneath his own must that mind be, which could not comprehend
the fearful ecstasy of two persons dying together, who have nothing at
all the matter with them. He rose and paced the room several times,
like a wandering spirit who had no other calling than to terrify the
living; then seizing his hat with suicidal determination, he stepped
up to Julia, and exclaimed, in heart-rending accents: "Farewell,
farewell! Heaven grant that my forebodings be not realized!" And then,
tearing himself from her, he rushed out of the room as if in
desperation.
Poor Julia was truly in despair, and fearing she knew not what,
despatched her servant after Kalman, to see that he did not harm
himself; and it was not until the man returned, and assured his
mistress that he had seen the young gentleman in the casino eating
roast-meat and green garlic, that she could at all compose herself.
Julia was occupied all that afternoon by visitors; and, much to her
surprise, she received calls from various persons who had not crossed
her threshold for several years before, who all endeavoured, by hints
and delicate advice, to allude to the secret which she thought was
already twenty miles off--in fact, the whole town seemed perfectly
aware of her intended marriage.
She had now no other resource but to shut herself up in her own
apartment, and to see nobody. Reflecting upon Kalman's late visit, she
reproached herself for her prosaical remarks, which must have ill
accorded with the poet's sublime rhapsodies, and endeavoured to force
on her imagination some of those strange feelings, which she supposed
might resemble the unpleasant sensations caused by a cold in the head,
derangement of the stomach--and having worked herself up to a state of
nervous excitement, she sat down to her escritoire, and began a long
letter to her bridegroom.
As she was in the act of revising a composition which she herself
scarcely understood, her maid entered the room with a letter.
Annoyed at being interrupted, Julia snatched it from her hand, and
glancing hurriedly at the address, recognised Kalman's handwriting.
Seriously alarmed, she held the letter in her hand without daring to
break the seal, in case she should read: "When these lines meet your
eye, the writer will be"--the thought was too horrible! Motioning to
her maid to quit the room, she opened the epistle with a trembling
hand: there were four pages closely written.
"ADORABLE JULIA!--Angel never to be forgotten!--Have you ever seen two
stars so close to one another in the blue vault of heaven, that with
the naked eye you might take them to be but one, and which, ever since
their creation, have been revolving round one another--when suddenly
an unexpected phenomenon takes place: one of these two stars, impelled
by an irresistible power, quits his companion, and rushing forward
through the universe, becomes a comet, whose fate is to wander beyond
the worlds, threatening the trembling stars with destruction." . . . .
Julia's patience was not sufficient to go through four pages of
astronomy, and turning impatiently to the end of the letter, she read
as follows:--
"As my father's wishes in regard to me are iron fetters, which enchain
me like Prometheus to the rock; and since he absolutely insists upon
my marrying the daughter of Gabor Berkessy, pronotarius of the county
of Csongrad, there remains no alternative but to die or--to obey. Were
I to consider myself alone, it were bliss to choose the former. But I
can think of you alone--the despair, the derangement, probably, my
selfishness might cause you; and therefore I live and obey for your
sake, my adorable Julia! for your peace alone; and with tears in my
eyes, and anguish in my heart, trace these few lines, each word of
which is a dagger in the soul of him who can never forget, and lives
alone in your remembrance.
KALMAN SOS."
And these were the fatal forebodings, the mysterious visions! Julia
fell from the stars.
After a moment's brief reflection, however, the fair lady coolly
folded the letter, without deigning it a second perusal, and throwing
it into the fire with the one she had just written, she rang the bell;
then writing a few hurried lines, she sealed the note and handed it to
her maid, saying: "Desire the groom to get a fleet horse instantly,
and ride after Nanasy bacsi to the sheriff's: should he find him
there, he may leave the letter and return; if not, he must go on to
Pesth. My uncle generally lodges at the Golden Eagle; but let him find
him out, and spare no expense."
* * * * *
Uncle Gabor Berkessy was a man of about sixty years of age, with hair
and beard snow-white; but though old in years, he was as young in
spirit and as active in limb as a youth of twenty.
He was the life and soul of every company, without ever offending by
his jests. His anecdotes were celebrated in the country; and when he
began to tell a story after dinner, it was impossible for the company
to keep their seats; and finally, when he himself joined in the laugh,
it might have been heard at the end of the town; for the thundering
peal could only be compared to what a lion's might be, if the
risibility of that mighty king of beasts could be excited. On more
than one occasion, when he had happened to be present at a comedy, the
actors were obliged to stop in the midst of their performance. First
it began slowly--ha! ha, ha! ha, ha, ha! holding his handkerchief to
his mouth, and pretending to cough; until at last, as if a bomb had
burst within him, the fearful sounds would break forth--ha, ha, ha,
ha, ha! tears would roll down his cheeks, he would strike the board
before him with his fist, stamp on the ground, and engage the
attention of all the spectators; so that at last, whenever an actor
heard the first ha! he hurried over whatever was to be said, knowing
that he had no chance afterwards of being listened to at all.
I have descanted rather at length on Uncle Gabor's laughing faculty,
because, according to my theory, if a man can laugh heartily, he must
not only be a good-hearted, but a well-informed man; and as such
Berkessy was acknowledged in all the district. His countenance was a
faithful interpreter of his mind: the jolly round face and laughing
eyes, with their silver lashes; the knolly, flexible brows; the
healthy teeth and red lips; and the expression of goodness, impossible
to mistake, impressed on every feature, gave such a charm to his
countenance, that it was impossible not to feel comfortable in his
vicinity; and even the Christmas Legatus would have taken courage in
his presence.
Uncle Berkessy was thirty years old when he married; and his wife was
an excellent soul, with whom he lived sixteen years of peaceful life,
without however being blessed by children. At last, when least
expected, the blessing arrived in the form of a little girl.
The happy pair were now twice as happy as they had been before; the
little Linka was the joy and light of their eyes, and the hope and
glory of both. They lavished upon her all the affection and tenderness
of their nature, hastening to gratify her slightest fancies--for every
thought seemed concentrated in their only child; and, strange
providence! this indulgence not only did not spoil her, but rendered
her from day to day more amiable and more loving. The slightest hint
from her mother's eyes was sufficient to direct her, and she knew no
greater happiness than that of pleasing her parents; all their care
and tenderness found a kindly grateful soil within her gentle heart,
and was richly repaid. How unlike to most indulged natures, which are
generally like vinegar--the more sugar you put in, the stronger will
the acid be.
Lina was scarcely ten years old when she lost her mother--the greatest
loss a little girl can experience. All a father's attention can never
make up for the want of a mother's care; much will remain unobserved
by him which could not escape the ever-watchful spirit of a tender
mother.
Although this misfortune did not change Lina, she was more thoughtful
afterwards; but the cares of a household devolving upon her, left her
no time to indulge in melancholy. A great safeguard for a young girl
are her household cares: they teach her to respect herself, they
banish sadness, keep down the passions and false feeling, and give
true life to the young mind.
The little girl was the greatest comfort in her father's bereavement:
and as she grew up, her sweetness and amiability, and excellent
management, were the surprise and admiration of all the families
around; and no less than three suitors, as we have already seen, were
on their way to Uncle Berkessy on matrimonial speculation. Our sweet
little heroine's exterior, though pleasing in the extreme, was not
such as is called in the language of poets, beautiful. And here I
cannot help observing, that the manner in which these poetical
gentlemen dictate to the world in general is certainly most unfair.
According to their ideas, it is only a perfect beauty who dare lay any
claim to happiness; while all the others, whose faces cannot be
compared to lilies and roses, are born only to be deceived, and but
for their wealth would never appear in a romance at all. Real life,
however, gives them the lie; for we see family happiness bloom even in
households where the ladies are not painted for annuals. And how many
a mild and unpretending being do we find gifted with that delicacy and
true poetry of mind, which give to features not created for a
painter's model an attraction and loveliness that it would be
impossible to describe, for we can scarcely say what it is we find so
agreeable; and although we might turn with cold indifference from a
mere sketch of the features, no sooner do we see them lighted up by a
smile, or hear an accent of sympathy cross the lips, than a sweet
fascination rises within us--the eyes, the lips, the whole
countenance, wins new attractions; the soul assumes its power over
the clay, and charms into beauty what in itself is not so.
Fortunately, nature seldom bestows on any one the consciousness of
being less handsome than her neighbour; for that woman could scarcely
be good-humoured, who, when she looked in the glass, could not
discover something which rendered her countenance agreeable, and which
others also will no doubt remark after some observation. These ideas
may, I fear, hurt the classic understanding, and the lovers of art
will be shocked to hear that the not beautiful can also be subjects of
poetry; but if mankind has so increased upon earth as to mottle the
Olympic regularity with many variations, who can help it? The negro
and the Laplander have their beauties; and some are even bold enough
to affirm that the mind of itself may render beautiful.
All these deviations must not weary you, gentle reader, for you know
it is now a question of matrimony, and therefore you must read
patiently and not in vain.
Day was just dawning; the sound of bells broke the silence of the
village, and, one by one, the green blinds opened as the sun shed his
first rays on the windows of Uncle Berkessy's house. Two windows alone
remained closed--those of the room in which the old gentleman slept;
the others were all open, and the rooms filled with the fresh morning
air. The valuable old furniture was already dusted, and the polished
floors were shining like mirrors. In the first room, a great glass
chiffonnière stood opposite the windows, ornamented by pillars
supported by gilded angels. Among the china and cut crystal arranged
within, was that which Uncle Gabor's grandmother had received as a
bridal gift, and which she used until she was eighty-two years old,
and left in the same admirable order to her children. At the other
side of the room, stood two large beds, on whose heavy curtains a
stag-hunt was portrayed. Although nobody slept in those two beds,
they were turned down every sunny day, and the great feather pillows
placed within the double windows to air. Opposite the beds stood an
antique cabinet, ornamented by various carvings and pillars, of which
it would be difficult to discover all the quaint recesses and the
secret drawers. Between the windows stood an ancestral mirror, with
its frame of ornamental cut glass, the centre of which was decorated
by a garland of everlasting flowers, which might have hung there at
least half a century. In one corner stood a large cabinet clock, and
in the other a high spinning-wheel, used by grandmamma in ancient
times; and which was always kept in the same corner from a feeling of
respect, although nobody ever used it. And, as we are come on
matrimonial speculations, I may inform you, gracious reader, that the
lower part of the chiffonnière contains real old silver-plate for
forty-eight persons; and that the large cabinet is filled with the
finest table-linen, among which is still preserved that which
grandmamma had spun with her own hands. And now we shall proceed into
the next room. This had been fitted up with the newest furniture by
Uncle Gabor as a surprise on one of his daughter's birthdays, and was
filled with comfortable arm-chairs, spring sofas, and elegant
work-tables. There was a grand pianoforte too, and a glass
chiffonnière, in which all her little birthday and holiday gifts were
arranged. The rich worsted-work carpet was an example of the young
lady's personal industry, for, besides keeping the house in perfect
order, she found time for various other female employments. A pretty
bookcase was filled with choice books, selected by her father, while
on her little embroidery table lay the Athenæum and the Regelo,[9]
with extracts from the latest Hungarian works.
[Footnote 9: _Regelo_--title of a literary magazine.]
Lina's sleeping apartment opened from this room; surprising neatness
and order reigned in every part of the little sanctuary; and the
snow-white curtains of the bed and windows pleasantly contrasted with
the dark, polished floor. The airy windows opened on the garden, from
whence the large harvest roses peeped in. A pretty brass cage, with a
canary bird, hung on the wall; and whenever its mistress appeared, the
little tenant would sing as if its small heart were going to burst.
Beyond this room was an ante-chamber which opened into the old
gentleman's apartment, which we will not disturb, as he is still
asleep.
In the opposite wing of the building were the guests' chambers, the
kitchen, servants' rooms, and store-rooms; and beyond these was a
pavilion, provided with comfortable seats, in the centre of which a
fountain played; and here the host was wont to sit and smoke with his
guests, sheltered equally from sun or rain.
The court-yard was already full of business and activity; the reapers
preparing to set out, the old gray-headed labourer leading his oxen
with their decorated horns to the well; the footman was standing at
the door of the out-house polishing his master's silver-spurred boots,
so that he might have shaved in them. A comfortable odour of soup
proceeded from the open kitchen-door, and in a few minutes, our little
lady herself stepped across the corridor, and appeared in the court to
distribute bread and brandy to the reapers. Her cheeks were flushed,
for she had just come from the fire, and a neat white handkerchief was
arranged round her head. For the young girls, who were as yet innocent
of the virtues of brandy, she had prepared a good warm soup, that they
might not go hungry to their work. It was not with any idea of
parsimony, but rather to see that each person had sufficient, that she
came out herself; and she was never contented till every person had
partaken of her gifts. Having wished their young mistress a hearty
_Aldja Isten_ (God bless you), the reapers then set out in the
greatest good humour, the young lads and lasses singing and jesting,
and the elders walking soberly together.
Lina still lingered a few minutes to enjoy the fresh air, and listen
to the tinkling bells of the oxen as they disappeared, and then she
called her flock of poultry, which had collected round the millstone
where the labourers had breakfasted, and distributed their portions
also; after which, she returned to the kitchen to superintend the
roasting of the coffee for her father's breakfast; for when she left
it to the servants, they were sure either to roast it unmercifully, or
burn it, or do something else which gave it an unpleasant taste.
Covered fireplaces were not yet known in those days--everything was
cooked on the flames or hot embers, and consequently the proper
management of the fire was then a source of much greater trouble to
cooks, who had to guard against smoking, burning, or singeing their
dishes; and cooking was at that period a far more difficult business
than in these more enlightened times.
Meanwhile, the footman had covered the table, and the old gentleman,
being awakened by the rattling of cups and spoons, soon made his
appearance in complete attire, with his polished silver-spurred boots,
and his fur dolmany thrown across his shoulders; his thick gray hair
was uncovered, and a pipe, quite full, in his mouth. The footman
wished him "a happy good morning," while three huge greyhounds sprang
from under the table to meet him. Having patted and caressed them all,
Uncle Gabor walked into the kitchen to light his pipe, well knowing
that he should find his daughter there. Linka's hands were full, and,
as her father entered, she exclaimed, in the sweetest voice
imaginable, "Good morning, dearest father; just hold out your hand
here one instant, dear papa."
"For what?" exclaimed the old gentleman, holding out his hand at the
same time.
It was just that Lina might stoop down and kiss it, for both her hands
were occupied.
The old gentleman patted his daughter's face, and then, taking a
bride's eye (a bright-burning ember) between his fingers from the
fire, he lit his pipe and stood watching Lina's operations. When
breakfast was ready, Lina prepared her father's coffee; she knew
exactly how black and how sweet to make it, and the old gentleman was
so spoilt in this respect, that he could never drink coffee except at
home.
We have now seen the little lady at her various occupations, but we
have still to see her when she scolds, for this is infallibly
requisite in good housekeeping, and to overlook faults is in itself
the greatest fault; but the question is, how to scold that your
servants may neither fear nor laugh at you; and Lina could scold both
gracefully and agreeably--indeed the manner in which it was done was
generally the means of establishing good humour.
While she was sipping her coffee, out of a cup not much larger than a
nut-shell, all at once she heard a noise of barking and running in the
kitchen, as if some person was hunting her little greyhound.
She immediately jumped up, and ran into the kitchen. "Who is teasing
my little dog?" she asked, in a voice of dove-like anger.
The servants all laughed, and the footman, trying to compose his
features, replied, "It was Feeske, who was leaping up on the
fireplace."
"Well, and must you strike the poor dog for that!--he feels it just as
much as you would."
"Nobody beat him, Miss; only he put his head into the milk-ewer, and
could not get it out again."
"Yes, because you are all so disorderly.--Come here, little Feeske!
You should not have left the milk-ewer on the fireplace--come here, my
poor little dog; did these bad people hurt you?"
She was obliged to break the ewer to free the little dog's head.
"Sure it's the pretty ewer that's to be pitied," said one of the
servants, laughing.
"Well, I would not let the dog suffer for the sake of a ewer;" and
then she returned to her father with a beaming countenance. "Have I
not scolded them all well!"
Towards the end of breakfast, the footman entered with the letters and
newspapers, which the messenger brought weekly from town.
Uncle Gabor opened the Jelenkor newspaper, and followed Espartero and
Zummalacarreguy with great attention, while Linka glanced over the
peaceful columns of the Regelo--for it was only in the evening that
she had time to read it through. As she opened the last page, her eyes
fell on a sonnet, entitled, "To Lina B----ssy." She started as if she
had looked into a book of incantations, and closed the paper so
suddenly, that the old gentleman, who was just standing before the
cannons of a naval engagement, cried out, "What's the matter, my
child?"
"Nothing at all, papa," replied Linka, changing colour, "only the
paper nearly fell out of my hand."
So far was true. Uncle Gabor hastened back to the engagement, lest
anything should have taken place in the mean time.
Lina folded the paper quite small, and thrust it into the pocket of
her apron; then, taking up her watering-pot, she glided noiselessly
out of the room, and ran into the garden. She was determined not to
read the paper. She would either burn it, or put it away where nobody
should find it. With this firm intention, she began to water her
carnations and violets, all the time turning in her mind where she
could most conveniently hide the sonnet--for, after all, it would be
very hard-hearted to burn it.
At last she remembered the glass-house, and hastened thither with the
intention of putting the paper under one of the great cactus pots. She
looked round on entering, to see that she was quite alone. Loneliness
is the godmother of every weakness, and when she took the paper out of
her pocket she could not withstand the temptation of looking once more
into it--nobody would see if she blushed--and, with trembling hands,
as if she were committing something very scandalous, she unfolded the
paper, and read with a beating heart the lines addressed to her.
The verses were of that kind which our young literature produced about
twenty years ago--for we have always had a _young_ literature, which
never attained maturity--whose constrained inspirations, insipid
taste, and high-sounding problems, had at least this one advantage,
that, possessing no feeling at all, they were incapable of exciting
any. Lina, blushing deeply, was forced to recognise herself in "the
rosebud whose perfume is intoxicating bliss;" as "Heaven's loveliest
angel, the night of whose glossy ringlets might form a pall beneath
which it were ecstasy to expire, while the sunny radiance of her dark
eyes would wake to life again." The sonnet was signed, "Kalman S--s."
Lina knew the youth. She had frequently met him in Sz----, at the
county meetings, and having read the lines, she did not think them so
very dreadful after all, except of course in a poetical point of
view.
As she was still holding the open paper in her hand, a voice called
from the garden door, "Miss Lina!"
Starting up, she once more thrust the paper into the pocket of her
apron, and, turning very pale, ran to the door.
"Guests have arrived, Miss Lina! make haste home," said the servant,
who had been sent for her.
* * * * *
An ancestral conveyance, with three unhappy horses, was standing at
the door!
Our readers will guess to whom it belonged.
Lina took the handkerchief from her head, smoothed her hair with her
hands, and hastened into the room, where numerous voices were to be
heard all talking together with exclamations of joy.
It was just themselves, dear reader; the good-natured country
gentleman, the dictatorial lady, our nephew Sandor, and his amiable
little brother, Peterke.
They had passed the night in the neighbouring village, for a variety
of excellent reasons; of which the principal were, first, that the
horses might rest, so as to be able to gallop into Uncle Gabor's court
next morning; and, secondly, that the family might equip _en gala_ for
the occasion.
The worthy dame wore a large cap decorated with rainbow-coloured
ribbons, the border of which encompassed her face, like the portrait
of the sun in an almanac. Her dress, of bright-green silk, was short
enough to show the embroidered petticoat beneath; a large bronze
buckle secured her waist-band almost under her arms, and the _tout
ensemble_ was relieved by a silver-coloured shawl with crimson
flowers, thrown negligently over her shoulders.
Uncle Menyhert was shaved, and his hair brushed up smartly; his
shirt-collar would fain have stood upright, but not having quite
enough of starch for that, was obliged to be satisfied with the good
intention; his waistcoat had been white piquet, but was now somewhat
yellow. A huge watch betrayed itself in his side-pocket, partly by its
size, partly by its ticking, which seemed to take part in every
conversation, and was worn round his neck by a thick silk cord
resembling a sword-belt. Instead of the green attila, he now wore a
chocolate-coloured coat, whose long narrow tails nearly reached the
ground, and his light Hungarian hose were exchanged for pantaloons of
yellow angine, very wide above and narrow below. All this was crowned
by a long cylinder hat, which was now placed on the table for
universal admiration.
Our nephew Sandor wore his Juratus attila, with a vest of
cherry-coloured velvet. It was clear he felt himself a different man
in the attila to what he had been in his bonjour. The latter
completely cast him down, humiliated, and put him to shame; the attila
inspired him with confidence and courage.
He now neither stood behind the stove nor kissed the footman's hand;
in short, he had become quite superior to himself, and jested with
everybody. This is characteristic of his age: when a youth of that
time of life has an inferior coat, he will be sure to get out of your
way, to avoid saluting you; whereas if he happens to be satisfied with
his appearance, he will cross you on every occasion, and expect you to
salute him.
Even the cadet had undergone a change. He had been washed and combed,
and boxed into submission. Indeed, at the last station he had
undergone a severe chastisement, to prevent any misbehaviour at Uncle
Berkessy's; and having cried the whole way thither, he was now
tolerably quiet and subdued.
As Lina entered, Aunt Zsuzsi rose, and, running across the room, threw
her arms round her neck, to the utter derangement of cap and frill,
and, with a face beaming with triumph, she led forward the blushing
girl, and introduced her to the other members of her family. "Well,
you rascal!" she exclaimed, turning to Sandor with motherly pride,
"have we not chosen a fine girl for you, eh? You do not deserve her, I
can tell you!"
Our nephew looked at Lina with a rueful smile, as if he had expected
something far prettier; but it may have been the extreme tightness of
his boots which made it an unpleasant gymnastic exercise to rise from
his seat.
This cordial introduction at first surprised Linka, and, with a modest
blush, she took refuge beside her father, as if soliciting his
protection against such an unexpected attack. The old gentleman,
observing her embarrassment, put his arm playfully round her. "No! you
shall not carry off my little Linka so easily, my dear niece!" he
exclaimed.
"Ah, but we shall indeed," replied Aunt Zsuzsi, "or else we shall
leave Sandor with you."
"That's right! with all my heart, I shall be delighted if you will
leave both the boys with me. They shall be my sons."
At these words, little Peterke, in great alarm, stationed himself
between his father's knees, and began crying out, "I will not be that
bacsi's son--take me home, I will stay with tate (daddy)."
Uncle Gabor burst into one of his fearful laughs, while papa lifted up
the little urchin, and placed him beside his mother. "Hang on there,
my brave boy."
"Never mind," said Aunt Zsuzsi, "when we take him to be married, I
daresay he will not cry at being left with a pretty girl. If my uncle
had but one little girl more for him!"
"Hush, wife!" interrupted Menyhert, feeling himself called upon to say
something wise; "don't you see who you are speaking before? Here is a
young innocent girl, who blushes at the very name of marriage; we
must not mention these things before the girls, till it comes to their
turn. I must say, I think it is a most excellent custom of the Turks
not allowing the bride to see her bridegroom"--
But at that instant Menyhert, happening to glance towards his wife's
nose, perceived in its evolutions such marked symptoms of displeasure,
that he began to stammer, forgot what he had been saying, and finally
broke down entirely.
"Shall we go and look at the stud?" said Uncle Gabor.
"With all my heart," replied Menyhert, glad to change the subject, and
speculating on the handsome curricle and four which Uncle Gabor would
give his daughter on her marriage.
"Meanwhile, I shall go and take a look at the garden," said Aunt
Zsuzsi.
"And gather pretty flowers," exclaimed Peterke, springing up.
"No, no, you little fool," said dear mamma, "you must not touch the
flowers; but you may catch as many butterflies and beetles as you
like."
Sandor seemed undecided whether he should go and look at the horses,
or undertake to gather butterflies and beetles too; and Lina waited to
see what her father would say, when the prudential Aunt Zsuzsi
interposed: "We will leave the young people together; let them amuse
themselves speaking, and get acquainted: such innocent intercourse
should never be hindered. Come away, fathers."
It was useless to oppose Aunt Zsuzsi's plans, and so the parental
society went out together, leaving the young people to get acquainted;
and the latter, seeing there was nothing else to be done, resigned
themselves to the innocent intercourse.
Linka, having recovered her presence of mind, sat quietly down to her
embroidery-table in the window; while Sandor drew himself up, and
began admiring a large oil-painting of a pretty shepherdess on the
wall opposite, the frame of which seemed to attract his particular
notice.
"You are thinking," said Lina, to begin the conversation, "that that
portrait is very like me, are you not?"
"Like you?" said Sandor; "ohoho! what an idea!"
"It has much more colour than I have."
"Oh! much more."
"And is much taller than I am."
"Oh! much taller."
Linka began to think that she had at last met some person who was
perfectly sincere. "I do not know," she continued, "why that painter
should have made me prettier than I am."
Sandor perceived that he had been giving very stupid answers, and
hastened to repair his fault. "That is to say, Miss Lina, the portrait
is not prettier than you are; on the contrary, it is uglier, for one
side of the face is larger than the other."
Lina, perceiving that the young gentleman did not understand painting
or perspective, tried another theme.
"You have lived in Pesth, and are no doubt acquainted with some of the
poets there?"
"O yes; indeed, there were several students among us who were terrible
spendthrifts,[10] but I never spent much myself; six florins a month
were sufficient for me."
[Footnote 10: "Spendthrift," In Hungarian _kolto_, means also "a
poet," as the verb _kolteni_ signifies "to poetise," or "to expend."]
Linka laughed heartily at what she supposed to be a pun of Sandor's.
"Oh! I did not mean that kind of _kolto_," she exclaimed, "but verse
writers."
"Ah, indeed!" replied Sandor, looking vacantly out of the window; "I
did not see any such in Pesth."
"But you have read their works? for instance, Vorosmarty."
"O yes, certainly; that was what Kisfaludy wrote, was it not?"
"Ah no! Vorosmarty himself was the author."
"Aha! I know now: it was he who wrote Kisfaludy."
"How you are quizzing me! You cannot make me believe that you do not
know the Magyar poets."
"Umph! singular! Well, if I do not know one, I know another; I am very
fond of poetry, and I can repeat some verses by heart."
"Pretty ones? Perhaps you will write a few in my album; who are they
by?"
"Well, the prettiest are by Vad Janos."
"Vad Janos! and who is Vad Janos?"
"Ah, now! you see you do not know him, although he was poetical
præceptora."
"And has he published many works?"
"Why, I believe so. That beautiful poem called 'Spring;' then his 'Ode
to a Sausage'--that's a capital thing; and then the 'Maize King's
complaint against the Trailing Bean'--ah, that is superb!"
"And where are they all published?" asked Linka humbly.
"Why, in the _Hippocrene_," replied Sandor confidently.
"And what is that?" asked Lina again, with pious awe.
"It is the name of a newspaper."
"I have never heard of it," sighed the poor girl. "And where does it
appear?"
"Why, in Koros."
"And who is the editor?"
"The students write it themselves,[11] whoever has the best hand; and
then we take it about to all the pretty girls to read--that is, I
never brought it to anybody," said Sandor, hastening to justify
himself, lest he might be suspected of visiting pretty girls.
[Footnote 11: This is really done in the smaller towns.]
How many are there who never learn anything after they leave school,
and grow old with the same ideas they brought from their classes! I
had a schoolfellow about fourteen years ago, who could tell a pleasant
anecdote pretty well. I met him again this year; we had only exchanged
a few words, when he began the old anecdote.
While the two old gentlemen were looking at the stud, Aunt Zsuzsi had
stepped into the garden--not exactly to look at the flowers, but to
find out what sort of things Lina kept for the kitchen use; while
Peterke ran up and down the beds, looking for butterflies and beetles.
In the midst of his career, he happened to upset one of the bee-hives;
and the bees consequently stung him so furiously, that his whole face
was swelled like a bladder, and the eyes almost entirely disappeared.
On hearing his cries, mamma ran up, and taking him by the hand, led
him into the house. On any other occasion, he would have been severely
punished, besides having been stung; but here everybody endeavoured to
be sweet-tempered, as if the whole family were made of milk and
butter.
This misfortune put an end to the innocent intercourse, and Linka ran
away to get something for the dear boy's face. Each person proposed a
different remedy--cold and hot applications, oil, brandy, &c. &c. In
vain; the swelling still continued, and there was nothing for it but
to go to bed.
Linka then went to superintend her kitchen duties, glad to have a few
minutes to herself. She had not been long away, however, when sounds
of wheels were heard again driving up to the door; but Linka paid no
attention to the noise--she was too much occupied with the arrangement
of her dishes. This did not prevent the inquisitive servants from
running to the window to see who had arrived.
"Oh, Miss Lina," cried one, "what a beautiful calèche! and such a
smart coachman!--not like that Matyi. See what beautiful linen
sleeves!"[12]
[Footnote 12: In summer, the coachman's dress is a coloured vest over
a white linen garment with wide sleeves embroidered round the neck and
shoulders; also wide linen drawers with fringes, and a broad hat
decorated with feathers.]
"Oh, Miss Linka!" cried another, "see what a handsome young cavalier
has just got down off the box! and now he is helping out a fine lady
and a little rosy girl. That is a youth for a bridegroom, Miss Lina."
But Miss Lina was very angry. "What are you all chattering about?" she
exclaimed; "you had far better attend to your dishes."
They had scarcely turned from the window, when another sound excited
their curiosity. The galloping of a horse was heard in the court; and
presently afterwards, a voice, talking in an affected tone through the
nose, addressed the old gentleman, who had come to the door to receive
his guests.
"Permit me to introduce myself as Kalman Sos," said the horseman,
"come to pay my respects"--
As Linka heard these words, she threw the egg-shells into the dish
instead of the yolk, and snatching the Regelo from her pocket, without
further reflection, she threw it into the fire.
"What have you done, Miss Linka?" exclaimed the portly cook; "all your
burnt paper has got into my dishes."
And to put the _comble_ to her distress, the old gentleman entered,
his face beaming with pleasure, and, going maliciously up to his
daughter, he looked in her face, and smiled knowingly without saying a
word, while the poor girl only wished that the floor might open by
some miracle and permit her to sink into the cellar.
"Do you want anything, dearest papa?" she ventured at last to ask.
"I do not want you to stay in the kitchen!"
"And why not, dear father?"
"Because you will be sure to salt everything to-day."[13]
[Footnote 13: Sos, salt salted.]
Poor Linka! if she could have blushed still more deeply she would have
done so, for she understood her father's meaning too well; and,
moreover, the cook increased her embarrassment, by adding, "Indeed,
sir, you will do well to carry off the young lady, for she is not at
all like herself, poor thing! and giving us much unnecessary trouble;
only a few minutes ago, she put the egg-shells into the pudding
instead of the yolk; and then she burnt"--
Lina tried to silence the cook, who, however, only talked the
louder--so she was compelled at last to yield; and, taking her
father's arm, she made up her mind with a sigh to the great sacrifice
of leaving the kitchen and going to her guests. And what a place of
refuge the poor girl had often found there on such occasions!
Meanwhile the guests were assembled in the sitting-room. On one side
of the sofa sat Aunt Zsuzsi, endeavouring with great vehemence, and
frequent application of her finger to the side of her nose, to explain
something in an under tone to a mild lady, in whom we recognise Mrs.
Tallyai, who was sitting beside her listening patiently to her tales.
Our nephew Sandor sat at the table, evidently a good deal put out by
seeing so many strangers; although it never crossed his imagination
that he had two rivals among them.
His father sat beside him, administering wise counsel about various
matters, such as how to behave when he was addressed, how to sit at
table and use his knife and fork, not to put his nail into the
salt-cellar instead of the point of his knife, or to wipe his mouth
with the table-cloth, or drink the water out of the finger-glass. With
these and such-like salutary precepts did good Mr. Menyhert Gulyasi
endeavour to enlighten his son, till the poor youth lost all the
little courage with which his attila had inspired him.
Opposite Sandor sat Karely Tallyai--a handsome, manly youth, in whose
gay countenance and easy manners no holiday restraint was to be seen.
He was carrying on a jesting conversation with his sister, the little
mischievous Siza, whose roguish eyes were ever and anon glancing at
the opposite side of the table, while she constantly discovered
something to arrange in her brother's neckerchief or ruffles, or an
atom of down to pick off his coat, all of which she did with an air of
mysterious prudery, as if "nobody but ourselves" was to remark it.
Last, though not least in his own opinion, stood Kalman the poet,
apart from the rest, with his arms folded and his back against an
arm-chair, his countenance vainly endeavouring to express unutterable
sadness. Such expressions have great effect on young girls--the pale,
moonlight face; the secret sigh; the sad smile when others laugh
heartily; the retirement to a corner where he can be seen by
everybody, when others are amusing and enjoying themselves; the gentle
cough now and then--and if asked why, the laying of the hand with
pensive calmness on the breast, the speaking of approaching autumn, of
falling leaves, and of sweet sleep among those leaves; remarking that
the sound of coughing is like knocking at the gate of another world,
and such-like poetic similes. All this is certain of success if
directed skilfully against a young and inexperienced heart.
Thus the three rival parties were arranged to begin the attack. The
family of Gulyasi were no doubt the strongest; they claimed the old
gentleman's earlier friendship and former promise, besides which, his
own speculations too allotted them the first place.
Kalman considered himself quite dangerous enough to enter the lists in
single combat, and without a second, having already opened the attack
by pouring forth his secret vows in verse; while the least favourable
place fell certainly to Karely. With an honourable heart, and lips
that despised flattery, he had also the misfortune to possess a
simple-hearted mother, who, instead of clothing her son in every
virtue, even exposed his faults, declaring that he was a sad, wild
youth, who spent a great deal of money, besides various other
misdemeanours which she spoke of in the sincerity of her heart, so
that poor Karely might have hung the basket on his arm[14] beforehand,
as there was every chance of his receiving it.
[Footnote 14: It was an old custom to present a basket as a mark of
refusal to the rejected suitor.]
* * * * *
Uncle Gabor entered the room with Lina on his arm, and led her up to
Mrs. Tallyai. The young girl kissed her hand, and gracefully saluted
the rest of the party. Then the two ladies placed her between them on
the sofa, and it was really amusing to see how Aunt Zsuzsi contrived
to occupy her whole attention, overwhelming her with praises,
flattery, and ill-timed questions, while Mrs. Tallyai had not an
opportunity of putting in a single word.
"What a pretty, dear girl! quite a child still, and yet such a good
housewife. I saw your garden, quite an example--such cauliflowers! you
must know they are my favourite vegetable. I have looked at your
preserves, and they do the greatest credit to these pretty little
white hands; but I must teach you by and bye to make medlar and grape
jelly--when we are at Makkifalva, you know. You never tasted anything
better--Sandor is so fond of it! indeed he is fond of all sweets,
quite his father's son; but he had not hitherto seen the sweetest of
all sweets!--Come, you must not blush so, you naughty girl, though I
must confess it is most becoming."
The poor girl was actually sitting on thorns during the whole of this
conversation, till, fortunately, Sizike interrupted it by running over
and throwing her arms round her neck, which gave Lina an opportunity
of withdrawing with her young companion into an adjoining room.
The two girls did not return till they were summoned to dinner, and
then they were already _per tu_. Friendship is very quickly formed
between girls, and, notwithstanding the difference of age--for Siza
was yet a child--a "holy alliance" had been concluded in a few
minutes, and it was evident that Lina looked more favourably on Karely
than on Sandor, although Kalman still remained the most dangerous in
her regard, and she never ventured to look except by stealth at the
hero of the lines, conscious that his eyes were always fixed upon her.
At dinner, the two matrons sat at the head of the table, and Uncle
Gabor at the foot, with the two girls at each side of him; Karely sat
beside Linka, and Sandor opposite him, beside Siza. The poet sat
beside Aunt Zsuzsi, and Menyhert beside Mrs. Tallyai. Soup was served,
and the spoon being an innocent weapon, nothing particular took place
during its requisition, except that Sandor, observing Kalman hold his
spoon between his first finger and thumb, tried to imitate him, and at
the first experiment emptied the soup over his coat. Afterwards, when
the knives and forks came into requisition, and the first glass of
wine began to inspire courage, Menyhert related his own heroic deeds
of 1809--a period which Berkessy, on the other hand, did not exactly
wish to recall. Kalman began eating with his left hand, and Sandor,
desirous of following his example, pitched the meat off his fork into
his neighbour's lap. Aunt Zsuzsi then talked of the want of principle
in the young men of the capital, on which Kalman asked her if she had
seen _Janesi Parlagi_;[15] and then again incurred her wrath by
pouring out a glass of water backwards, on which the good lady
declared that the next time he did so, she would not drink it.
[Footnote 15: _Janesi Parlagi_, a popular play. The question was asked
in derision of the "country bumpkin."]
Sandor having been desired by his mother not to refuse anything, lest
it might offend the young lady of the house, ate and drank of
everything that came in his way. The good Eger wine seemed only to
renew his vigour in attacking the dishes, inspiring him at the same
time with as much confidence as if he were sitting among his Juratus
colleagues, opposite the golden flask. He laughed and jested, stumbled
into everybody's conversation, played on the bottles and glasses, and
threw about balls of bread. At last, in the height of his merriment,
he stretched his limbs under the table, and, having reached a little
foot opposite, which he took for Lina's, began to press it gently with
his own. The foot happened, however, to be Karely's, who, being deeply
engaged in conversation with his neighbour, allowed this tender
_quiproquo_ to go on unnoticed.
Towards the end of dinner, when hearts and mouths were ever opening
wider, that amiable confusion began in which everybody speaks at once,
and nobody can hear himself, though he understands his neighbour. As
one anecdote gave rise to another, the company laughed till the tears
ran down their cheeks; and the ladies entreated the gentlemen not to
make them laugh more, as they were already quite fatigued; while the
young people laughed too, pretending to join in the joke, although it
was something quite different they were laughing about. Reader, would
you understand their mirth? You must be young, and in love.
Kalman the poet alone maintained a Parnassus repose of feature. His
countenance was never discomposed by a smile, while his eyes were
constantly fixed on the young lady of the house, or straight before
him--not on Uncle Menyhert, but beyond him on the opposite wall, on
which a large mirror was suspended. This mirror seemed to divide his
attention with Lina; and to judge by his countenance, he was perfectly
satisfied with the appearance reflected within--watching every motion
of his hands as he ate his dinner, or picked his teeth.
Nobody seemed to observe him excepting little Sizike, whose
mischievous eyes nothing escaped. Her _naïve_ ideas kept the old
gentleman in constant mirth; and once or twice he was very nearly
breaking out into one of his terrible explosions, when, pointing to
Sandor, who was stretching his foot under the table, she whispered:
"See, bacsi, the student is disappearing!" in allusion to one of his
own stories of a student who disappeared under the table.
The general gaiety had reached its climax, when Kalman rose from his
seat, and, drawing his fingers through his hair, filled his glass, and
coughed slightly, to signify to the company that he was about to
speak.
The noise ceased; each person hushed his neighbour, and endeavoured to
assume a befitting length of countenance. The poet gazed around him
for a few moments, and then, raising his glass, began:--
"There is a sea, beneath which a lovely pearl lies concealed." . . .
"See, bacsi," whispered Sizike in Uncle Gabor's ear, "how Kalman looks
at himself in the glass!"
Uncle Gabor glanced at the poet, whose eyes were fixed intently on
the mirror with the most extraordinary self-complacency, totally
unconscious of the mirth he excited.
"This pearl," he continued, with great pathos, "is dearer than
Cleopatra's far-famed pearl, purer than those in the Brazilian
emperor's diadem! To win this gem, it were small sacrifice to descend
into the depths of the ocean: to die for it were bliss!" . . . .
"See, bacsi, how he offers himself the glass in the mirror," whispered
Sizike again.
Uncle Gabor seemed ready to burst, like an over-heated steam-boiler.
His vast chest rose and fell, his face grew purple, he clenched his
fists.
Karely, meanwhile, observing that Sandor was pressing his foot very
affectionately, and not wishing to leave the kindly intention
unresponded to, felt for Sandor's corn, and trod upon it with all his
strength.
"Yai!" roared Sandor in the midst of the pearly simile, giving the
bottle before him such a push, that the red wine flowed to the
opposite end of the table.
This was all that was wanting for Uncle Gabor. The restrained laughter
now broke out in all its fury; he threw himself back in his chair, and
struck the table till all the bottles danced. The young people laughed
too; and the ladies were so startled at the wine which was running
towards them, that they retreated from the table. Kalman alone
maintained a profound gravity, waiting with dignified mien till the
noise had subsided, to continue his speech; but in vain. Three times
he made an attempt to recommence; but no sooner did Uncle Gabor look
at him, or hear his voice, than the explosion was renewed, which he
was utterly incapable of restraining.
Kalman was obliged to sit down at last without finishing his speech.
The old gentleman was evidently annoyed, but it could not be helped;
if Kalman had spoken from the pulpit, he could not have kept his
gravity. To relieve the general embarrassment, Karely took up a glass
and added gaily:
"May the pretty pearl of which our friend Kalman speaks long be an
ornament amongst us, more especially as it does not grow on a cold
shell, but adorns the bosom of a true-hearted son of Hungary, who,
instead of salt sea-water, offers all explorers plenty of good Turkish
blood!"[16]
[Footnote 16: The Eger wine is so called, from the many battles fought
there.]
"Eljen! eljen!" cried the whole party: even Uncle Gabor heartily
clapped his hands in approval. Kalman alone could not forgive Karely,
for having followed up the effusion of his brilliant genius with such
commonplace wit. But it is vain attempting to say wise things after
dinner, and still more vain to expect people to listen to them.
As soon as the company rose from table, Uncle Berkessy invited his
guests to drive out in his grounds with him; and all having readily
accepted, orders were given to the coachmen from each party.
Menyhert went into the stables, to consult with Matyi as to the
possibility of his horses undertaking the drive; and the result being
unfavourable, it was agreed, on the promise of a pint of wine Matyi
should receive on their return, that the latter was to pretend to be
unfit to drive.
Meanwhile the other carriages had driven out, and the ladies were
preparing to step in. Kalman brought forward his steed, with its tail
cropped _à l'Anglaise_, and all were ready, when Menyhert appeared
coming out of the stables in great wrath.
"What the tartar are we to do? my coachman is so drunk that it is
impossible he can drive us. I am shocked to think that this should
have taken place here, but I shall turn him off as soon as ever we go
home."
"Don't annoy yourself, my good friend," exclaimed Berkessy, "there's
plenty of room, and we can arrange so as to take you all in. Your lady
will sit beside Mrs. Tallyai; Karely likes driving at all events, and
the girls will not object to having a cavalier with them."
Kalman had just got one foot in the stirrup, when hearing that there
was a place in the carriage beside Lina, he turned suddenly to Sandor,
who was standing beside him admiring the horse, and asked, with
amiable condescension, if he liked riding.
"That I do," replied Sandor grinning; "but I have no horse."
"Would you like to ride mine?"
"Really! may I indeed?"
"Most welcome; my back is already tired with riding all the morning,
and I can get a place beside one of the coachmen."
It was not necessary to repeat the offer; Sandor put one foot into the
stirrup, and, after dancing about a considerable time on the point of
the other, succeeded in placing himself in the saddle. The rest of the
party had arranged themselves according to Uncle Gabor's directions,
and Kalman was fortunate enough to obtain a place in Berkessy's
carriage opposite the two girls.
It was only now the company perceived that Sandor had mounted Kalman's
horse, on which he made rather a remarkable appearance--his legs being
very long, and the stirrups drawn up very short, consequently obliging
his knees almost to meet round the horse's neck.
Unfortunately, this horse had the bad habit of rearing whenever he
felt a stranger on his back; and he now began by throwing up his head
with a strange, drawn-out neigh, backing by degrees, and finally
rearing.
Aunt Zsuzsi now started from her seat. "Sandor!" she cried, "you fool!
get off that horse directly; you will break your neck."
It would appear unnecessary telling a man to get off a horse whose
intention it is to give his rider all possible assistance in
dismounting. But Sandor neither heard nor saw; and if we apply the
term of "all ear" to an attentive listener, we may perhaps affirm of
Sandor that he was "all horse."
The steed, finding that Sandor did not fall off as he intended,
neighed once more, and pricking up his ears, made a start for the
gate, and then set off full gallop across the garden and over the
meadow, bearing his unhappy rider with him, who in despair let go the
bridle, and with both hands held fast by the saddle before and behind.
"My son, my son! he will be killed!" shrieked Aunt Zsuzsi, wringing
her hands; "will nobody save him?"
"Oh, never fear," said her worthy husband; "he is safe enough, depend
upon it, and a throw or two won't break his neck. Did you not see that
he spurred the horse purposely? Let us go on, he will soon overtake
us."
Whereupon the whips cracked, and the carriages proceeded at a quick
pace along the road; Aunt Zsuzsi calling to every person she met, to
ask if they had seen her son--nobody hearing her, of course, owing to
the noise of the carriages.
Having arrived at Uncle Berkessy's farm, where the harvest was going
on, they turned into a beautiful avenue planted on each side with
trees; here and there the wheat and barley were in stacks, the maize
was still ripening luxuriously, and the golden melon and citronil
peeping out among the stubble. But neither corn nor melons had any
charms for Aunt Zsuzsi--she could only think of her lost son; till
Mrs. Tallyai having suggested the probability of Sandor's having
returned home, the good lady became tolerably calm, and was able to
estimate the value of each plot of melons, and bushel of corn.
Having amused themselves some time watching the reapers, the party
drove home again. Aunt Zsuzsi's first word was to inquire for Sandor;
but nobody knew anything about him.
The good lady then gave vent to her lamentations. "I am undone!" she
exclaimed, "my son Sandor is lost for ever! One has been nearly stung
to death by bees, and now the other is killed by a mad horse. Oh! why
did we ever come here at all?--But it is all your fault, you old
fool," she continued, turning to her husband; "why did you want to
marry your son so young? Now he is gone for ever, and you may go after
him yourself, with your ass of a coachman. And you, sir," she added,
turning her wrath on Kalman, "how dared you let him mount your
confounded horse? where is he now, I ask you?--where is my son
Sandor?"
"And where is my horse?" exclaimed the poet, not less alarmed at the
idea of Sandor's having carried off his horse, than the good lady at
the horse's having carried off her son Sandor.
"Oh, heavens! how am I to go home without my son?" said Aunt Zsuzsi,
bursting into tears.
"And how the tartar am I to get home without my horse?" said the
sentimental poet, forgetting himself.
Not content with blaming her husband and Kalman, Aunt Zsuzsi included
the whole family in her wrath: the girls because they had not taken
Sandor with them, and Uncle Berkessy for having allowed him to drink
so much wine, as otherwise he never would have dared to mount the
horse; and finally, she broke out in invectives against the whole
party for standing with their mouths open, instead of running to look
for her lost son.
At last Menyhert's patience was exhausted: "What are you yammering
about?" he exclaimed; "nobody made this fuss about me when I went to
the elections at Raab, when several gentleman were shot there! Never
fear! bad money is not so easily lost; depend upon it, he will come
back again. They don't steal people in this country, and they won't
begin with Sandor; and if the rascal does not return soon, we shall
have him advertised."
These cruel words fell with indescribable bitterness on Aunt Zsuzsi's
sensitive heart. That a father should speak thus of his lost son! She
had no words to reply; but, rushing into the room where Peterke was
lying eating cake, she threw herself on her only remaining son, and
began sobbing bitterly, on which Peterke turned the cake out of his
mouth and began roaring too.
Uncle Berkessy, much annoyed at the good lady's distress, sent
messengers in every direction, on foot and on horseback, to search for
the lost youth.
Meantime our readers may have no objection to follow too, and see what
has become of him.
Having crossed the garden, the steed went full speed across the
fields, and out into the highroad, where he continued in full gallop,
Sandor having surrendered himself to his fate, wondering whether he
should be carried off to Ukrania, as Mazeppa had been before him.
Now and then he ventured to look hastily round, and saw the place they
had left always at a greater distance, till at last it disappeared
entirely, and only the tower of the village church was to be seen;
finally, that too disappeared, and he began to see the towers of some
unknown town rising out of the horizon before him.
Now and then he called to the people he met on the road to catch the
horse, but they all understood that they were to keep out of the way,
taking it for granted that he was riding for a bet, or else that he
was a messenger sent for a doctor or fire-engines.
* * * * *
It was six days since the pretty widow had sent Uncle Nanasy abroad to
make preparations for her wedding and to assemble her relations. All
her orders had been scrupulously attended to. And the _estafette_ whom
Julia had sent to recall him having arrived half an hour too late at
each place, Uncle Nanasy returned to S---- without having seen him,
and entered his niece's apartment with a huge bandbox under his arm.
"Here I am, darling!--I have executed all your orders," he exclaimed;
"and here are your bridal dresses--this Varga made, and is it not
splendid? And this is from Keresztessy, worthy of an empress! And here
is the dispensation in my pocket--and the confections are in that
great case outside--and all our relations will be here: went about
myself, darling, and invited them all--But what's the matter? You are
not pleased with the dresses?"
Julia, trembling with vexation and rage, had pushed away the box
violently, and it rolled on the floor, crushing all the finery.
"Take these dresses out of my sight!" she exclaimed, in a voice choked
with passion. "I don't want to see them--nor the dispensation, nor
confections, nor relations, nor yourself either, you facetious,
meddling, old fool!"
Uncle Nanasi's eyes and mouth opened wide at this unexpected
reception; his jaws moved, as if endeavouring to articulate, though he
was utterly incapable of pronouncing a syllable.
When a man discharges all the business confided to him in the most
punctual way possible, just as he expects to receive at least a kiss
in return, and instead of it, has a box thrown at his head amid a
storm of abuse, what is he to suppose?
Nanasy bacsi was beyond supposition; and, to add to his amazement, his
fair niece had thrown herself down on the sofa, and was sobbing
bitterly.
At that instant the sound of horses' hoofs was heard in the court, and
Julia's maid burst into the room with a look of astonishment,
"Miss!--Madam!--gracious lady! Master Kalman's horse!"
"Don't dare to admit him," cried the lady, starting passionately from
her seat.
"But it is not Master Kalman, only his horse, with a strange young
gentleman."
"Who?"
Who, indeed, but the unfortunate Sandor, who had been carried across
the district to the principal town of the neighbouring county, and set
down before a strange house half dead with terror and fatigue!
Kalman had been accustomed to visit Julia every day on horseback, and
on these occasions the fair lady used to feed the horse with sugar
from her own delicate hands, so that when he passed up that street the
animal would frequently carry his master perforce into the court of
Julia's house, and now, having been six days absent, he had
consequently been six days without sugar, and, naturally enough,
finding himself unchecked, set off, and never stopped till he arrived
in the court of Julia's house, where he stood still, and began
neighing for the sugar.
This is the most natural way of explaining the psychology of the
circumstance, at least as far as we are capable of comprehending the
ideas of a horse.
Sandor tumbled off the horse's back as soon as it stopped, and
tottered towards the wall with aching and distorted limbs: presently,
he crept up to the door with great difficulty, just as Julia with her
maid had appeared on the staircase to see who was there.
"Who are you?--what do you want?--how did you come here?" were the
first questions put to the unhappy stranger.
"Don't ask me anything," groaned the horseman. "I am lost--I am
dying--my back is broken--put me to bed and call a surgeon. I am just
going to die!"
Julia saw with real sympathy that the youth was in great suffering,
and, sending her servant immediately in search of medical and surgical
aid, she put the tortured adventurer to bed, and bestowed every
possible attention which female tenderness could suggest. At last the
arrival of the doctors relieved her as to the state of the
invalid--assuring her that the young man was only saddle-sick, and
that a few hours of rest would put all to rights.
* * * * *
At Gabor Berkessy's, matters became more serious every hour. Mrs.
Gulyasi would let nobody draw breath till she had turned out the whole
household in search of her son, while she herself wandered about
distracted, asking every new comer what they had done with her son! At
last she was seized with violent cramps, and was obliged to go to bed
to tea and warming-pans.
Poor Lina and Mrs. Tallyai kept watch by her bedside, and never closed
their eyes all night; while Menyhert slumbered with a calm conscience
in the next room, snoring so loudly that they were obliged to rouse
him once in each five minutes for fear of disturbing the invalid.
At last, towards morning, she fell asleep, overcome by fatigue and
groaning, and Mrs. Tallyai also sank down on the sofa to get a few
minutes' rest, when all at once the footman was heard beating the
gentlemen's coats in the corridor.
The two girls ran out eagerly and desired him not to make such a
noise, as the ladies had only just fallen asleep.
As the footman retreated with the coats, Sizike observed something
lying on the floor, and running over, picked up an open pocket-book,
on the outside of which was printed in large golden letters,
"Journal," and the initials "K. S."
Who could blame severely two young girls, when the journal of a young
man--not entirely without interest in their eyes--had fallen into
their hands, that they should be unable to withstand the temptation of
peeping just a very little into it? At all events it was very natural.
The two girls ran whispering and tittering behind a pillar, and
hurriedly turned over the leaves of the mysterious book. It was full
of verses; here and there dried flowers, or a forget-me-not of plaited
hair peeped out between the leaves, which they carefully replaced, and
amused themselves with reading the verses, stifling their laughter as
they gaily snatched the book out of each other's hands. Suddenly
Lina's eyes fell on some well-known lines. She looked again; they were
indeed the very same which she had read the day before in the Regelo,
with this slight difference, that they were not addressed to herself,
but to Julia Cs----, and instead of dark hair and eyes, these spoke of
forget-me-not eyes and golden hair; otherwise it was quite the
same--every angel and charmer in its place, the same heartaches, the
same readiness to die, and promises to meet in a better world!
Lina felt herself precisely in the situation of a person who accepts a
compliment, and then perceives it was intended for another. She
hastily closed the Journal and retreated to her room, to hide the
blush of shame which covered her face, as if a hundred eyes were
turned upon her. For once in her life, a feeling of vanity had crossed
her heart; but now she was severely punished for it: all those
beautiful similes and sweet words had not been written for her at
all, but only translated from fair to dark! She was completely
disenchanted.
The sun had already risen, when one of the messengers who had been
despatched on Sandor's traces returned, with the consolatory news that
he had discovered the young gentleman, and that nothing was the matter
with him; on the contrary, he was in excellent hands, under the care
of a beautiful lady, who would not let him go until he had entirely
recovered from the fatigue occasioned by his ride--meanwhile, she
hoped that his worthy parents would come and be her guests until the
young gentleman was thoroughly restored.
At this news, Aunt Zsuzsi suddenly came to herself, rose from bed, and
ordered her carriage; and without even waiting for breakfast, thanked
her host for all his kindness, hurried her husband and little Peterke,
with tied-up jaws, into the conveyance, and desired the coachman to
drive for life and death to S----. The lad who had brought the message
was seated beside the coachman as a guide, having forgotten the lady's
name on his way back, but hoped to be able to find the house again.
Uncle Gabor shook hands cordially with Menyhert, who was already in
the coach, exclaiming gaily: "But for all this our process must not
fall to the ground--_liquidum est debitum_; and if it cannot be
arranged otherwise, we must enforce the execution."
Menyhert laughed heartily, understanding an allusion to the
long-promised marriage.
The whole household accompanied the carriage to the road, where they
once more parted, and the horses set off as fast as they were able.
Uncle Gabor then returned to the house with his guests; Linka was
evidently out of spirits that morning, while Siza could scarcely
contain her joy on seeing the Gulyasis set off.
"Miss Lina's sunny countenance is clouded to-day," said the poet in a
theatrical tone.
Lina, without condescending a reply, turned to Karely, with whom she
began to converse, and they entered the house together.
Kalman was thunderstruck. "Why is Miss Linka so ungracious to-day?" he
asked Sizike, who still remained out.
"Oh! did you not hear Mr. Menyhert Gulyasi threaten her father with an
execution?"
"Who? the old gentleman?" asked Kalman, much shocked.
Siza had spoken carelessly, without an idea of being believed; but
Kalman's look did not escape her quick eye--for at twelve years old
she had more sharpness than most people have at forty. Without
rectifying the mistake, she answered gravely: "Yes, certainly, old
Berkessy; but you must not speak of it to anybody."
"Impossible!" cried Kalman, in great agitation; "he is considered a
very rich man."
"Ah! there are many considered rich who are not really so," said
Sizike; and, carelessly humming a tune, she tripped into the house.
Kalman paced up and down with folded arms: he was quite confounded.
How could he imagine that a child of twelve years old should think of
making a fool of him? He might indeed have doubted had he heard it
from a grown-up person; but why should a child say such a thing,
unless she had heard it from those around her? In that case, it would
be better to return to Julia,--people said ill-natured things of her,
to be sure, and she was rather volatile and capricious; but at all
events she was rich, and very pretty. It might not be so difficult,
after all, to begin again: a few well got up scenes--an attempt at
suicide if necessary, and all would be right.
A horse was the only thing wanting--perhaps Berkessy would lend him
one; and with this hope the poet entered Uncle Gabor's apartment.
Berkessy was sitting on a large arm-chair, and Karely was standing
before him.
Kalman paused as he approached, to consider how he should arrange his
speech so that the old gentleman might suppose, and yet not suppose
that it was no longer his intention to propose for his daughter. And
here his evil genius again placed a looking-glass before him; and
again forgetting himself, he drew up his collar, brushed up his hair,
and the "Sir" with which he began his speech was apparently addressed
to himself.
Uncle Gabor, who had been observing his strange attitude in the
mirror, suddenly burst into one of his uncontrollable fits of
laughter, which Kalman was obliged this time to take to himself. He
grew red, then pale again, while his lips trembled with rage.
The old gentleman suddenly checked himself, and asked in the gravest
tone--"In what can I oblige you, nephew?"
"Sir," replied Kalman, scarcely able to articulate with fury, "I
thought--I expected to find in you a cultivated man, who despised the
superstition of the last century, which considered a poet as something
ridiculous."
"I do not consider poets ridiculous, sir," replied Berkessy gravely,
"as the walls of my room and my library will prove, where you may see
the portraits and the works of our best authors; but I despise that
bastard poetry which sucks the parent stem, and grows green without
ever producing fruit. I honour and revere those great minds, uniting
brilliant genius with vast study, who fulfil their glorious career to
the glory and honour of their country; but to mistake every reed
whistle for an Æolian harp, is what I cannot do. The real poet
elevates our mind by his ideas, while those who only call themselves
so because they invent rhymes can but excite a smile; and if nature
has given to my smile a somewhat louder tone than usual, it is not my
fault. Really, my dear nephew, the properties I first mentioned are
rather rare, while the latter certainly abound--and this you must not
take amiss from an old man."
No dictionary hitherto published contains words sufficiently
expressive of all that Kalman felt at this moment. To accuse a man of
stealing a silver fork, is nothing in comparison of telling him he is
a bad poet. At last, after a few moments' silence, he began in a
dignified tone: "Sir, if I did not consider that I am in your house"--
"That need not incommode you in the least: in my house the guests are
the masters."
"The insult you have offered me should be washed out with my blood,"
continued Kalman (he did not yet presume to say with anybody's else).
"I am not a surgeon," replied the old man, with quiet sarcasm.
Karely now stepped in between them, and taking Kalman's
arm--"Comrade," he whispered, "you are playing a very ridiculous part,
in disputing thus with an old gentleman."
"Why has he not a son, that I might demand satisfaction?"
"Take comfort, if that is all you want: I am his son, for I am going
to marry his daughter, and I am ready to give you all the satisfaction
you desire, but don't let us make a noise about it. I believe you are
going home at all events; so, if you will drive with me to S----, we
can settle this affair with our friends."
Uncle Gabor did not hear what the young men were saying; and as Karely
declared that he was obliged to go to S----, and would take Kalman
with him, he was quite satisfied, and ere long the two young men drove
away in the Tallyai carriage.
* * * * *
Meanwhile the Gulyasis arrived happily at S----, and were received by
the fair widow with the greatest amiability, and conducted to the
chamber of the sick youth, in whom Aunt Zsuzsi recognised her lost
son. He was reposing on a divan, arrayed in a rich silk dressing-gown,
embroidered slippers, and gold-tasselled cap, formerly the property of
the fair lady's husband.
Of course, Aunt Zsuzsi remarked nothing of all this at first, she
could only see her long-lost son; and falling on his neck, she sobbed
passionately for several minutes, after which she poured forth her
thanks and compliments to the pretty widow for her son's extraordinary
preservation, and the careful attendance bestowed upon him, repeating
at least ten times over--"Oh! if my son Sandor had such a wife, I
should be at rest as to his fate--I should then be sure of having
placed him in good hands!"
Julia smiled charmingly, and brought the worthy family through all her
fine apartments--showed them her porcelain, her silver services, and
finally her jewellery. Aunt Zsuzsi was beside herself; praised
everything to the skies, and scarcely knew what to look at first.
Meanwhile Uncle Nanasy took Menyhert up stairs into his smoking-room,
and spoke a great deal of Julia's fortune, of her various merits, and
of the brilliant alliance she would make for the first family in the
country, and of her late husband's admirable arrangement, allowing his
widow a handsome income in case of her marrying again--to all of which
Menyhert listened attentively, and the hours passed rapidly away
until dinner was announced.
During dinner, the surprise and admiration of the family reached its
highest climax. They did not know which to admire most--the meats, or
the dishes in which they were served. Little Peterke alone seemed
perfectly decided in his opinion as to the tarts, and had his own way
of proving it--what he could not eat he thrust into his pockets, and
Julia helped him to fill his cap with sweetmeats.
"Well, Peterke," said Aunt Zsuzsi after dinner, taking the dear boy in
her arms, "tell me which you like best, Aunt Julia or Aunt Lina?"
"I don't love Aunt Lina, because she would not give me chocolate when
I asked her."
"Well then, you love Aunt Julia best, don't you?"
"Uhum!"
Mamma smiled, and gently patted the dear boy's cheek.
It was now the seventh day, and the report had already spread through
the whole town, that the pretty widow was to be married on that day.
Her relations began to arrive, and one calèche followed another till
the house was quite full of gaily dressed people, among which the
indefatigable Uncle Nanasy was seen receiving everybody, and looking
more mysterious than ever.
"Where is the bride?" and "Where is the bridegroom?" was in every
mouth; but, for once in his life, Nanasy bacsi answered
discreetly--that Julia was at her toilet.
Meanwhile Julia had arrayed herself in her bridal attire, in which she
really looked like a fairy queen, and was in the act of placing the
wreath on her head when the door opened, and who should enter
but--Kalman Sos!
Julia, who was standing before the mirror and saw him enter, had just
time to check the start of astonishment which his appearance caused,
and, turning calmly round, "O you bad man!" she exclaimed in a voice
of gentle reproach, "to have put me to such an unmerciful trial. If I
had not known you so well, I might have been quite desperate on your
account."
"Then you never doubted me?"
"Doubted you! how could I imagine that you would forsake me, when
everybody knew we were going to be married! I must have had a very low
opinion of you indeed, had I thought for an instant that you could
have so basely betrayed a woman who loved you. Oh, no! I knew it was
only a poetical caprice on your part to prove the strength of my
confidence. I knew you would return, and so I did not even put off my
guests, but made all the preparations for the day appointed, so well
did I read your character."
"Yes, Julia! you read truly," murmured Kalman, enchanted; "it was only
a trial, which you have overcome, and my love will now be a thousand
times stronger than ever."
Julia turned from her mirror, and, courtesying low, with a smile of
bewitching coquetry, asked, "Am I pretty?"
"Oh, lovely!--Oh, angelic!" murmured the poet, throwing himself at
Julia's feet.
At that instant Uncle Nanasy entered to announce that the reverend
gentleman had arrived for the ceremony.
Julia poured some _Ess bouquet_ on her handkerchief, and, taking
Nanasy's arm, who stepped forward _à pas de menuet_, she descended to
the apartment where the guests were assembled.
The company hastened to greet the lovely bride, each according to his
own mode, and one and all seemed lost in admiration of her beauty.
At last the reverend gentleman stepped forward, and, rubbing his hands
with a business-like countenance, asked the name of the "happy
bridegroom."
Julia looked round with one of her sweetest smiles, while Kalman
hastened across all the corns in the company in his haste to join the
beautiful bride; but Julia's hand had already been placed in that of
nephew Sandor, whom she presented to the clergyman as her future
husband!
Kalman tottered towards the wall, and so completely lost his presence
of mind, that he tripped successively over three chairs into the lap
of a fat dowager lady; and then, starting up, rushed to the nearest
door, but finding it was a cupboard had to return across the room; and
when at last he found the door and got down stairs, the first person
he happened to meet being a little kitchen-maid, he addressed her as
"My lady aunt!" and begged her to get him a glass of water, for he was
_very cold_!
There was only one other person in a greater perplexity than himself,
and this was the bridegroom. When Julia led him towards the clergyman,
he stared as if he had heard sentence of death passed upon him. The
affair had been already made up between the elders, who considered it
superfluous to mention the subject to Sandor beforehand, and Julia was
too secure in the power of her charms to doubt of their success in
this undertaking.
Sandor allowed himself to be led before the table arranged for the
ceremony, and when the clergyman asked him, "Do you love this
honourable lady whose hand you hold?" he only stared at the worthy
man, till his father cried out, "Well, do you love her? Of course you
love her--how should you not love her?" on which Sandor recovering his
senses, went through the rest of the marriage formula pretty well,
though it cannot be denied that his teeth chattered not a little.
After this all went on well. The _fêtes_ which succeeded the ceremony
removed every constraint; and I must not omit, for the satisfaction of
our readers, that the happy bridegroom even danced after supper, and
thereby managed to trip up and tumble over several of the guests.
* * * * *
Early next morning three young men were walking in the gardens outside
the town. One was Karely, and the other two his comrades, who were to
act as seconds in his encounter with Kalman.
The latter had quitted Julia's house with a greater desire of fighting
than ever, and declared in several coffeehouses that he was determined
to shed either his own blood or that of another, and that he would not
be content with sending a ball through Karely's brain alone. In vain
his friends hinted that it was imprudent to publish his sanguinary
intentions beforehand, as he might be taken up. He cared not; they
might imprison him or take his life, but they should not touch his
honour!
Karely and his friends had waited full half an hour after the time
appointed. At last Kalman's seconds arrived--alone! and, with
countenances expressive of anger and disgust, handed a letter to their
opponents. Karely opened it impatiently, and read as follows:--
"GENTLEMEN,--Reflecting more coolly on this affair, I have come to the
conclusion that greater obligations than those at present incurred
forbid my risking a life not my own. The genius which fate has
intrusted to me is not mine alone. It belongs to my country--to
humanity in general.
"There is another thing we must not lose sight of; a duel should only
take place between individuals of equal rank, and I need not explain
to you that the mind has its aristocracy as well as society. When you
have selected one of my own grade, I will gladly measure arms with
him; meanwhile I quit this ungrateful town, probably for ever, to seek
elsewhere a circle more suited to my tastes," &c. &c.
The seconds stared at one another; some laughed, others cursed, and
Karely seeing there was nothing more to be done, took leave of his
comrades, and, stepping into the carriage which was waiting for him,
drove back to Berkessy's.
About half way he met their calèche, with his mother and sister, and
old Berkessy and his daughter, who all uttered exclamations of joy on
seeing him.
Some friend who had heard Kalman's threats in the _café_ hastened that
very evening to inform them of it, and they were now driving for life
and death to S----, and were infinitely relieved and rejoiced to meet
Karely returning, especially when he assured them that the affair had
gone off without any bad consequence.
Berkessy proposed going home with Karely, to give the ladies more
room, and they all drove back together.
Uncle Gabor then questioned Karely as to the cause of the duel, and
having heard it was on _his_ account, he opened his eyes in
astonishment.
"And what right had you to demand satisfaction in my name?"
"That right which a son has in his father's name."
The old gentleman smiled. "But you are not my son."
"But might I not be?"
"Hm! nephew, you are certainly a fine, good-hearted lad, but they say
you are very extravagant."
"Well, perhaps they are right; but had I not been so hitherto, I might
have been hereafter."
"But how can I be sure that you will not be hereafter what you have
been hitherto?"
"Please, dear uncle, give me a year's trial. If within that time you
should hear anything against me, never admit me into your house again;
if, however, I can prove that I have resolution to keep my word"--
"Then I will never let you leave my house again," said Uncle Gabor,
shaking his hand.
* * * * *
Karely kept his word. A year had passed by, and daring all that time
no temptation could prevail on him to diverge in the slightest degree
from the resolution he had formed; and though he attended the county
meetings as usual, he had not once been seen to gamble; and after a
great dinner, he was sure to be the only sober one of the party.
Meanwhile, he put his estate in order, and employed his leisure hours
in studying languages. In the course of a year, he was looked upon as
the most regular, as well as the most accomplished man in the
district. He continues to be so still. He married Lina, whom he loves
sincerely and faithfully; and seven years have not disturbed their
family peace. Happiness is easily read in a woman's countenance, and
the lapse of years has only beautified Lina's.
Sandor is also happy. He has a handsome wife with plenty of money; and
Aunt Zsuzsi visits them every year, and wears her daughter-in-law's
old-fashioned silk dresses.
Uncle Abris is happy in his own way. He has married Boriska; and is no
longer obliged to pay her wages.
Uncle Lorincz Kassay is happy too. The visits from his relations never
diminish--his house is always full; and among the many suitors for his
pretty daughter's hand, "little Peterke," now a handsome youth, is not
the _least_ in favour.
Kalman alone is unhappy. Dissatisfied with the world, misunderstood by
everybody, his hopeful genius has turned to misanthropy. Gentle
reader, if you ever read bad verses, think of him with pity!
THE BARDY FAMILY.
We are far amidst the snow-clad mountains of Transylvania.
The scenery is magnificent. In clear weather, the plains of Hungary as
far as the Rez promontory may be seen from the summits of the
mountains. Groups of hills rise one above the other, covered with
thick forest, which, at the period when our tale commences, had just
begun to assume the first light green of spring.
Toward sunset, a slight purple mist overspread the farther pinnacles,
leaving their ridges still tinged with gold. On the side of one of
these hills, the white turrets of an ancient family mansion gleamed
from amid the trees.
Its situation was peculiarly romantic. A steep rock descended on one
side, on whose pinnacle there rose a simple cross. In the depth of the
valley beneath lay a scattered village, whose evening bells
melodiously broke the stillness of Nature.
Farther off, some broken roofs arose among the trees, from whence the
sound of the mill, and the yellow-tinted stream, betrayed the miners'
dwellings.
Through the meadows in the valley beneath, a serpentine rivulet wound
its silvery way, interrupted by numerous falls and huge blocks of
stone, which had been carried down in bygone ages from the mountains
during the melting of the snows.
A little path, cut in the side of the rock, ascended to the castle;
while, higher up, a broad road, somewhat broken by the mountain
streams, conducted across the hills to more distant regions.
The castle itself was an old family mansion, which had received many
additions at different periods, as the wealth or necessities of the
family suggested.
It was surrounded by groups of ancient chestnut trees; and the terrace
before the court was laid out in gardens, which were now filled with
anemones, hyacinths, and other early flowers. Now and then the head of
a joyous child appeared at the windows, which were opened to admit the
evening breeze; while various members of the household retinue were
seen hastening through the corridors, or standing at the doors in
their embroidered liveries.
The castle was completely surrounded by a strong railwork of iron, the
stone pillars of which were overgrown by the evergreen leaves of the
gobea and epomoea.
* * * * *
It was the early spring of 1848.
A party, consisting of thirteen persons, had assembled in the
dining-room. They were all members of one family, and all bore the
name of BARDY.
At the head of the board sat the grandmother, an old lady of eighty
years of age, whose snow-white hair was dressed according to the
fashion of her times beneath her high white cap. Her face was pale and
much wrinkled, and the eyes turned constantly upwards, as is the case
with persons who have lost their sight. Her hand and voice trembled
with age, and there was something peculiarly striking in the thick
snow-white eyebrows.
On her right hand sat her eldest son, Thomas Bardy, a man of between
fifty and sixty. With a haughty and commanding countenance,
penetrating glance, lofty figure, and noble mien, he was a true type
of that ancient aristocracy which is now beginning to die out.
Opposite to him, at the old lady's left hand, sat the darling of the
family--a lovely girl of about fifteen. Her golden hair fell in
luxuriant tresses round a countenance of singular beauty and
sweetness. The large and lustrous deep-blue eyes were shaded by long
dark lashes, and her complexion was pale as the lily, excepting when
she smiled or spoke, and a slight flush like the dawn of morning
overspread her cheeks.
Jolanka was the orphan child of a distant relative, whom the Bardys
had adopted. They could not allow one who bore their name to suffer
want; and it seemed as if each member of the family had united to heap
affection and endearment on the orphan girl, and thus prevent her from
feeling herself a stranger among them.
There were still two other female members of the family: Katalin, the
old lady's daughter, who had been for many years a widow; and the wife
of one of her sons, a pretty young woman, who was trying to teach the
little prattler at her side to use the golden spoon which she had
placed in his small fat hand, while he laughed and crowed, and the
family did their best to guess what he said, or what he most
preferred.
Opposite to them there sat two gentlemen. One of them was the husband
of the young mother, Jozsef Bardy--a handsome man of about
five-and-thirty, with regular features, and black hair and beard; a
constant smile beamed on his gay countenance, while he playfully
addressed his little son and gentle wife across the table. The other
was his brother, Barnabas--a man of herculean form and strength. His
face was marked by small-pox; he wore neither beard nor moustache,
and his hair was combed smoothly back, like a peasant's. His
disposition was melancholy and taciturn; but he seemed constantly
striving to atone, by the amiability of his manners, for an
unprepossessing exterior.
Next to him sat a little cripple, whose pale countenance bore that
expression of suffering sweetness so peculiar to the deformed; while
his lank hair, bony hands, and misshapen shoulders awakened the
beholder's pity. He, too, was an orphan--a grandchild of the old lady;
his parents had died some years before.
Two little boys of about five years old sat opposite to him. They were
dressed alike, and the resemblance between them was so striking, that
they were constantly mistaken. They were twin-children of the young
couple.
At the lower end of the table sat Imre Bardy, a young man of twenty,
whose handsome countenance was full of life and intelligence, his
figure manly and graceful, and his manners courteous and agreeable: a
slight moustache was beginning to shade his upper lip, and his dark
hair fell in natural ringlets round his head. He was the only son of
the majoresco, Tamas Bardy, and resembled him much in form and
feature.
Beside him sat an old gentleman, with white hair and ruddy complexion.
This was Simon Bardy, an ancient relative, who had grown old with the
grandmother of the family.
The same peculiarity characterized every countenance in the Bardy
family--namely, the lofty forehead and marked brows, and the large
deep-blue eyes, shaded by their heavy dark lashes.[17]
[Footnote 17: There is a race of Hungarians in the Karpath, who,
unlike the Hungarians of the plain, have blue eyes, and often fair
hair.]
* * * * *
"How singular!" exclaimed one of the party; "we are thirteen at table
to-day."
"One of us will surely die," said the old lady; and there was a
mournful conviction in the faint trembling tones.
"O no, grandmother! we are only twelve and a half," exclaimed the
young mother, taking the little one on her knee. "This little fellow
only counts half on the railroad."
All the party laughed at this remark; even the little cripple's pale
countenance relaxed into a sickly smile.
"Ay, ay," continued the old lady, "the trees are now putting forth
their verdure; but at the fall of the leaf, who knows if all, or any
of us, may still be sitting here?"
* * * * *
Several months had passed since this slight incident.
In one of the apartments of the castle, the eldest Bardy and his son
were engaged in earnest conversation.
The father paced hastily up and down the apartment, now and then
stopping short to address his son, who stood in the embrasure of one
of the windows. The latter wore the dress of the Matyas Hussars[18]--a
gray dolmany, with crimson cord; he held a crimson csako, with a
tricoloured cockade in his hand.
[Footnote 18: Part of the free corps raised in 1848.]
"Go," said his father, speaking in broken accents, "the sooner the
better; let me not see you!--do not think I speak in anger; but I
cannot bear to look at you, and think where you are going. You are my
only son, and you know how I have loved you--how all my hopes have
been concentrated in you. But do not think that these tears, which you
see me shed for the first time, are on your account; for if I knew I
should lose you--if your blood were to flow at the next battle, I
should only bow my head in the dust and say, The Lord gave, and the
Lord has taken away, blessed be His holy name! Yes, if I heard that
you and your infatuated companions were cut to pieces, I could stifle
the burning tears; but to know that your blood, when it flows, will
be a curse upon the earth, and your death will be the death of two
kingdoms"--
"They may die now; but they will regenerate"--
"That is not true; you only deceive yourselves with the idea that you
can build up a new edifice when you have overthrown the old one. Great
God, what sacrilege! Who has intrusted you with the fate of your
country, to tempt the Almighty? Who authorized you to lose all there
is for the hope of what may be? For centuries past, have so many
honourable men fought in vain to uphold the old tottering
constitution, as you call it? or were _they_ not true patriots and
heroes? Your companions have hissed their persecuted countrymen in the
Diet; but do they love their country better than we do, who have shed
our blood and sacrificed our interests for her from generation to
generation, and even suffered disgrace, if necessary, to keep her in
life?--for though that life has been gradually weakened, still it is
life. You promise her glory; but the name of that glory is _Death_!"
"It may be so, father; we may lose our country as regards ourselves,
but we give one instead to ten millions, who were hitherto our own
people, and yet strangers in their native land!"
"Chimera! The people will not understand you. They never even dreamt
of what you wish to give them. The true way to seek the people's
welfare is to give them what they need.
"Ask my dependants! Is there one among them whom I have allowed to
suffer want or ruin, whom I have not assisted in times of need?--or
have I ever treated them unjustly? You will not hear a murmur. Tell
them that I am unjust notwithstanding, because I do not call the
peasant from his plough to give his opinion on forming the laws and
constitution,--and what will be the consequence? They will stare at
you in astonishment; and yet, in mistaken wrath they will come down
some night and burn this house over my head."
"That is the unnatural state of the times. It is all the fault of past
bad management, if the people have no better ideas. But let the
peasant once be free--let him be _a man_, and he will understand all
that is now strange to him."
"But that freedom will cost the lives of thousands!"
"I do not deny it. Indeed I believe that neither I nor any of the
present generation will reap the fruits of this movement. I think it
probable that in a few years not one of those whose names we now hear
spoken of may still be living; and, what is more, disgrace and curses
may be heaped upon their dust. But a time _will_ come when the great
institutions of which they have laid the foundation will arise and
render justice to the memory of those who sacrificed themselves for
the happiness of future generations. To die for our country is a
glorious death; but to carry to the grave with us the curses of
thousands, to die despised and hated for the salvation of future
millions, oh! that is sublime--it is Messiah-like!"
"My son--my only son!" cried his father, throwing himself passionately
on the young man's neck, and sobbing bitterly, "do you see these
tears?"
"For the first time in my life I see them, father--I see you weep; my
heart can scarcely bear the weight of these tears--and yet I go! You
have reason to weep, for I bring neither joy nor glory on your
head--and yet I go! A feeling stronger than the desire of glory,
stronger than the love of my country, inspires my soul; and it is a
proof of the strength of my faith that I see your tears, my
father--and yet go!"
"Go!" murmured his father in a voice of despair. "You may never return
again, or, when you do, you may find neither your father's house nor
the grave in which he is laid! But know, even then, in the hour of
your death, or in the hour of mine, I do not curse you--and now,
leave me." With these words he turned away, and motioned to his son to
depart.
Imre silently left the apartment, and as soon as he had closed the
door the tears streamed from his eyes; but before his sword had struck
the last step his countenance had regained its former determination,
and the fire of enthusiasm had kindled in his eye.
He then went to take leave of his Uncle Jozsef, whom he found
surrounded by his family. The twins were sitting at his feet, while
his wife was playing bo-peep with the little one, who laughed and
shouted, while his mother hid herself behind his father's arm-chair.
Imre's entrance interrupted the general mirth. The little boys ran
over to examine the sword and golden tassels, while the little one
began to cry in alarm at the sight of the strange dress.
"Csitt baba!" said his mother, taking him from his father's arms;
"your cousin is going to the wars, and will bring you a golden horse."
Jozsef wrung his nephew's hand. "God be with you!" he exclaimed; and
added in a lower voice, "You are the noblest of us all--you have done
well!"
They then all embraced him by turns, and Imre left them, amidst the
clamours of the little ones, and proceeded to his grandmother's
apartments.
On the way, he met his Uncle Barnabas, who embraced him again and
again in silence, and then tore himself away without saying a word.
The old lady sat in her great arm-chair, which she seldom quitted, and
as she heard the clash of Imre's sword, she looked up and asked who
was coming.
"It is Imre!" said the fair-haired maiden, blushing, and her heart
beat quickly as she pronounced his name.
Jolanka felt that Imre was more than a brother to her, and the feeling
with which she had learnt to return his affection was warmer than even
a sister's love.
The widow lady and the little cripple were also in the grandmother's
apartment: the child sat on a stool at the old lady's feet, and smiled
sadly as the young man entered.
"Why that sword at your side, Imre?" asked the old lady in a feeble
voice. "Ah, this is no good world--no good world! But if God is
against us, who can resist His hand? I have spoken with the dead again
in dreams: I thought they all came round me and beckoned me to follow
them; but I am ready to go, and place my life with gratitude and
confidence in the hand of the Lord. Last night I saw the year 1848
written in the skies in letters of fire. Who knows what may come over
us yet! This is no good world--no good world!"
Imre bent silently over the old lady's hand and kissed it.
"And so you are going?--well, God bless and speed you, if you go
beneath the cross, and never forget in life or in death to raise your
heart to the Lord;" and the old lady placed her withered hand upon her
grandson's head, and murmured, "God Almighty bless you!"
"My husband was just such a handsome youth when I lost him," sighed
the widow lady as she embraced her nephew; "God bless you!"
The little cripple threw his arms round his cousin's knees, and,
sobbing, entreated him not to stay long away.
The last who bade farewell was Jolanka. She approached with downcast
eyes, holding in her small white hands an embroidered cockade, which
she placed on his breast. It was composed of five colours--blue and
gold, red, white, and green.[19]
[Footnote 19: Blue and gold are the colours of Transylvania.]
"I understand," said the young man, in a tone of joyful surprise, as
he pressed the sweet girl to his heart; "Erdely[20] and Hungary
united! I shall win glory for your colours!"
[Footnote 20: Transylvania.]
The maiden yielded to his warm embrace, murmuring, as he released her,
"Remember me!"
"When I cease to remember you, I shall be no more," replied the youth
fervently.
And then he kissed the young girl's brow, and once more bidding them
all farewell, he hurried from the apartment.
Old Simon Bardy lived on the first floor: Imre did not forget him.
"Well, nephew," said the old man cheerfully, "God speed you, and give
you strength to cut down many Turks!"
"It is not with the Turks that we shall have to do," replied the young
man, smiling.
"Well, with the French," said the old soldier of the past century,
correcting himself.
A page waited at the gate, with two horses saddled and bridled.
"I shall not require you--you may remain at home," said Imre, as,
taking the bridle of one of the horses and vaulting lightly into the
saddle, he pressed his csako over his brow and galloped from the
castle.
As he rode under the cross, he checked his horse and looked back. Was
it of his grandmother's words, or of the golden-haired Jolanka that he
thought?
A white handkerchief waved from the window.
"Farewell, light of my soul!" murmured the youth; and kissing his
hand, he once more dashed his spurs into his horse's flanks, and
turned down the steep hill.
* * * * *
Those were strange times. All at once the villages began to be
depopulated; the inhabitants disappeared, none knew whither. The doors
of the houses were closed.
The bells were no longer heard in the evening, nor the maiden's song
as she returned from her work. The barking of dogs which had lost
their masters alone interrupted the silence of the streets, where the
grass began to grow.
Imre Bardy rode through the street of the village without meeting a
soul; few of the chimneys had smoke, and no fires gleamed through the
kitchen windows.
Evening was drawing on, and a slight transparent mist had overspread
the valley. Imre was desirous of reaching Kolozsvar[21] early on the
next morning, and continued his route all night. About midnight the
moon rose behind the trees, shedding her silvery light over the
forest. All was still, excepting the echo of the miner's hammer, and
the monotonous sound of his horse's step along the rocky path. He rode
on, lost in thought; when suddenly the horse stopped short, and
pricked his ears.
[Footnote 21: Klausenburg.]
"Come, come," said Imre, stroking his neck, "you have not heard the
cannon yet."
The animal at last proceeded, turning his head impatiently from side
to side, and snorting and neighing with fear.
The road now led through a narrow pass between two rocks, whose
summits almost met; and a slight bridge, formed of one or two rotten
planks, was thrown across the dry channel of a mountain stream which
cut up the path.
As Imre reached the bridge, the horse backed, and no spurring could
induce him to cross. Imre at last pressed his knees angrily against
the trembling animal, striking him at the same time across the neck
with the bridle, on which the horse suddenly cleared the chasm at one
bound, and then again turned and began to back.
At that instant a fearful cry rose from beneath, which was echoed from
the rocks around, and ten or fifteen savage-looking beings climbed
from under the bridge, with lances formed of upright scythes.
Even then there would have been time for the horseman to turn back,
and dash through the handful of men behind him; but either he was
ashamed of turning from the first conflict, or he was desirous, at any
risk, to reach Kolozsvar at the appointed time; and instead of
retreating by the bridge, he galloped towards the other end of the
pass, where the enemy rushed upon him from every side, yelling
hideously.
"Back, Wallachian dogs!" cried Imre, cutting two of them down, while
several others sprang forward with their scythes.
Two shots whistled by, and Imre, letting go the bridle, cut right and
left, his sword gleaming rapidly among the awkward weapons; and,
taking advantage of a moment in which the enemy's charge began to
slacken, he suddenly dashed through the crowd towards the outlet of
the rock, without perceiving that another party awaited him above the
rocks with great stones, with which they prepared to crush him as he
passed.
He was only a few paces from the spot, when a gigantic figure, armed
with a short broad axe, and with a Roman helmet on his head, descended
from the rock in front of him, and seizing the reins of the horse,
forced him to halt.
The young man aimed a blow at his enemy's head, and the helmet fell
back, cut through the middle, but the force of the blow had broken his
sword in two; and the horse, lifted by his giant foe, reared, so that
the rider, losing his balance, was thrown against the side of the
rock, and fell senseless to the ground. At the same instant a shot was
fired towards them from the top of the rock.
"Who fired there?" cried the giant, in a voice of thunder.
The bloodthirsty Wallachians would have rushed madly on their
defenceless prey, had not the giant stood between him and them.
"Who fired on me?" he sternly exclaimed.
The Wallachians stood back in terror.
"It was not on you, Decurio, that I fired, but on the hussar,"
stammered out one of the men, on whom the giant had fixed his eye.
"You lie, traitor! Your ball struck my armour; and had I not worn a
shirt of mail, it would have pierced my heart."
The man turned deadly pale, trembling from head to foot.
"My enemies have paid you to murder me?"
The savage tried to speak, but the words died upon his lips.
"Hang him instantly--he is a traitor!"
The rest of the gang immediately seized the culprit and carried him to
the nearest tree, from whence his shrieks soon testified that the
sentence was being put in execution.
The Decurio remained alone with the young man; and hastily lifting
him, still senseless, from the ground, he mounted his horse, and
placing him before him, ere the savage horde had returned, he had
galloped to some distance along the road from whence the youth had
come, covering him with his mantle as he passed the bridge, to conceal
him from several of the gang who stood there, and exclaiming: "Follow
me to Topanfalva."
As soon as they were out of sight, he suddenly turned to the left,
down a steep hilly path, and struck into the depth of the forest.
* * * * *
The morning sun had just shot its first beams across the hills,
tinting with golden hues the reddening autumn leaves, when the young
hussar began to move in his fevered dreams, and murmured the name
"Jolanka."
In a few moments he opened his eyes. He was lying in a small chamber,
through the only window of which the sunbeams shone upon his face.
The bed on which he lay was made of lime-boughs, simply woven
together, and covered with wolves' skins. A gigantic form was leaning
against the foot of the bed with his arms folded, and as the young man
awoke, he turned round. It was the Decurio.
"Where am I?" asked the young man, vaguely endeavouring to recall the
events of the past night.
"In my house," replied the Decurio.
"And who are you?"
"I am Numa, Decurio of the Roumin[22] Legion, your foe in battle, but
now your host and protector."
[Footnote 22: The Wallachians were, in the days of Trajan, subdued by
the Romans, with whom they became intermixed, and are also called
_Roumi_.]
"And why did you save me from your men?" asked the young man, after a
short silence.
"Because the strife was unequal--a hundred against one."
"But had it not been for you, I could have freed myself from them."
"Without me you had been lost. Ten paces from where I stopped your
horse, you would inevitably have been dashed to pieces by huge stones
which they were preparing to throw down upon you from the rock."
"And you did not desire my death?"
"No, because it would have reflected dishonour on the Roumin name."
"You are a chivalrous man, Decurio!"
"I am what you are: I know your character, and the same feeling
inspires us both. You love your nation, as I do mine. Your nation is
great and cultivated; mine is despised and neglected, and my love is
the more bitterly devoted. Your love for your country makes you
happy; mine deprives me of peace. You have taken up arms to defend
your country without knowing your own strength, or the numbers of the
foe; I have done the same. Either of us may lose, or we may both be
blotted out; but though the arms may lie buried in the earth, rust
will not eat them."
"I do not understand your grievances."
"You do not understand? Know, then, that although fourteen centuries
have passed since the Roman eagle overthrew Diurbanus, there are still
those among us--the now barbarous people--who can trace their descent
from generation to generation, up to the times of its past glory. We
have still our traditions, if we have nothing more; and can point out
what forest stands in the place of the ancient Sarmisaegethusa, and
what town is built where once Decebalus overthrew the far-famed troops
of the Consulate. And alas for that town! if the graves over which its
houses are built should once more open, and turn the populous streets
into a field of battle! What is become of the nation, the heir of so
much glory?--the proud Dacians, the descendants of the far-famed
legions? I do not reproach any nation for having brought us to what we
now are; but let none reproach me if I desire to restore my people to
what they once were."
"And do you believe that this is the time?"
"We have no prophets to point out the hour; but it seems yours do not
see more clearly. We shall attempt it now; and if we fail, our
grandchildren will attempt it again. We have nothing to lose but a few
lives; you risk much that is worth losing, and yet you assemble
beneath the banner of war. Then what would you do if you were like
us?--a people who possess nothing in the world, among whom there is
not one able or one instructed head; for although every third man
bears the name of Popa, it is not every hundredth who can read: a
people excluded from every employment; who live a miserable life in
the severest manual labour; who have not one noble city in their
country, the home of three-fourths of their people! Why should we seek
to know the signs of the times in which we are to die, or be
regenerated? We have nothing but our wretchedness, and if we are
conquered we lose nothing. Oh! you did wrong for your own peace to
leave a nation to such utter neglect!"
"We do not take up arms for our nation alone, but for freedom in
general."
"You do wrong. It is all the same to us who our sovereign may be, only
let him be just towards us, and raise up our fallen people; but you
will destroy your nation--its power, its influence, and
privileges--merely that you may live in a country without a head."
A loud uproar interrupted the conversation. A disorderly troop of
Wallachians approached the Decurio's house, triumphantly bearing the
hussar's csako on a pole before them.
"Had I left you there last night, they would now have exhibited your
head instead of your csako."
The crowd halted before the Decurio's window, greeting him with loud
vociferations.
The Decurio spoke a few words in the Wallachian language, on which
they replied more vehemently than before, at the same time thrusting
forward the kalpag on the pole.
The Decurio turned hastily round. "Was your name written on your
kalpag?" he asked the young man, in evident embarrassment.
"It was."
"Unhappy youth! The people, furious at not having found you, are
determined to attack your father's house."
"And you will permit them?" asked the youth, starting from bed.
"I dare not contradict them, unless I would lose their confidence. I
can prevent nothing."
"Give me up--let them wreak their bloody vengeance on my head!"
"I should only betray myself for having concealed you; and it would
not save your father's house."
"And if they murder the innocent and unprotected, on whom will the
ignominy of their blood fall?"
"On me; but I will give you the means of preventing this disgrace. Do
you accept it?"
"Speak!"
"I will give you a disguise; hasten to Kolozsvar and assemble your
comrades--then return and protect your house. I will await you there,
and man to man, in open honourable combat, the strife will no longer
be ignominious."
"Thanks! thanks!" murmured the youth, pressing the Decurio's hand.
"There is not a moment to lose; here is a peasant's mantle--if you
should be interrogated, you have only to show this paszura,[23] and
mention my name. Your not knowing the language is of no consequence;
my men are accustomed to see Hungarian gentlemen visit me in disguise,
and having only seen you by night, they will not recognise you."
[Footnote 23: Everything on which the double-headed eagle--the emblem
of the Austrian Government--was painted, engraved, or sculptured, the
Wallachians call _paszura_.]
Imre hastily took the dress, while the Decurio spoke to the people,
made arrangements for the execution of their plans, and pointed out
the way to the castle, promising to follow them immediately.
"Accept my horse as a remembrance," said the young man, turning to the
Decurio.
"I accept it, as it would only raise suspicion were you to mount it;
but you may recover it again in
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