The Golden Age in Transylvania
by Mór Jókai · English · Gutenberg #32708 · 473,451 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Golden Age in Transylvania
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Golden Age in Transylvania
Author: Mór Jókai
Release date: June 6, 2010 [eBook #32708]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/32708
Credits: Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN AGE IN TRANSYLVANIA ***
Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration]
THE GOLDEN AGE IN TRANSYLVANIA
Publisher's Note.
This delightful historical romance by Jokai (pronounced by critics his
best), is published in England under the title of "Midst the Wild
Carpathians." This, the American edition, is printed in a more
readable type, making a volume of one hundred additional pages.
The scene of the story is laid in Transylvania; the time is the close
of the seventeenth century, and the incidents relate to the reign of
Michel Apafi, whom the Turks raised to the throne, ending with the
murder of Denis Banfi, the last of the powerful Transylvanian barons.
The story which has more than simple basis of truth, is absorbingly
interesting and displays all the virility of Jokai's powers, his
genius of description, his keenness of characterization, his subtlety
of humor and his consummate art in the progression of the novel from
one apparent climax to another.
THE GOLDEN AGE
IN
TRANSYLVANIA
BY
MAURUS JOKAI
Author of "Black Diamonds," "Peter the Priest," Etc., Etc.
TRANSLATED BY S. L. AND A. V. WAITE
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
9 and 11 EAST 16th STREET
1898
Copyright 1898
BY
R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
_The Golden Age in Transylvania_
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I. A HUNTING PARTY IN THE YEAR 1666 7
II. THE HOUSE IN EBESFALVA 32
III. A PRINCE BY COMPULSION 45
IV. THE HUNGARIAN PRINCES IN BANQUET 60
V. CASTLE BODOLA 69
VI. THE BATTLE OF NAGY-SZÖLLÖS 86
VII. THE PRINCESS 107
VIII. AZRAELE 130
IX. THE PRINCE AND HIS MINISTER 143
X. THE LIEUTENANT OF THE ROUNDS 170
XI. SANGA-MOARTA 184
XII. A GREAT LORD IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY 215
XIII. THE NIGHT 243
XIV. THE COURT OF JUSTICE IN THE BANQUET HALL 266
XV. THE DIET OF KARLSBURG 279
XVI. THE LEAGUE 297
XVII. DEATH FOR A KISS 308
XVIII. WIFE AND ODALISQUE 325
XIX. THE JUDGMENT 356
THE GOLDEN AGE IN TRANSYLVANIA
CHAPTER I
A HUNTING PARTY IN THE YEAR 1666
Before we cross the Kiralyhago, let us cast a parting glance at
Hungary. I will unroll before your eyes a scene, partly the result of
an adverse fate, partly of a dark mystery, representing joy and also
deep sorrow. An incident of a moment becomes the turning-point of a
whole century.
My soul is saddened by the images thus conjured up; the figures out of
the past blind my sight. Would that my hand were mighty enough to
write down what my soul sees in that magic mirror. May your
impressions, your recollections, complete the scene wherever the
writer fails through weariness.
* * * * *
We find ourselves in the valley of the Drave, in one of those
boundless tracts where even the wild beasts lose themselves. Here are
primeval forests, the roots of which rest in the water of a great
swamp encircled not by water lilies and reed-grass, but by giant trees
whose branches, dropping below the surface, form new roots in the
quickening water. Here the swan builds its nest; this is the haunt of
the heron and all those wild creatures one of which only now and then
marches out into more frequented regions. On the higher ground, where
in late summer the waters ebb, spring such flowers as might have been
seen just after the deluge, so luxuriant and so strange is their
mighty growth out of the slimy mud. The branches of ivy, stout as
grape vines, reach from tree to tree winding about the trunks and
decking the dark maples as if some wood-nymph had garlanded her own
consecrated grove.
When the sun has set, life grows active in this watery kingdom; swarms
of water-birds rise, and with their monotonous, gruesome cries sound
the note of the bittern, the whistle of the turtle, and the four notes
of the swan, now heard only in the land of fable, for there alone
mankind is not; that kingdom still belongs to God.
Occasionally bold hunters venture to penetrate this pathless maze,
making their way among the trees in small boats, often overturned by
the long roots under the water many fathoms deep, although the dark
grass, the yellow marsh flowers and the small dark-red lizard seem to
be within reach of one's hand. Sometimes a thicket bars the way of the
boat, trees never touched by human hand are rotting here heaped
mountain-high thousands of years before. Those trunks that have
fallen into the water have been petrified, and the grasses and vines
have grown over them in such a tangle that they form a strong crust
which sways and bends but does not break beneath the tread. This crust
appears to stretch far and wide, but in reality one step too far
brings death, so that this strange and remote region is but rarely
visited.
On the south flows the Drave, whose rapid current frequently sweeps
away the tallest trees, to the peril of the boatmen. To the north the
forest stretches as far as Csakathurm, and where the swamp ends, oaks
and beeches tower higher and mightier than any in all Hungary.
Throughout this wilderness are wild beasts of every kind; especially
the wild boar that wallows in the swampy ground; and here too the stag
grows to his greatest strength and beauty. In the days that we write
of, the buffaloes roamed through this wilderness, making nightly raids
on the neighboring millet fields, but at the first attempt to catch
them they plunged into the heart of the swamp and were safe from
pursuit.
On the edge of the forest in those days stood a castle of so many
styles of architecture that one must conclude it had been the favorite
hunting-resort of some Hungarian or Croatian noble. The greater part
of the building seemed to be a century older than the rest, in fact
the oldest part was merely a hut of oak logs rudely put together, its
roof overgrown with moss and its walls with ivy and periwinkle; over
the door were the antlers of a patriarchal stag; the later lords must
have entertained a pious regard for its builder or they would have
torn down this hut. On the side toward the woods was a long, barn-like
building of one room, intended for the large hunting parties of later
times; here masters and servants, horses and hounds, staid in friendly
companionship when the bad weather brought them together. Around an
old oak with wide-spreading branches was a strange looking hermitage,
the oak forming its single column of support; the entire hut had been
built of the skulls of boars taken in a single hunt. Finally, on a
hill somewhat higher than the rest, where the trees had been cleared
away stood the most modern building; it consisted of a small, tasteful
hunting-castle, with columns in front, tiled roof, marble terraces,
oriel windows and other features of mediæval architecture. The
bastions near by, begun but left unfinished, the deep moats and the
walls stretching beyond all proportions, seemed to indicate that the
man who had begun the building had intended a stronghold, perhaps
against the Turks. Behind the building were still to be seen two long
culverins and a stout iron mortar with a Turkish inscription that
threw some light on their origin; but the times and the spirit of the
times had changed, and later comers had built a Tusculan villa upon
foundations intended for a fortress.
On one of the brightest days of the year in which our story begins, a
large hunting party was stirring at the castle. Hardly had the sun
sent his first rays through the dense trees when the boys of the
stable and kennel led out the horses and the hounds straining at the
leash and bounding to the shoulders of their keepers in their excited
anticipation. Long wagons, drawn by six to ten oxen, had already gone
to the meet to bring back the game. The villagers summoned to the
chase, variously armed with axes, forks, or occasional guns, were
divided into groups by the hunters. Some peasants, in parties of twos
and threes, carried on their shoulders boats hollowed from the trunks
of trees, to drive back the game if it escaped to the swamp. Men and
beasts alike showed signs of haste and impatience; only a few of the
older men took the time to sit over the fire and cook their bacon. At
last the hunting-horn sounded from the castle yard, the company sprang
with shouts of joy upon their snorting horses; the restless, yelping
pack dragged their keepers this way and that; the hunters armed
themselves,--in short, everything was ready and waited only for the
lords and ladies. In a few moments a group of riders came down the
hill attended by the squires; in front rode a tall, muscular man, the
lord of the castle; the rest seemed involuntarily to have fallen
behind him. His broad shoulders and well-rounded chest were of
Herculean strength; his face was burned by the sun and showed no trace
of age; his close-trimmed beard and heavy moustache gave his
countenance a martial aspect, and the Roman nose and coal black, bushy
eyebrows added to his features an imperious look, though the
melancholy curve of the lips and the delicate oval of the blue eyes
lent a certain poetic expression to his knightly countenance. A round
cap with an eagle's feather covered his short hair; he wore a plain,
shaggy coat unfastened, beneath which showed a white dolman of
deerskin ornamented with silver; at his side hung a broad sword in
ivory sheath, and from his studded girdle of red shone the pearl
handle of a Turkish dagger. Next him rode a young knight and a
youthful Amazon; the knight could count scarcely twenty years and the
lady looked still younger. Two people better suited to each other
could not be found. The young man had pale, gentle features and rich
chestnut hair curling on his shoulders; a small moustache barely
covered his upper lip, his blue eyes wore a constant smile of
carelessness, if not frivolity, and had not the strong sinews of his
arm shown under his close-fitting sleeves one would have taken him for
only a fanciful boy; on his head he wore a marten cap with a heron's
feather and his garments were of silk; from his shoulder hung a
magnificent tiger skin, its claws serving for buckles joined by a
sapphire clasp. He rode a coal-black Turkish horse with housings
embroidered in gold, some woman's delicate handiwork.
The Amazon, to whom the youth seemed to be whispering many a sweet
word, formed a complete contrast to him; she had an earnest, fearless,
lively countenance; her eyes were brighter than garnets; she loved to
curl her lip and draw down her fine, thick eyebrows, giving to her
face an expression of pride, then when she glanced up again and parted
her lips with a spirited smile, you might see a heroine indeed. Her
dark braids hung over her shoulders half their length and then were
looped back under her cap of ermine with its waving plume. She wore a
silk riding habit fitting closely to her slender figure and falling in
heavy folds over the flanks of her Arab horse. Figure and face called
for homage rather than love; no smile played over these features, her
great, dark, fathomless eyes rested many a time upon the youth as he
bent toward her, shedding a rare charm, a fulness of love, a nobler,
higher longing which means more than love, more than ambition, which
is perhaps the self-consciousness of great souls who have a hint of
their eternal fame.
Behind this beautiful pair rode two men whose dress indicated their
high rank; one about thirty years old, the other a pale, elderly man
with dress simple to affectation. It is worth while to mark this man's
face, for we shall often meet him; cold dry features, thin blonde hair
and beard mixed with grey, a pointed cleft chin, scornful pale lips,
quick watery blue eyes with red rims, jutting eyebrows, a high bald
shining forehead which with every change of feeling was wrinkled in
all directions. This face we may not forget. The rest--the Herculean
rider, the smiling youth, the stately girl,--will hurry past us like
fleeting pictures which come only to go; but this last will accompany
us throughout the entire course of events, ever appearing only to cast
down or to build up, to determine the fate of great men and lands. The
bald head moved nearer to the knight at his side who was testing his
lance as if for a throw, and said to him in an undertone, evidently
continuing a conversation:
"So, then, you Transylvanians will not have anything to do with this
affair?"
"Let me have a rest from politics to-day," answered the other,
starting impatiently. "You have got so that you cannot live a single
day without intrigues, but I beg of you, spare me to-day. To-day I
wish to hunt, and you know how passionately I love the chase."
With these words he spurred his horse forward, and joined the stately
knight.
Thus rebuffed, the older man bit his lips in vexation, then turned
with a smile to the youthful knight riding before him.
"A glorious morning, gracious lord; would that our horizon were as
bright in every direction."
"Would that it were," answered the youth, without really knowing what
it was to which he was replying, while the beautiful Amazon leaned
over and said to him:
"I don't know why it is but I cannot place any confidence in that man.
He is forever putting questions and never answers any himself."
Just then the stately rider came up with the group of hunters,
acknowledged their loud greetings and stopped in their midst.
"David," he called to an old grey-bearded hunter who came forward, cap
in hand, "put your cap on. Have the drivers of the game all taken
their places?"
"Every man is in his place, gracious lord. I have already sent boats
to the swamp in case the beasts are frightened back there."
"You think of everything. Now start with the men and hounds and follow
the road that we usually take; we alone are enough for the road I have
in mind, we will go straight through the forest."
At once a murmur of astonishment and incredulity arose among the
hunters.
"Beg pardon, gracious lord," said the old man, with his cap again in
his hand, "I know the way, and no God-fearing man should make trial of
it; the impenetrable undergrowth, the deep water and slimy ground
threaten with a thousand perils; and besides, straight through the
forest goes the wide devil's gorge that no human being with horse has
yet crossed."
"We shall get over, my good fellow. We have already been through more
difficult places. No bad luck befalls the man who follows me; you know
yourself that fate favors me."
The hunter obediently made ready to march forward with the rest. At
this moment the bald head rode to the noble's side.
"Gracious lord," he said, quietly, not to say sarcastically, "I
consider it a great calamity for a human being to imperil his life for
a mere brute, especially when he has urgent need of that life, but
your grace has made the decision and I know it will be carried out.
Still, have the goodness to look about you for a moment and remember
that we are not all men here; there is a delicate lady in our midst,
and to expose her to death for the sake of our adventure is surely
want of tenderness."
During this speech the knight did not look at the older man but gazed
fixedly at the young Amazon, and the glow of pride on his cheeks was
brighter as he saw how calmly the stately lady measured with her eye
her unbidden protector, and with what proud self-reliance she took her
lances from her page, chose one, and sharpening the point on her
pommel, assumed the position of a true matadore.
"Look at her," cried the knight, "do you feel any anxiety for this
girl, my niece?"
These words of the knight echoed loudly; there was no voice like his,
deep as thunder and carrying far.
The young Amazon allowed the knight who had called her his niece to
put his arm about her and kiss her blushing cheek, for in those days
the Hungarian woman still blushed even if the kiss came from a
kinsman's lips.
"Is it to no purpose that she sprang from my blood? shall she not
match the best man in fearlessness? Have no anxiety for her, she will
face greater dangers than these and bring her husband to them too."
With these words the hero put spurs to his horse; the startled
creature reared and plunged but the hard knees of his rider brought
him under control.
"Follow me," he cried, and the brilliant company vanished in the
thicket of the forest.
* * * * *
Let us arrive there before them. Let us hurry to the place where the
stags take their noonday rest in the shady grove, where the turtles
sun themselves and the herons bathe. What dwellings are these in
groups of fives and sixes between the water and the wilderness--these
huts built up on piles with round roofs clay-covered and bound with
twigs? Who built this dam, and for what purpose, so that the water at
the entrance of their dwellings should never fail? Here dwell the
dear, industrious beavers whom Nature has taught the art of building.
This is their colony. These thick beams they have hewn with their
teeth. They have shaped all this,--they have dug down into the earth
to build a dam, and year after year they keep this dam in repair. See,
at this very moment comes one gliding out from the lowest story of his
dwelling below the water; with what a gentle eye he looks around him;
as yet he has never seen a human being. But let us go back to the day
of the hunt. In the shadow of an old hollowed tree was resting a
family of deer--stag, doe and little fawns. The stag had stepped into
the sunlight where he might see his own shadow; his stately form
seemed to please him; he licked his bright coat, scratched his back
with his branching antlers and walked proudly, stepping high with a
certain affectation; the movements of his slender figure were marked
by the play of his muscles. The doe lay lazily in the muddy sedge; at
times raising her beautiful head, her great dark eyes full of feeling,
she gazed at her companion or at the sporting fawns; if she noticed
that they were too far away she gave a certain restless moaning cry,
at which the lively creatures would hasten to her, tumbling over each
other, leaping and bounding about the mother, never an instant quiet,
their limbs quivering and every movement quick and graceful. Suddenly
the stag stood fixed. Scenting danger he gave a cry and lifted his
nose; his nostrils dilated as he snuffed the air, pawed the ground and
ran restlessly about, angrily shaking his antlers; again he stood
still and his wide-opened eyes showed instinctive fear; he ran to his
precious doe and with unspeakable tenderness they put their two heads
together,--they too have a language in which they understand each
other. The two fawns fled to their mother, their slender legs
trembling. Then the stag with long, noiseless stride, made his way
into the forest. The doe remained licking her trembling fawns, who
returned the motherly caresses with their little red tongues. At every
noise she raised her head and pricked up her ears; suddenly she
bounded into the air; she had heard something hardly perceptible to
human ear; far, far away there was a sound in the forest; hunters know
this sound well--the chase had begun. The doe cast restless glances
about her, then quietly lay down; she knew that her mate would come
back and that she must wait for him. Nearer and nearer came the
chase. Soon the stag came noisily back and turned with a peculiar
sound to his mate, who at once sprang up and with her young fled
straight across the line of chase. The stag stood still for a moment,
digging up the ground with his antlers, either with rage or to efface
the traces of his mate's lying there. Then he stretched his neck and
barked loudly in imitation of the hounds, to lead them on a false
scent; a trick often observed by hunters. He then bounded away,
tossing his antlers, and followed the doe. Ever nearer came the chase;
with the barking of dogs was heard also the cracking of the underbrush
and the shouts of the hunters. The forest became alive: the startled
hares and foxes ran among the trees in every direction to escape the
cries of the men. Now and then a fox fled in haste to a hole, only to
bound back again frightened by the fiery eyes of the badger. Among the
timid hares a grey striped wolf stood forgetful of his thirst for
blood; switching his tail he looked about him for some possible escape
and ran howling on, driven by the nearing voices.
Yet no one was hunting these poor creatures--a greater quarry was the
game,--a stag with mighty antlers.
The hunting net was drawn closer and closer, already the dogs were on
the track and the horn gave a signal that they were near the stag.
"Hurrah, hurrah!" rang out from afar. The hunters coming from the
opposite direction halted and blocked the way. The noise of the
pursuers came rapidly nearer. Suddenly, a peculiar noise was heard;
the two deer with their young broke through the bushes and
disappeared; between them and the hunters was a wide ravine; the noble
quarry leaped like lightning over the tree trunks lying in the way,
and at last reached the ravine. Before and behind were the hunters,
but the pursuit from behind was more terrible; there were the knight,
the fearless Amazon and the eager hunter. The stag bounded across the
broad ravine without the slightest effort, raising both feet at once
and throwing back his head; the doe too made ready for the leap but
her young shrank back from the edge; then the doe gave out, her knees
sank, her head drooped, and she stayed with her young. A lance hurled
by the Transylvanian hunter pierced her side. The wounded creature
gave a distressed cry, like the wail of a human being only more
terrible. Even her murderer in his pity did not venture to approach
her until her struggles were over. The two fawns stood sorrow-stricken
by their mother and allowed themselves to be taken alive. Meanwhile
the stag, already across the ravine, dashed wildly toward the hunters
before him, who blocked his way, and tossed his heavy antlers in fury.
The hunters knew the courage born of despair which comes to these
animals otherwise so timid, and throwing themselves to the ground,
gave him free pass. Only a few hounds ran after him, but the maddened
creature tossed them on his antlers and leaving them to roll on the
ground in their blood, plunged on to the swamp.
"After him," roared the knight with thundering voice, and galloped at
full speed to the ravine over which the stag had fled.
"May the Lord help him," screamed those on the other side, in terror;
but the next moment their terror was turned to shouts of joy, for the
horse with his bold rider was over. Of the entire company only two
ventured to follow, the stately Amazon and the delicate youth. The two
horses made the leap in the same moment; the lady's habit swelled out
like a pennant in the breeze and she glanced backward as if to ask if
any man had so much courage. The rest of the company considered it
advisable not to try the bold leap, except Nicholas, the
Transylvanian, who made a dash although his horse had already hurt his
hind foot in the woods and the huntsman might have been very sure that
he was not equal to the leap.
Fortunately for the rider, just before the spring his saddle-girth
gave way and he fell on the edge of the bank, while the horse just
reached it with his forefeet, and tumbling, fell into the depths of
the ravine. The three riders were alone in their pursuit of the
fleeing stag which, once out of the circle, led his followers on to
the bog. The knight went first. The Amazon and her comrade followed by
a sweeping détour through the tree trunks; just as they were on the
edge of the bog, there suddenly appeared snorting before them two wild
boars;--they had come into the lair of these beasts which had been
deaf to everything around them as they lay in the reeds and mud, only
noticing the newcomers when the young man's horse trampled to death
two young ones rubbing themselves against the old sow. The rest of the
young scattered into the sedge while the old ones, with threatening
growls, turned upon the intruders. The sow plunged blindly at the
youth, while the boar stood still a moment, his bristles raised and
ears pointed. He leveled his tusks and, with deep grunt and blood-shot
eye, charged at the maiden. The young man hurled his lance from a safe
distance at the sow; the whizzing weapon struck into the hard skull of
the creature, the point piercing to the brain. The sow ran like a
monstrous unicorn, the lance still sticking in her skull, but her eyes
had lost the power of sight and she passed the rider and fell without
a sound at a little distance. The maiden waited calmly for the raging
boar; seizing her lance with her left hand she aimed its point
downward and held her bridle firmly. The noble horse stood quiet
against his raging opponent, pricking up his ears, and with a turn of
his neck kept his eye on the boar so that just as the tusk would have
entered the side, the trained animal bounded away, and at the same
moment the Amazon bent over and hurled her lance deep between the
shoulder-blades of the boar. The creature, wounded to the death, sank
down with a groan, but made one more onset at the maiden, when the
youth sprang like lightning from his horse and dealt him a final blow
with his sword. Just then from afar was heard the sound of the horn;
the other riders who, by making a long circuit, had now overtaken the
leaders, greeted the heroes of the day, the knight, the Amazon and the
youth, with loud huzzas. The strongly-built man was bespattered with
mud and the others did not look much better. Only the riding habit of
the lady was without spot and without rent. Even in such circumstances
as these, ladies know how to take care of their clothes. When the
knight saw the monster that his niece had laid low, looking larger
than ever now that it was stretched out in death, he appeared like one
just realizing the peril to which his darling had been exposed, and
cried out in terror, "My dear Helen!" Then he took her hand with a
smile and glanced at the bystanders with triumph.
"Did I not tell you that she was of my blood?" Every man hurried
forward to compliment the brave heroine, who on this occasion seemed
to experience that extraordinary pleasure peculiar to the lucky
hunter.
"Nicholas, my son, do the boars grow as large as that in
Transylvania?"
The Transylvanian, already somewhat out of sorts from his recent
accident, could not let this pass without denying that there was
anything in Hungary better worth having than Transylvania could
produce, so he answered sulkily, "Yes, indeed, and even larger." No
reply possible could have so angered the knight as this;--to say to an
excited hunter that there is better game anywhere than that he has
just praised; and still more, that had been laid low by his own
darling.
"Good, my son, good," growled the knight, "it remains to be seen."
With undisguised signs of annoyance on his countenance he turned aside
from the ill-natured Transylvanian and gave orders to have the game
carried back to the hunting castle. On the way thither he spoke no
word except to his dear one, whom he flattered and extolled to the
very heavens.
* * * * *
It was already late in the afternoon when the hunters sat down to
their meal. The simple but appetizing food had been arranged on a
large grassplot in the middle of the forest; wine and joy thawed out
their spirits and they talked of this and of that, of the war and of
the chase, of beautiful women and of poesy, which at that time was in
great favor among the upper circles. But in spite of the merry
conversation the knight could not keep from asking, in a tone of
reproach, "So, then, there really is better game in Transylvania?"
until the repeated question became irksome to the young man, who had
not intended his reply to be taken with such seriousness.
The bald head saw the situation and attempted to give another turn to
the conversation by taking up his beaker and proposing this
toast;--"May God put the Turks in good spirits."
The knight in his vexation overturned his glass and replied angrily,
"That He shall not! I have not grown old fighting against them to turn
round now and pray for them. He is a fool who changes only to find a
new master."
"The Turk is a gracious master for us," said the young man, with an
ambiguous smile.
"Didn't I say so? With you, even the Turks are finer and greater than
with us. So it is; in Transylvania everything is better than it is in
Hungary; the boars are larger and the Turks are smaller than with us."
While they were talking the old huntsman David approached his master
and whispered in his ear. The features of the knight lighted as by
magic, and springing from his seat he cried,
"Give me a gun."
Seizing his silver-mounted rifle, with a happy expression he said to
his guests:
"Just stay here, there is a colossal boar near by. You shall see him,
my son," he said, touching Nicholas on the shoulder. "Twice already
have I given him chase, but this time I will have him. He is the
genuine descendant of the Calydonian boar."
With that the knight directed his steps in eager self-forgetfulness
toward that part of the forest pointed out by the huntsman, whom he
commanded to turn back, for he would have no one with him.
"I do not know why it is," whispered Helen to the youth at her side,
"but I feel as if I had cause to fear some peril threatening my
uncle." The youth rose without a word and took his rifle. "Do not
follow him," called out the Transylvanian when he noticed this move,
"you would only anger him. Never fear, he will do it alone. A man that
has wiped out entire armies of Tartars will surely be able to manage
an unreasoning beast." And in this way the young man was held back at
the very moment of departing. The men went on drinking and the maiden
continued with her thoughts, from time to time glancing anxiously
toward the forest. Suddenly there was a shot heard in the forest; all
set down their glasses, and looked expectantly in that direction. A
few moments later came the cry of a boar in pain; not the sound of a
boar at the point of death, but the rattling sound of an interrupted
struggle.
"What's that?" each asked of another.
"Surely he would call if he were in peril."
With that came a second shot.
"What's that?" all shouted, and sprang to their feet. "Up! Up!" cried
the maiden, trembling in every limb, and the entire company hurried in
the direction of the shot.
* * * * *
The knight had gone only a few steps into the forest when he came upon
the boar at the foot of a great oak. It was a monstrous boar with long
black bristles on his back and forehead; his skin like iron lay in
thick folds on his neck and his feet were long and sinewy. He had dug
himself a litter in the brush, where he now lay. Where he had laid his
monstrous head he had torn up by the roots shrubs as thick as one's
arm. When the monster heard the steps of a man he raised his head,
opened wide his jaws and looked sidewise at his opponent. In order to
get a better aim the knight had dropped on one knee, and shot through
the sedges at the beast just at the moment when he raised his head.
Instead of hitting the skull the ball entered the creature's neck,
wounding but not killing him. The wounded animal sprang up, and in his
charge at the knight struck his crooked tusks together so that the
sparks flew. Such a furious attack might easily have been avoided by a
spring to one side, but the knight was not the man to avoid his
antagonist. He threw down his gun, tore his sword from its scabbard,
stood face to face with the boar and dealt a blow at his head which
might have cleft it through and through; but the dangerous stroke fell
on the tusk, and upon this, hard as stone, the sword was broken in two
at the hilt. Stunned by the blow the boar, though he plunged at the
knight with his tusks, inflicted only a light wound in his thigh, at
which the man seized the animal by the ears with both hands and a
furious struggle began. Without weapon he fought the beast which
turned its head with grunt and groan, but the steel-like grasp of the
man held his broad ears with irresistible might and when the creature
raised himself on his hind legs to throw his opponent, the knight with
giant strength gave him a push and threw him over backward. True, he
fell too as he did so, but he was on top and raising himself up,
pressed down the wild beast struggling in vain against his superior
strength, and seated himself in triumph on his belly. The boar seemed
to be entirely conquered. His glazing eye grew dim, blood streamed
from jaws and nose, he had ceased to roar and made only a rattling
sound; his legs contracted, his nose hung down; in a few moments he
must certainly die. The knight should have called to his comrades,
only a little way off, or kept quiet until the boar bled to death, but
this took too much time. He remembered that he had in his girdle a
Turkish knife and he thought to put a quick end to the struggle, so he
pressed down the head of the boar with one knee, that he might be able
to spring when he drew out his knife at his side, and with one hand
seized his girdle. Just then, a shot was heard in the forest; the
overmastered boar, feeling the pressure of hand and knee lightened,
with his remaining strength threw the knight off and dealt one last
blow with his tusk. This blow was fatal--it tore the man's throat.
The guests and relations hurrying to him, found the hero dying beside
the dead boar. With cries of sorrow they strove to bind his terrible
wound.
"It is nothing, my children, nothing," said the knight, even then
dying, and he was gone.
"Poor knight!" said the bystanders.
"My poor fatherland," cried Helen, raising to heaven her eyes heavy
with tears.
The day of rejoicing was changed to one of mourning; the hunt to a
funeral feast. In sorrow the guests attended the corpse of their best
friend back to Csakathurm. Only the bald head took another direction.
"That is just what I said," he muttered to himself, "one needs his
life for something more. Well, what matters it? there are still people
elsewhere; I'll go to the next country."
* * * * *
So died Nicholas Zrinyi, the younger, the greatest writer and the
bravest fighter of his fatherland. So died the man, who had been the
favorite of fortune, the darling of his country, its protection and
its glory. In vain would you look now for the hunting-lodge or the
castle;--all is gone--the name, the family of the hero, even his
memory. The general and the statesman have fallen into oblivion; one
part only of the man is left, one part only lives forever,--the
writer.
CHAPTER II
THE HOUSE IN EBESFALVA
We now move forward one country;--one country forward, and four years
backward. We are in Transylvania in the year 1662. Before us is a
dwelling, plain but of the nobility, at the lower end of Ebesfalva,
almost the last house in the place. The building was planned more for
convenience than for fancy; on both sides are stables for horses and
for sheep, built partly of stone, partly of plaster and partly of
wood; sheds for wagons, poultry-yards, open barns, high-gabled sheep
pens covered with straw; in the rear is a fruit garden where one
catches sight of the arched top of a beehive, and finally, in the
middle of the courtyard stands the whitewashed dwelling of one wing,
with shady nut-trees under which is a round table improvised out of a
mill-stone. A stone wall separates the court of the dwelling from the
threshing floor, where are to be seen piles of hay and great heaps of
grain, from the top of which a peacock utters his disagreeable cries.
It is evening; the men have returned from the fields; the oxen are
loosed from their heavy wagons loaded with corn; the sheep come with
tinkling bells from the meadow; the grunting swine hurry through the
open gate each to his own trough; the cocks quarrel together on the
nut-trees where they went to roost at sunset; in the distance is heard
the sound of the evening bell; and from still farther away comes the
sound of the village maidens going to the fountain. The men look after
the cattle, one brings a great bundle of fresh-mown grass, and another
carries in a large pail of fresh milk, fragrant and foaming. From the
kitchen comes the gleam of a blazing fire, over which a maiden with
round red cheeks is holding a great pan that gives out the fragrance
of food, soon to be placed on the heavy green earthenware. The farm
hands sit round the mill-stone table, eating heartily, while the
patient house-dogs watch them with thoughtful attention. Then the
dishes are cleared away and the ears of corn are taken from the wagon
and put under cover. The peasant maidens of the neighborhood gather
for the husking; the more timid are frightened for their lives by the
mischievous lads who hollow out ripe pumpkins, cut eyes and mouth and
set a burning light inside to use as a lantern. The more clever of the
lads, seated on upturned baskets, weave long garlands of the corn
husks; and over their quiet work ring out jolly songs, and fairy tales
are told of golden-haired princesses and waifs. Here and there a game
is played, not without kisses proclaimed to all the world with loud
shrieks. The children make merry if they chance to find a red ear in
the corn. And so they sit and sing and tell stories and laugh over
trifles until the heaps of corn are all gone. Then come the long
farewells; down the length of the street they sing on their way home,
partly in joyousness of spirit and partly to keep up their courage.
Each one goes to his house, locks the door and puts out the fire; the
shepherd-dogs throughout the village answer one another, the moon
rises and the night watchman begins to call off the hours in measured
rhythm, while the other villagers sleep unmindful of the golden
proverbs of his song.
Only in one window of the manor house is there still a light: there
only they have not yet gone to rest. The watchers are an old
maidservant, grown grey in service, and a younger one. The old woman
is reading laboriously something from the Psalter that she already
knows by heart from beginning to end. The young maid has sat down to
her spindle as if she had not done enough through the long day, and is
drawing the long threads of the silken flax, which yesterday she
combed and to-day carded.
"Go to bed, Clara," said the old woman kindly, "if I sit up, that is
enough. To-morrow you will have to get up early just the same."
"Surely I could not go to sleep before the return of our noble lady,"
replied the other, continuing her work. "Even though the men are all
at home I am afraid while she is not here; but when once the noble
lady comes I feel as safe as if castle walls surrounded us."
"You are right, my child, she is worth more than many men, poor soul!
For many years all the cares that belong to a man have rested on her
shoulders. She has to look out for everything; and as if that were not
enough she has leased beside the estate of her sisters, Madame Banfy
and Madame Beleky. How many lawsuits she has had to carry on with this
and that neighbor or kinsman! but they meet their match in her! She
goes herself to the judge and the courts and is so clever that an
advocate might learn of her. Once, when my lord Banfy came to play the
gallant with her, thinking our gracious lady one of those
grass-widows, how quickly she showed him the door; the good man hardly
knew which foot to put first and yet he is one of the royal judges. To
pay for that he quartered on us the head collector with a mixed crowd
of troopers. You were here then, weren't you, when our noble lady had
them driven out of the village? How they took to their heels when they
saw that our noble lady herself stood there with her gun."
"If they hadn't," boasted the excited maiden, "I would have struck
them over the head with my oven-cloth."
"You see, Clara, when a woman is compelled to take care of a house
alone for so long a time, to defend herself and her family with her
own strength, she comes to feel just like a man. That is why our lady
has that determined look, as if she had not been a maiden of high
birth."
"But tell me, Aunt Magdalene," said the girl, drawing her stool
nearer, "are we really never to see our gracious master again?"
"God only knows," replied the old woman, with a sigh, "when the poor
man will be set free. I have a sure presentiment which I have told,
but nobody listens to me. When the late Prince George became
dissatisfied with his own country and set out to conquer Poland with
the best Hungarian nobility, our Master Michael went with him. How
hard I tried to keep him back, and so did his noble lady; for they had
been married then but a short time; and the good master himself had no
wish to go, he had much rather sit in the house and read books or
build mills and take care of his trees, but honor bade him go.
However, I insisted that he should at least take my son Andy with him;
surely God ordained it wisely that he should go with him, otherwise we
never should have heard anything more of our gracious master. For when
the prince saw the beastly crowd of Tartars drawn up against him in
the field he hurried home, while all the nobility were taken prisoners
by the heathen Tartars and carried off to Tartary to bitter bondage.
My son Andy begged so hard that they finally let him come home,
especially as he had a wound that made him unfit for work. He brought
back the news that our Master Michael was pining away there in
imprisonment and that the Tartars, when they observed in what esteem
he was held by the other prisoners, took him for a duke and demanded
such a frightfully high ransom for him that all his estate turned into
money would not pay it. However, our noble lady was very happy when
she learned that her husband was still living, and went round trying
to raise the money. But neither relatives nor good friends would help
her, not even for security, for in war-times people do not like to
lend on real estate. So she sold all the valuables she had brought
with her from home; beautiful silver plates, bracelets set with
precious stones, gold cups that were heirlooms, beautiful garments
embroidered with silk and threads of gold, rings, buckles, clasps,
real pearls, in short everything that can be turned to gold. Yet as
all that was not half of what the Tartars demanded she leased the
estates of her sisters, and had the fallow ground ploughed and the
woods cleared away to make room for grain fields. She turned night
into day to find time for all the work. Nothing connected with farming
that would bring money did she leave undone; she had loam-pits made
and stone-quarries opened; she raised cattle that the Armenian cattle
drivers bought; she herself went to market, took her wine even into
Poland, her grain to Hermanstadt, her honey, wax and dried fruits to
Kronstadt; she even went as far as Debreczin to get a good price for
her wool; and how prudently she lived all that time! she never took
anything from her serving people that belonged to them, but she
herself saved every bit. In harvest time, when she would be in the
field all day long she would often go a week at a time without having
any dinner cooked; her entire meal then would be a small piece of
bread, so small that a child would not have been satisfied with it,
and a glass of cold water. But you can take my word for it, Clara,
that no one ever saw her out of temper, and no bitter tear ever fell
on the dry bread which was all she allowed herself in loyalty to her
husband."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Why, I mean that the money that she got together in this way, by hard
work and saving, has been carried by Andy into Tartary at this season
every year to make up the ransom. During this time the poor lady
stinted herself in every way." The old servant wiped the tears from
her eyes.
"And what is the ransom required?"
"I don't know exactly, my child. Andy has always brought back a paper
on which the Tartar has written the amount received and what still
remains to be paid, and the noble lady keeps it very carefully. Of
course I do not like to ask any questions."
The maiden became silent and seemed thoughtful; the spindle went twice
as fast in her hands and her heart beat more rapidly.
"My son Andy has gone on such a journey now, and I am expecting him
back every hour; from him we shall know something certain."
At that very moment the outside gate creaked; a small wagon was driven
noisily into the courtyard and the joyous barking of the dogs showed
that it was no stranger who had come.
"They've come," cried the two serving women, and had just time to rise
from their seats when Anna Bornemissa, wife of Michael Apafi,
entered,--a well-built woman, almost as tall as a man; through the
plain grey linen gown showed the slender but rounded outlines of a
strong figure; she might have been thirty-six years old. Her face was
one of those that give no trace of time until far on in years. She was
sunburned, but with the bloom of youth and her healthy color this only
heightened her peculiar beauty. Her glance was quick and masterful but
its charm lay in the soul which it reflected. In her features there
was nothing hard, rough or masculine; her brow was arched, smooth,
free from wrinkles and full of nobility; her eyebrows were delicately
marked, her eyes exquisitely shaped, with long lashes that only half
shaded them; they were not the fierce black, but rather nut-brown
eyes, showing fire and light, yet now so cold. The nose and the oval
of her face were delicately formed, her lips when her mouth was closed
were gentle and delicate. The rest of her features seemed to be making
an effort not to share her smile, and the mouth when open was proud
and authoritative.
"What, still awake!" she said to her maids. Her voice had a pleasant
ring although the lower tones were subdued by sorrow.
"We wished to sit up for your ladyship so that you would not have to
wait outside for us," answered the old woman, bustling about her
mistress and taking the heavy cloak from her shoulders.
"Is not Andy back yet?" asked Madame Apafi, in a voice almost stifled.
"Not yet, but I am expecting him every moment." The lady sighed
deeply. How much suppressed sorrow, how many vanishing hopes, what
depths of resignation lay in that sigh! Before the strong soul of this
woman passed the many sufferings of her joyless life, her struggles
with fate, mankind and her own heart; her love had been grafted upon
pain that could bring forth wishes only--no pleasures. Another year
of her life had passed, rich only in struggles. With the industry of a
bee, she had succeeded in getting together a few offerings for the
single purpose of her life, and who knew how many more such years
there must be before she could attain it: thus far, she had only work,
patience and a joyless love. Madame Apafi forced her countenance back
into its wonted coldness, bade her servants good-night and was just
going to her room, when Clara kissed the hand of her mistress, causing
her to look at the maid with astonishment. She felt a hot tear on her
hand, which had come in spite of the maiden.
"What is the matter with you?" asked the lady, taken aback.
"Nothing is the matter with me," sobbed the maiden, "but you--most
gracious lady--I am so sorry for you. I have for a long time been
thinking of something, but have never dared tell it. We often talk of
it--how our master has been taken prisoner, and how hard it is to get
his ransom;--I mean my friends in the village;--all of us have
necklaces with much useless gold and silver coin on them, and so we
girls have agreed to put this money together that we have no use for
and give it to you, gracious lady, to send off as ransom for our
master." Madame Apafi pressed the hand of her maidservant and a tear
came to her eye.
"I thank you, my girl," she said, touched. "I prize this offering of
yours far more than I should if my sister Banfy had placed ten
thousand gold necklaces at my disposal. But God will help us." Just
then a horse's hoofs were heard in the courtyard and the dogs began a
tremendous barking.
"Who's that? Robbers, perhaps,--the redcoats," stammered the old
woman, and neither of the serving women dared go to the door; but
Madame Apafi took the light from the table, and boldly going to the
door opened it so that the light shone far out into the courtyard.
"Who is that?" she called, in a strong firm voice.
"Us--I mean me," answered somebody, confusedly; and all three at once
recognized Andy by the voice.
"Oh, it's you, is it? Come, be quick," called Madame Apafi, joyously,
and pulled the evidently confused servant into the house. He stood
twirling his cap, not knowing how to begin.
"Did you see him--speak with him?--is he well?" asked Madame Apafi,
quickly.
"Yes, well," answered the boy, glad to find a starting point. "He
sends you greetings and kisses, my noble lady."
"Why do you look around that way?--whom are the dogs barking at
outside?"
"Perhaps at the black horse; they are so glad to see him again."
"Did you give the money to Murza?"
Instead of answering Andy began rummaging in the pocket of his fur
coat, and as the opening of the pocket was very high and the bottom
seemed very deep, he turned all colors while he was searching for the
paper, and trembled as he handed it over to his mistress.
"Is there much left yet? What did Murza say?" asked Madame Apafi, in a
tone almost trembling.
"There is not much more,--you could almost say there was very little
more," answered Andy, with downcast eyes, in his embarrassment
fumbling with his hat.
"How much? how much more?" They all cried at once. Andy turned red.
"There isn't any more!" he blurted out, and burst into a loud laugh
followed by tears;--at once the lady caught the meaning of his words.
"Man," she cried passionately, seizing him by the shoulders, "you have
brought my husband with you!" Andy pointed behind him and nodded in
silence. He wept and laughed all at once but not a word could he
speak.
With a cry such as one utters only in deepest joy, the lady ran to the
half open door and there stood listening, Michael Apafi, long waited
and oft lamented.
"Michael, my own dear husband!" cried his wife, trembling with
feeling; and, beside herself, she fell on her husband's neck,
whispering to him words too low to be heard, expressions of
tenderness, joy and love. Apafi pressed his wife to his heart; no
sound was to be heard save low sobbing.
"You are mine, mine at last," stammered his wife, after a long pause,
recovering from the violence of her feelings.
"I am yours. And I swear to you that no country, no world can tear me
from you again."
"Oh, my God, what happiness!" cried Anna, raising to heaven her face
covered with tears of joy. "What joy you have brought back to me,"
again leaning on her husband and burying her face on his breast.
"If the whole world were mine I should not be rich enough to repay you
for your loyalty to me. If I could call a kingdom my own I would give
it to you, and that would be only a beggarly reward."
The husband and wife, exultant in their joy and love, remained
undisturbed in their happiness. Until late in the night the light
burned in their room,--how much, how much they had to say!
CHAPTER III
A PRINCE BY COMPULSION
A year had passed since Apafi's return. In the manor house at
Ebesfalva all was excitement. Before one pair of horses could rest
another started out on the road. The servants were sent in every
direction. There seemed to be great confusion in the house, yet nobody
appeared troubled. To those who asked confidentially it was whispered
that the wife of Michael Apafi might give birth to a child at any
hour. The master did not for one instant leave the chamber of his
suffering wife.
Suddenly a wild noise rang out in the courtyard; about twenty-four
horsemen had arrived, led by a Turkish Aga. To the terror of the
serving people the Turkish troops carried lances and knives.
"Is your master at home?" the Aga said, haughtily, to Andy, who in his
terror had remained riveted to the spot. "If he is," he went on
without waiting for an answer, "tell him to come out, I wish to speak
to him."
Still Andy could not speak, at which the Turk with emphasis added, "If
he will not come out I will go after him."
With these words he sprang from his horse and crossed the space before
the entrance. Andy ventured to stammer a brief--"But, gracious
lord,"--when the Turk cut him off with--"I should like it better, my
boy, if you would stop your talk and go into the house."
Just then Apafi, attracted by the rattling of the lances, came out of
his wife's room. He was terror-stricken when he faced his unexpected
guest.
"Are you Michael Apafi?" asked the Turk, angrily.
"At your service, gracious lord," replied Apafi, quietly.
"Good. His majesty, the celebrated Ali Pasha, sends you word to enter
this carriage without delay and come to my lord in camp at
Klein-Selyk, and that without any attendants."
"That's a pretty story," muttered Apafi to himself. "I beg your
pardon, worthy Aga," he added aloud, "just at present it is quite
impossible for me to carry out this wish, as my wife is in travail,
and any moment may decide her life or death. I cannot leave her now."
"Call a doctor if your wife is sick; and remember that you will not
restore her to health by bringing down the anger of the Pasha on you."
"Grant me only one day and then it does not matter if it costs me my
life."
"I tell you, it won't cost you your life if you only obey, but if you
don't you may soon cause yourself trouble; so be reasonable."
Anna from her room heard the conversation outside, and full of anxiety
called her husband to her. "What's the matter?" asked the sufferer,
anxiously.
"Nothing, nothing, sweetheart, I have just had a summons but I am not
going."
But Madame Apafi had seen the spear-points of the Turks through the
window curtains and said in despair, "Michael, they want to carry you
off!" and she pressed her husband convulsively to her breast; "they
shall kill me rather than drag you off into slavery so that I lose you
again."
"Keep quiet, my dear child. I am sure I do not know what they want of
me. I certainly have not done the good people any harm. At the most
they will demand a tax, which I will get together at once."
"I have a presentiment of something dreadful; my heartstrings tighten,
harm has come to you," stammered the sick woman, and she broke out
into violent sobbing and threw herself on her husband. "Michael, I
shall never see you again!"
The Aga was getting tired of waiting and began to knock at the door
and call out, "Apafi, here Apafi, come out; I cannot enter your wife's
room--that would not be proper--but if you don't come out I will burn
the house down over your head."
"I will go," said Apafi, striving to quiet his wife with kisses. "My
refusal will only make matters worse; but as soon as they let me go I
will be here at once."
"I shall never see you again," she gasped, trembling; she was almost
in a swoon. Apafi, taking advantage of this momentary unconsciousness,
left his wife and went out to the Aga, his eyes heavy with tears.
"Now, my lord, we can go," he said.
"Surely you are not going like a peasant, without a sword," said the
Turk. "Gird on your sword, and tell your wife that she has nothing to
fear."
Apafi went back into the room, and as he took down his heavy
silver-mounted sword from the wall above the bed, he said to his wife,
consolingly, "See, sweetheart, there cannot be anything disagreeable
to expect, or I should not have been told to buckle on my sword. Trust
in God."
"I do, I do trust in Him," said his wife, still kissing her husband's
hand passionately and pressing him to her heart; then she began to
weep bitterly,--"Apafi, if I die, do not forget me."
"Oh!" cried Apafi. He tore himself with bitter feelings from the
embrace of his wife, and wished all the Turks born and unborn at the
bottom of the sea. Then he jumped into the wagon, looking neither to
heaven nor earth, but struggling all the way with a single
thought--that it had not been allowed him to leave his wife when she
had happened to fall asleep.
Hardly were they an hour away from Ebesfalva when the Turks caught
sight of a rider at full speed, who was evidently trying to overtake
them. They called Apafi's attention to it. At first he would not
listen to them, but when told that the rider came from the direction
of Ebesfalva he ordered the wagon to stop and waited for the
messenger. It was Andy who, waving his handkerchief, came galloping
toward them.
"What has happened, Andy?" called out his master with beating heart,
while his servant was still at a distance.
"Good news, master," shouted Andy, "our most gracious lady has a son
and she herself is out of all danger--God be praised!"
"Blessed be the name of the Lord," cried Apafi, with lightened heart,
and sent the messenger back. As soon as this chief cause of his
anxiety had vanished all his other troubles disappeared. He thought of
his son and in the glow of this thought began to believe that his
Turkish attendants were as good, respectable, civilized people as he
had ever seen. Late at night they reached the tent of Ali Pasha. The
sentinels were sleeping like badgers; as far as they were concerned
one might have carried off the whole camp. Apafi had to wait before
the tent of the Pasha until he had dressed himself, when drawing aside
the curtains, the Pasha bade him enter. There sat Ali with crossed
legs on a rug at the back of the tent, and behind him two finely-clad
Moors. On the rug that formed a partition in the tent, was outlined
the figure of some one standing behind.
"Are you that Michael Apafi," asked the Pasha after the customary
greetings, "who for several years was a prisoner of the Tartar Murza?"
"The very same, most gracious Pasha, the one to whom, in his mercy, he
granted exemption from the full ransom."
"That will be made right. Murza granted exemption from the full ransom
because His Excellency the Sultan commanded him to do so, and His
Majesty will do even more for you."
"I hear these words with astonishment and gratitude, for I do not know
how I can have deserved this grace."
"His Excellency has learned that you conducted yourself wisely,
honorably, and like a man, in that sad imprisonment, and that you knew
so well how to win the hearts of the other prisoners that although
there is no respect of rank among prisoners they all had the highest
respect for you. In consideration of this, and furthermore taking into
account that the present prince, John Kemény, as he has plainly
shown, intends to set himself free from the Sublime Porte, His
Excellency has determined without further delay to raise you to the
throne of Transylvania and to support you there."
"Me,--gracious lord! It is your pleasure to jest," stammered Apafi. It
seemed as if everything was beginning to go round before him.
"Yes, you! You have no cause to wonder at this, for when my lord
pleases pashas and princes are made, at a glance from him, slaves,
beggars or corpses; and at another glance, common soldiers, nobles, or
slaves step into their superiors' places. You were so fortunate as to
come in for a share of his good-will. Make this to your advantage and
do not misuse it."
"But, gracious lord, what an idea that I can become a prince!"
"That is my affair, I will make you one."
"But Transylvania has another prince, John Kemény."
"That is also my affair. I will settle with him soon."
Apafi shrugged his shoulders; he felt that he had never been entangled
in a worse affair.--"That was a true presentiment of my wife's, that
to-day a great danger threatened me," he thought.
The Pasha resumed the conversation. "Now then, without further delay,
write an order for a convention of the States so that the ceremony of
inauguration may take place as quickly as possible."
"I--who will come at my call? My lord, I am one of the least important
of the nobles of my country: they will only laugh at me and say that I
have gone crazy."
"And then they will become aware that they themselves have gone
crazy."
"Then surely I could not send out such a summons, for, with the
exception of the country of the Szeklers, Kemény has all in his
power."
"Then we will send to the Szeklers, they will certainly come."
"And even among the Szeklers the more influential are unknown to me,
for I am not one of them. There I know such people as John Daczo,
Stephen Run and Stephen Nalaczy."
"Well, then, call these men, Run, Daczo, and Nalaczy, if you think
they are honest folk."
Apafi began to scratch his head. "But suppose they came, where should
we hold the convention? we have no suitable place. In Klausenburg my
brother-in-law, Dionysius Banfy, is my sworn foe, and he is captain of
the train bands. In Hermanstadt John Kemény himself lives."
"Certainly we have Klein-Selyk, we can assemble here." In spite of his
distress, Apafi had to laugh. "There is not a house here where thirty
men could find room at the same time," he answered, quickly.
"Yes there is, there is the church," replied the Pasha, "there you can
hold your meeting. If that building is good enough to pay one's
respects to God in, surely it is good enough to pay one's respects to
men in."
Apafi did not know what further objection to urge. "Can you write?"
asked the Pasha.
"To be sure I can," answered Apafi, sighing deeply.
"Because I can't. Well then, sit down and send your summons to the
states."
A slave brought a table, parchment, and red ink. Apafi sat down like a
lamb for the sacrifice, and by way of beginning made a letter on the
parchment so large that the Turk sprang up in fright and asked him
what that meant.
"That is an S," answered Apafi.
"Leave some space for the rest of the letters."
"That is the initial letter, the rest will be smaller of course."
"Read aloud to me what you are writing."
Apafi wrote with trembling hand, and read, "Whereas"--The Pasha tore
the parchment away from him in anger and roared out,
"'Whereas,--since'--what is the use of such roundabout expressions?
Write as is the custom, 'We, Michael Apafi, Prince of Transylvania,
command you, miserable slave, that as soon as you receive this
writing, without fail you appear before us at once in Klein-Selyk.'
Then stop."
It required some effort on the part of Apafi to make the Pasha
understand that it was not the custom to use such terms with the
Hungarian nobility. At last he gained permission to write as seemed
best to him, only the contents were to be decisive and authoritative.
The circular letter was finished at last. The Pasha ordered a man to
mount his horse at once, and gave him instructions to deliver this at
full speed.
Apafi shook his pen and sighed to himself;--"I would like to see the
man who can tell me what will be the result of all this."
"Now, until the convention assembles, stay with me here in camp."
"May I not go back to my wife and child at home?" asked Apafi, with
throbbing heart.
"The devil! That you may run away from us? That is the way all these
Hungarians treat the rank of prince. The men we do not wish lie down
on us and beg for the honor, and those we do wish take to flight." And
with that the Pasha showed Apafi to his tent and left him, at the same
time giving the order to the sentinel stationed at the entrance as a
mark of honor, to be sure not to let him escape.
"He got into a pretty scrape that time!" sighed Apafi, in deep
resignation. The only hope that remained for him now was that the men
summoned would not appear for the convention.
* * * * *
A few days later, in the early morning while Apafi was still in bed,
there entered his tent suddenly Stephen Run, John Daczo and Stephen
Nalaczy, with all the rest of the noble Szeklers to whom the letter
had been sent.
"For God's sake!" cried out Apafi, "what are you here for?"
"Why, your majesty summoned us here," replied Nalaczy.
"That's true, but you might have had the sense not to come. What can
we do now?"
"Enthrone your majesty with all due ceremony and if necessary, defend
you in true Szekler fashion," said Stephen Run.
"You are too few for that, my friends."
"Have the goodness just to look out in front of the tent," began
Nalaczy, and drawing aside the curtain, he showed him a crowd of
Szeklers with swords and lances, who had remained without. "We are
here _cum gentibus_ to prove to your grace that if we acknowledge you
as our Prince, this is not done in mere jest."
Apafi shrugged his shoulders and began to draw on his boots. But he
was so thoughtful and melancholy with it all, that an hour passed
before he was dressed, for he took up each article of dress the wrong
way, and put on his coat before he thought of his waistcoat. Several
hundred of the nobility had assembled in Selyk at his call, more than
he expected or even wished.
When Ali Pasha came out of his tent, in the presence of all assembled
he took Apafi by the hand and threw about him a new green velvet
cloak, set on his head a cap bordered with ermine, and gave the States
assembled to understand that they were to receive this man from this
time as their true Prince. The Szeklers roared out a huzza, raised
Apafi on their shoulders and set him on a platform covered with velvet
that Ali Pasha had ordered built for him.
"Now let the lords betake themselves to the church--and do you give
your oath to your Prince according to your custom and swear fealty to
each other. The bells have already been rung at my order. Have mass
said in due form."
"Pardon me, but I am of the Reformed Church," protested Apafi.
"That suits me all the better. The affair can be conducted with less
formality. There is his Reverence Franz, the Magyar, he shall preach
the sermon."
Apafi let them do as they would, only nervously stroking his moustache
and shrugging his shoulders when he was questioned. Nalaczy and the
rest of the Szeklers considered it proper to meet him in the church
with all the reverence due to princes. The Reverend Franz extemporized
a powerful sermon, in which he assured them in thundering language
that the God of Israel who had called David from his sheep to the
kingly throne and exalted him above all his enemies, would now too
maintain his chosen one in his good pleasure, though his foes were as
numerous as the blades of grass in the field, or the sands of the
seashore.
This little church could never have dreamed that it would one day be
the scene of a convention and a princely election. And Apafi could
certainly never have dreamed that all this would have been fulfilled
for him. He had neither ear nor eye for the consecration nor for the
sermon, for his mind was constantly busied with the thought of what
might become of his wife and child and where would they find refuge if
he should fall into the hands of Kemény and they should be driven from
house and home. Then it occurred to him that somewhere in the land of
the Szeklers he had a brother, Stephen Apafi, with whom he had always
had the friendliest relations, and who would certainly take care of
them if he saw them in misery. These thoughts made him forget
everything about himself so completely that when at the conclusion of
the assembly all present rose and began the Te Deum, he too arose,
quite ignoring the fact that these services were in his honor. But
some one behind laid his hands on his shoulders and pressed him down
into his place, telling him in a low, familiar voice that he was to
remain seated. Apafi looked around and fell back on his seat in
astonishment, for the man behind him was no other than his brother
Stephen.
"You here, too!" said Apafi to him, deeply affected.
"I was a little belated," said Stephen, "but I arrived in time and
will stay as long as you command."
"Will you also run into danger?"
"My brother, our fate lies in God's hand, but we too have something in
hand which will have a little to say," and with that he laid his hand
on his sword hilt. "Kemény has forfeited the love of his country,--I
need not tell you why. You have good cause to triumph and the ways and
means will not fail you."
"But if it should prove otherwise? what is then to become of my
wife--have you not seen her?"
"I have just come from there. That is why I was late."
"You have talked with her? What did she say about my affairs? Is she
very much worried?"
"Not in the least. On the contrary, she is very much pleased, and
thinks Transylvania could not have found a better prince; that you
deserve this honor much more than any of the great lords, who have no
thought except for tyranny or carousal, and she regrets very much that
her child is still so young she cannot come to strengthen and
encourage you."
"I should have been much better pleased had she been chosen prince,"
said Apafi, half in vexation and half in jest.
"Look out," said Stephen, "the young woman is so accustomed to
managing affairs at home that if you do not keep the crown firmly on
your own head we shall yet live to see her wearing it on hers. This,
of course, I speak only in jest."
There is many a truth spoken in jest.
CHAPTER IV
THE HUNGARIAN PRINCES IN BANQUET
His Excellency, Prince John Kemény, was meantime tarrying mid sport
and pleasure in Hermanstadt. This good lord had a perfect passion for
eating, and would not have given up his dinner if the last spoke in
the last wheel of the state carriage had been broken. Among his
counsellors his cook stood first. The entire town-hall was at his
disposal and had been taken possession of by his attendants. In the
courtyard spur-clanking cuirassiers amused themselves with
Transylvanian-Saxon serving-women. A few German musketeers stationed
on guard, had leaned their weapons against the gate-post and entered
into friendly relations with the boys who were carrying the food away
from the table, at the same time singing with merriment Hungarian
songs quickly picked up, and dancing as they sang. On the other hand,
the Hungarian guards were sitting in their yellow cloaks with green
fastenings, leaning silently against the wall. They gave no heed to
the tankards of wine set in their hands, except to pour them down at a
single draught and return the mighty cup to the friendly butler. The
latter could hardly hold himself up--smiled at all, the happy and the
unhappy, and marched off backward to the cook, who, carrying
everything on high, now brought in on a silver dish a great tart
decked with flowers and sugar, representing the Tower of Babel; and
again a huge porcelain bowl, from which came the spicy fragrance of a
hot punch; and again a great wooden platter, on which rested a whole
roast peacock in all his plumage. With difficulty could he make his
way across the courtyard with his amazing burdens, for the crowds had
gathered there for the adjustment of their affairs, and were waiting
until the prince should leave the table. Meantime they got wine,
roasts and pastry; everything except what they came for--justice.
In the banquet-hall were the lords and ladies, all somewhat mellow
with drink. The meal had lasted some time and was still far from
finished. French cookery seemed to have reserved its most wonderful
products for this princely feast. The three natural kingdoms had been
taxed to tickle the palates of men. Everything considered appetizing
and extraordinary, from the days of Lucullus down to the time of the
French gourmand, had been brought together there. All kinds of native
and foreign wines were taken from great silver coolers and poured into
richly cut and colored Venetian glasses. The rarest game, cooked in
all sorts of ways, was set out on silver dishes; then followed
transparent, rosy, quivering jellies, preserved fruits from the
Indies, ragouts of cocks' combs, delicacies made of snails, lobsters
and rare sea fish, dishes that the guests could only by the wildest
fancy imagine appetizing, after they were already sated with what was
good; artichokes, oysters, turtles, the enjoyment of which I should,
for my part, count a punishment, great pasties and rose-stained swans'
eggs in large baskets, which the guests, by way of diversion could
cook for themselves over a small spirit lamp placed before each one.
Finally came countless other wonderful dishes, the names of which
would be hardly recognizable by ordinary mortals and in abundance
sufficient for six times as many guests. There were all kinds of spicy
drinks to suit the taste of each one. Behind each guest was stationed
a page, who as soon as the guest turned his head, immediately removed
his full plate and gave him a clean one.
Behind the Prince stood the son of Ladislaus Csaki, who was proud that
his son might fill the glass of the Prince, and the Prince needed to
have it filled frequently. The Transylvanian feasters were wont to
close their banquets by drinking each other down for a wager. John
Kemény now called on the brave spirits for the wonted contest. Most of
the guests declined the challenge. The sober ones expressed their
thanks for the honor and excused themselves; only three took up the
challenge. The first was Wenzinger, leader of the German troops, the
second was Paul Beldi, general of the Szeklers and supreme judge of
the court at Haromszek, a fine-looking man; his noble brow indicated
rest, his gentle eyes were brightened a little by the wine, his silent
lips opened in a smile; otherwise no effect of the drinking was to be
seen. Opposite him was the third contestant, Dionysius Banfy, captain
of the train bands at Klausenburg and general of the troops, a medium
sized, broad shouldered, haughty man, with a touch of unbecoming
affectation in his aristocratic countenance.
John Kemény was seated at the upper end of the table and at either
side sat the wives of Banfy and Beldi. One of them, Banfy's wife, was
a young woman barely twenty years old, who since her sixteenth year
had been under the dominion of her husband. She hardly dared to raise
her eyes, or if she did it was only to turn them to her husband. On
the other side sat Beldi's wife, between her husband and the Prince;
hers was still a dazzling beauty like that of a white rose, and now
lighted up by the cheer of the feast, the healthy color seemed fairly
to burn. There was an eloquent charm in her eyebrows, and when she let
fall her lashes over her burning eyes her look was fascinating.
Bethlen's wife at the opposite end of the table talked openly of the
coquettish woman who had a marriageable daughter and yet dared appear
with open bodice; but this gave all the more pleasure to the Prince,
not less to the impetuous Banfy, and even to the gentle husband, who
worshipped his wife.
The wager had electrified all the men, so that the music which sounded
from the gallery throughout the feast now began to chime in with
songs, when Gabriel Haller entered and hurrying to the Prince,
whispered a few words to him with a serious look. Kemény stared at
him, then emptied the glass in his hand and laughed loudly.
"Tell the news to the company that they too may know," he called out
to Haller.
He hesitated.
"Out with it; you could hardly say anything more entertaining. Set
your music to it, up there. It is a great joke."
The men all urged Haller to share his joke with them. "It is quite
unimportant," said the man, with a shrug, "Ali Pasha has raised
Michael Apafi to be Prince."
"Ha, ha, ha!"--The laughter went round the table. The Prince turned
with absurd affectation first to one and then to another of the
company. "Does any one of you know this man? Has anybody ever heard of
him before?"
Banfy's wife clung with blanched face to her husband's arm, while he,
leaning his elbows on the table said, not without annoyance; "I am a
distant connection of the poor wretch. In fact, he married a relative
of my wife. He was a long time in slavery to the Tartars, and the
Turks, who are now angry with us, have undoubtedly set him free on
condition that he should allow himself to be made prince. He must have
lost his wits entirely."
Again the men laughed loudly.
"We will crown him at once," said Kemény, sarcastically, throwing back
his head.
"That has been done already," said Haller.
"Where? By whom?" questioned the good-natured Prince, with contracted
brow.
"In Klein-Selyk, by the State Convention."
Kemény indicated by a motion of the hand and uplifted eyebrow that he
did not fully understand this reply.
"Who was present? Surely all the men of importance in the country are
here with us."
"There were present Stephen Apafi, Nalaczy, Daczo and others, a couple
of hundred Szekler nobility."
"Well, we will count them up as soon as we are through with other
affairs," said the Prince, contemptuously. "Give Gabriel Haller a
chair."
"They are not waiting for us, but are already coming against us; they
are in Schassburg now."
"I suppose they will drive us out,--Michael Apafi with his two
hundred Szeklers," said Kemény, laughing.
Wenzinger now arose and said in soldierly fashion; "Does your Highness
wish me to have the army called together? we have eight thousand armed
men. If it pleases your Highness, we will scatter these people so
completely that there will be no two men left standing together."
"Keep quiet," replied Kemény, who looked down with contempt upon the
whole business. "Sit down and drink. Let them come nearer, why should
we take the trouble to go to them? we can certainly take them, bag and
baggage.--I am sorry, Dionysius Banfy, that this man is a connection
of yours, but out of consideration for you I will see to it that he is
not broken on the wheel; I'll have him--stuffed."
This hit of Kemény's was received with roars of laughter.
"Bring a glass for Gabriel Haller, we will go on with our wager. Play
the rest of that interrupted music."
Again the music rang out. The gypsy band played a Czardas. The men
clinked their glasses and sang to the music. The servants outside
joined in. The emptied glasses flew against the wall; there was not
one among them who could not have dashed his glass in a thousand
pieces except Gabriel Haller, who had come last and was still sober,
ashamed to smash the costly Venetian glass.
"Break it against the table so the pieces will fly," thundered the
Prince at him, and Haller, in obedience to his Prince, struck the
glass lightly against the table and snapped the stem, and then bowed
with respectful humility before his master.
Madame Banfy sighed as she thought of her kinsfolk. Her husband, to
prevent any one's thinking that he was in the least concerned in the
affair, jumped from his seat and amid the sounds of the Czardas
invited the beautiful Madame Beldi to dance. The little lady was
ready. Banfy grasped the beauty about her waist, held her firmly and
whirled her around. The excited woman flew with the lightness of a
fairy on the arm of her partner. With that, the rest of the men jumped
from their places, seized other women for a dance, and soon the entire
company was swept away in fantastic revelry, every one clapping,
dancing and shouting. Banfy was hot-blooded and light-headed; he loved
beautiful women, and now in addition there was the glow of the wine.
When his beautiful partner once more hung on his arm, her glowing
cheeks came so near him that he suddenly so far forgot himself as to
press the bewitching woman passionately to his heart and imprint a hot
kiss on her cheek. Madame Beldi cried out and pushed the bold man
from her. Banfy, also startled at what he had done, cast a glance
about him but everybody was so taken up with his own pleasure that, to
all appearances, neither kiss nor cry had been noticed. However,
Madame Beldi angrily left her partner, and when Banfy stammered out an
apology, indicated to him that he should stay at a distance.
This kiss was to cost Banfy dear one of these days. Nobody had noticed
it except the man whom it most concerned,--the husband. Beldi's eye
had seen it. Let not anybody think that a husband who loves is not
jealous. Even if he acts as if he had not seen, had not heard, he sees
and hears and notices everything. He had indeed seen Banfy kiss his
wife, although he acted as if he did not notice the confusion of his
wife who, all excited, sought her husband. He took her hand and led
her from the hall. Once outside he bade her make ready for a journey.
"Where are we going?" asked his wife, quivering with excitement.
"Home to Bodola."
Of all the guests Dionysius Banfy alone noticed that two had vanished
from the hall.
CHAPTER V
CASTLE BODOLA
In a part of the country of upper Weissenburg, as soon as you have
left the Pass of Boza or made a détour of the ravine in the footpath
around the mountain heights, you catch sight of the valley of the
Tatrang. On all sides are low mountains covered with light fog, and in
the background the sky-piercing heights of the foothills of Capri,
bright in the early autumnal snow. In the fog-wrapped valley are four
or five hamlets with whitewashed houses, from which the smoke arises
amid the green fruit trees. The little stream of Tatrang winds clear
as crystal between the quiet villages, forming here and there
waterfalls with snowy mist. The clouds hang so low over the valley as
to shut out with their golden veil first one object and then another
from the observer on the mountain-height. There is Hosszufalu with its
long street; and the church of Trajzonfalu reflects the sunbeams from
its painted metal roof. Tatrang is right on the bank of the stream, at
this point crossed by a long wooden bridge; far in the distance appear
dark and misty the walls of Kronstadt and the outline of the citadel,
at that time still unharmed. Farther down in the valley are the
scattered dwellings of the little village of Bodola, its church high
on a hill; opposite the village stands a small castle with broad
towers and black bastions with battlements; the western bastion is
built on a steep rock. But it is only from afar that the castle looks
gloomy; as you draw nearer you see that what appeared a dark green
growth on the bastion is a garden of flowers. The great Gothic windows
are decorated with sculpture and painted glass. Up the steep cliff is
a well-kept, winding path, with mossy stone benches at every turn; at
its summit is a parapet and the pointed turrets of the castle are
painted red and topped with fantastic weather-vanes.
The road to Kronstadt through the Boza Pass leads to this little
castle in a few hours, and at the very time when John Kemény had
abandoned himself utterly to pleasure in Hermanstadt, a long line of
horsemen was moving out of the castle; there might have been two
thousand Turkish riders, recognizable from afar by their red turbans
and their snow-white caftans; with them were a few hundred Wallachian
howitzers in charge of men in brown woolen cloaks and black turbans.
The way was so narrow here that the horsemen could ride only two by
two, and those in the rear had hardly emerged from the mountain pass
when the first riders were already in Tatrang. Their leader was a
medium sized, sunburned man, with eyes like an eagle's; there was a
long scar across his forehead; the sharp upward turn of his moustache
indicated an unusually hot temper, an impression confirmed by the
short, crisp speech, the proud turn of the head, and the abrupt
movements. Beyond the village he called a halt to await the rear; at
the very end rumbled two baggage-wagons and a melon-shaped calêche,
the entire baggage of the Turk. A child followed, whose serious
expression and gleaming short sword seemed hardly appropriate to the
full round face; he might have been twelve years old. Within the
carriage, the curtains of which had been thrown wide open to give free
play to the evening breeze, sat a young woman of possibly two and
thirty, whose dress was partly Turkish, partly Christian; for she wore
the loose silk trousers and short blue caftan of Turkish women, but
had taken off her turban. Her face, contrary to Turkish custom, was
unveiled, and she looked calmly out of the window at the country and
the passing peasants.
Beyond the village the Turkish leader marshaled his troops, evidently
accustomed to some discipline. At the head of the left wing was the
young boy; the right was led by a strong man.
"My brave men," said the Pasha to his troops, "you will encamp here.
Let every man keep his place beside his horse and not lay down his
arms. Ferhad Aga with twelve men will go to the village and say to the
justiciary most respectfully that he is to send four hundred-weight of
bread, as much meat, and twice as much hay and oats, for which he will
receive four asper the pound,--no more and no less."
The Pasha then turned to the Wallachians. "You dogs, do not think that
we have come here to plunder. Do not stir from your places. If I find
that a single goose has been stolen from the village, I will have your
captains hung and you decimated."
Then he chose four horsemen from the company. "You will follow me. The
others are to rest. We will continue our march to-night. In my
absence, Feriz Bey is in command."
The small boy saluted. "As soon as Feriz Bey receives word from me to
leave you, you will be in command of Ferhad Aga until my return."
With that the Pasha struck spurs to his horse and galloped off to
Bodola with his escort of four men. Then the boy called Feriz Bey by
the Pasha, rode forward with soldierly bearing and in the clearest,
firmest tones gave order to dismount. His Arab steed, with foaming bit
reared and plunged, but the little commandant went on with his orders
as if he did not notice the mad leaps of his horse. Meantime, the
Pasha continued his ride toward the castle of Bodola. The lord of the
castle, Paul Beldi, had just returned the day before with his wife
from the court of Kemény, which he had left without parting words, and
was standing before the dwelling when the Turkish riders came into the
courtyard. In those days the relations of Transylvania and Turkey were
such that a visit of this kind might take place without previous
announcement. As soon as the Pasha caught sight of Beldi he jumped
from his horse, hurried up the steps to him and presented himself
briefly.
"I am Kutschuk Pasha. Since my road lay through this country I have
come to speak with you, if you have time."
"Your servant," replied Beldi, giving his guest precedence as he
showed him to the castle salon. It was a square room, with the walls
painted in Oriental landscapes; in the spaces between the windows were
great mirrors in metal frames; the marble floor was covered over with
large, bright rugs; on the walls above the windows were portraits and
trophies of old weapons of strange shapes and settings; in the centre
of the room was a large table of green marble, with claw feet, and
here and there easy chairs upholstered in leather, with heavy
carvings. Opposite the entrance a door led to the terrace from which
was a wide view of the snow-covered mountains. The evening light
streaming through the painted glass cast a bright reflection over the
faces of the men as they entered.
"In what way can I serve you?" asked Beldi.
"You are well aware," replied Kutschuk, "that at present there is a
great division in the country over the princely succession in
Transylvania."
"That does not concern me and I do not intend to take sides with
either party," answered Beldi, guardedly.
"I did not come here to ask you for help or advice in this affair. The
question is to be settled by the sword. What has brought me to you is
purely a family affair and concerns me and me only."
Beldi, in amazement, bade his guest be seated and said to him,
"Speak."
"You may have heard that there was once here in Transylvania a
Mademoiselle Kallay, who fell in love with a young Turk and became his
wife; naturally, without the knowledge or consent of her parents."
"I do know about it. They used to say that the young Turk knew as well
how to conquer a woman's heart as a foe on the battlefield."
"Perhaps so. Conquests in war have meantime effaced the traces of love
from his cheeks. As you see, my face is crossed this way and that with
scars. For the man who married that woman stands before you."
Beldi looked at the Pasha with astonishment.
"I have loved this woman without ceasing and with adoration,"
continued the Pasha; "this may sound strange to you, coming from the
lips of a Turk, but it is true. I have no other wife. She has borne me
a son of whom I am proud. Now my affairs are in so critical a
condition that I must either work wonders with the help of God, or
fall in battle. You know that the religion of Mohammed sets a high
value on death in battle, so that this causes me little anxiety; but I
am thinking of my wife, who if she should lose me and my son would be
placed in a most doubtful position. In Turkey, she would be exposed to
persecution because she had remained a Christian; in Transylvania,
because she had married a Mohammedan; there through my relatives and
here through her own. For that reason I turn to you with a request. I
have heard you spoken of as a man of honor and of your wife as a
worthy woman. Receive my wife into your family. I have sufficient
property for her so that she will be no burden to you in that respect;
she needs only your protection. If you promise to grant me this
request you can count on my friendship and gratitude forever, the
command of my sword and my property and, in case I survive, of my
life."
Beldi grasped the Pasha by the hand. "Bring your wife," he said, in
cordial tones, "my wife and I will receive her as a sister."
"Not as a sister, I beg of you," said Kutschuk, laughingly, "with us
that is equivalent to enmity. So then, I may bring her?"
"We shall be happy to have her with us," replied Beldi, and gave order
to his servants to return to Tatrang with the Pasha's followers and
bring his carriage from there by torch light. Kutschuk sent word that
Feriz Bey was to come too. Meantime, Beldi presented Kutschuk Pasha to
his wife, and it gave him no little pleasure to find that she
remembered the Pasha's wife as a friend in her youth, whom she would
meet again with natural interest and joy.
In the course of a few hours the carriage arrived and rolled heavily
over the stone-paved courtyard. Madame Beldi hurried down the steps to
meet the Pasha's wife, and as the latter stepped from the carriage
received her with a cry of joy. "Katharine, do you know me still?" She
too recognized her playmate of old and the two friends rushed into
each other's arms, kissed each other and said sweetly, "How handsome
you have grown!" "What a stately woman you have become!"
"See, this is my son," said Katharine, pointing to Feriz Bey who,
dismounted from his horse, was now hurrying forward to help his mother
from the carriage.
"What a fine boy!" exclaimed Madame Beldi, charmed; she threw her arms
around the handsome, rosy-cheeked child and kissed him again and
again;--if she had only known that this child was no longer a child,
but a general!
"I too have children," said Madame Beldi, with the sweet rivalry of
maternal feeling. "You shall see them. Does your son speak Hungarian?"
"Hungarian!" asked Katharine, almost hurt. "Does the child of a
Hungarian mother speak Hungarian! How can you ask such a question?"
"So much the better," said Madame Beldi, "the children will become
acquainted the more easily and they will belong to one family
henceforth. Our husbands have arranged that with each other and it
certainly will please us."
The affectionate mother threw her arms around her friend again, took
Feriz Bey by the hand, and brought them both into the midst of the
family circle, where they chatted uninterruptedly and asked and
answered thousands of questions.
In the little boudoir was a cheerful open fire; large, beflowered silk
curtains shaded the windows; on an ivory table ticked a handsome clock
set with jewels. In the back part of the room an easy sofa covered
with cornflower blue velvet invited one to rest. On a centre-table
covered with a handsome Persian rug was a massive silver candelabrum
in the form of a siren who held up a wax candle in each hand. In front
of the fireplace stood Madame Beldi's children; the older, Sophie, a
maiden of thirteen years, tall, delicately built, with shy glance,
appeared to be arranging the fire. She still wore her hair in childish
fashion in two long, heavy braids reaching almost to her heels. This
girl afterward became the wife of Paul Wesselenyi.
The second child, a little girl of four, knelt before her older sister
and scattered light sticks on the fire. Her name was Aranka, the
Hungarian for gold-child; her hair was in golden curls falling over
her little shoulders; her features were animated and her eyes as well
as her hands in constant motion, interfering with her sister in one
way or another; she laughed innocently when the older girl at last
became angry.
The two children rose when they heard steps and voices at the door. As
soon as the older girl caught sight of the strangers she tried to
smooth out her dress, while Aranka rushed noisily to her mother, and
catching her by the dress looked up at her with a smile on her little
round face. Katharine embraced the older girl who timidly offered her
forehead to be kissed.
"And your cousin, little Feriz, you must kiss him, too," said Madame
Beldi, and brought the two reluctant children together, who hardly
dared touch each other's lips. Sophie turned red to her very ears, ran
out of the room and could not be persuaded to come back that evening.
"Oh, you bashful Mimosa," said Madame Beldi, with a laugh. "Aranka is
braver than you are, I am sure. You are not afraid to kiss Cousin
Feriz, are you, darling?"
The child looked up at Feriz and drew back, clinging to her mother's
gown, with her large, dark blue eyes fixed on Feriz. Feriz Bey on his
side knelt down, embraced the child and imprinted a hearty kiss on her
round, red cheeks. Now that this first step had been taken the
acquaintance was made for Aranka. She bade her Turkish cousin sit down
beside the fireplace, and leaning against him she began to question
him about everything she saw on him, from the sword hilt to the
feathers on his turban; nothing escaped her.
"Let us leave the children to play," said Madame Beldi, and led her
friend out on the balcony from which was a view of the valley of
Tatrang flooded with moonlight. While the men talked seriously and the
children gave themselves up to play, the two ladies began one of those
confidential conversations so dear to young women, especially when
they have so much to tell each other, to ask and to inquire, as these
two had. Madame Beldi sat down beside Katharine, took her
affectionately by the hand and asked half in jest;--"So your husband
has no other wife?"
Katharine laughed, but there was a little vexation with it, as she
said;--"I suppose you think a Hungarian marries a Turk only to be his
slave. My husband loves me dearly."
"I don't doubt it, Katharine, but that certainly is the custom with
you."
"With _us_! I am no Turk."
"What then?"
"A Protestant like yourself. It was a Protestant who married me--the
Reverend Martin Biro, who lives in Constantinople in banishment, and
to whom my husband in his gratitude gave a house where the
Transylvanians and Hungarians living in Constantinople can meet for
worship."
"What, does not your husband persecute the Christians?"
"No, indeed. The Turks believe that every religion is good and leads
to heaven, only they think their own religion is the best; for in
their opinion theirs leads the way to the heaven of heavens. Besides,
my husband has a kind heart and is much more enlightened than most
Turks."
"Then why couldn't you bring him over to the Christian faith?"
"Why not? perhaps because whenever the story-tellers relate the
romance of a Turk who fell in love with a Christian girl, they end the
tale with her bringing him to baptism and exchanging the caftan for a
coat. In this case they have a romance in which the wife follows her
husband and sacrifices everything for him."
"You are quite right, Katharine, but you see it takes me some little
time to become accustomed to the thought that a Christian, a Hungarian
woman, can have a Turk for a husband."
"But consider, my good friend, God might not have counted it such a
good service on my part if I had brought my husband over to our
religion, as he does that I left him in the religion in which he was
born. A Christian renegade, the most that he could have done would
have been to take his place in the Church. But now, as one of the most
influential Pashas, he can transform the fate of any Christian in
Turkey to one so favorable that the Christian subjects of other lands
crowd thither as to the Holy Land. How often, when he has received his
portion of the war-plunder, has he handed me a long list on which were
marked the names of my imprisoned countrymen whom he had set free for
a large sum. He has expended immense treasure for this purpose, and,
my darling, the reading of such a list gives me more pleasure than
would the most beautiful Eastern pearls he could have bought for the
same treasure; and such a deed raises him higher in my eyes than if he
could say all the psalms by heart. Beside, he is not at all the man
whom you would expect to change his opinions in the least for God or
man; then, too, if he were ready to give up his religion I could no
longer trust his love, for he would cease to be the same man I knew
and loved--a man who, when he had once said a thing, stood firmly by
it and never yielded to any fear or persuasion."
Madame Beldi embraced her friend and kissed her glowing cheeks. "You
are right, my good Katharine. Our prejudices prevent us from
entertaining more than the general opinion. It is true, love too has
its religion. But what of your country? Have you never thought of your
country?"
"Know my love for my country from the fact that I am now sacrificing
to that the life of my husband and of my child, whom I see now
probably for the last time."
The expression of Madame Beldi's face showed that she did not fully
comprehend the meaning of her friend's words and Katharine had begun
to explain this to her when the servant announced that the gentlemen
had already been for some time in the dining-hall and were waiting
only for the ladies. Madame Beldi led the way. The children were so
far on in their friendship that Aranka let herself be carried into the
dinning-room by Feriz Bey, while she played with his jeweled feathers.
When Katharine saw a large decanter of wine before her husband she
seized it quickly and changed it for a glass carafe of pure
spring-water. Madame Beldi noticed it and glanced inquiringly at her
embarrassed friend.
"He never drinks wine," said Katharine, by way of excuse. "It hurts
him for he is somewhat passionate by nature." Kutschuk raised
Katharine's hand to his lips with a smile. "Why do you spare the
truth,--that I never drink wine because the Koran forbids it,--because
I am a Turk."
Beldi shook his head at his wife and to give the conversation another
turn pointed to the children sitting side by side.
"Your son, Kutschuk Pasha, seems to feel quite at home already. You
will see what a Hungarian we shall make of him before your return."
At that Kutschuk looked up quickly and proudly at Feriz and both
looked at Beldi. In an instant the child's countenance changed
completely, and he was wonderfully like his father; the same firm
glance, the same proud toss of the head, the same haughty brow.
"Your speech leads me to infer, Beldi," said Kutschuk, "that you think
I have brought my son only to leave him here with you."
"You surely will not take such a child into battle!"
"Such a child! He commands four hundred spahi horse, has already taken
part in three engagements, had two horses shot down under him, and in
the coming war is to lead the left wing of my corps."
The Beldis now looked in astonishment at the child who, conscious
that all eyes were directed toward him, strove to assume a proud look.
"But you will at least stand beside your son in the contest?" said
Madame Beldi, anxiously.
"By no means. I shall lead the centre and he will look after his
division. At his age I was already wearing the Order of Nischan and I
hope he will not return without having won it, too."
"But suppose he should come to a hand-to-hand fight and be in danger?"
asked Madame Beldi, with growing anxiety.
"Then he will be fighting as befits him," replied Kutschuk, stroking
his moustache, that seemed to rise of its own accord.
"But he is far too young to enter a contest with men," said Madame
Beldi, with an expression of pity.
"Feriz," Kutschuk called to his son, "take a sword from the wall there
and show our friends that you know how to swing it like a man."
The boy sprang up and chose from the weapons hanging on the wall, not
a sword but a heavy club, seized it at the very end of the handle and
swung it with outstretched arm so easily in every direction that it
would have been a credit to any man. His proof of strength was
rewarded by a general cry of astonishment.
"Kutschuk, give me the boy!" said Beldi.
"With all my heart. Will you give me your daughter?"
"Which one? You may have your choice."
"The one next him. When she is grown up she will be just a match for
him and we shall both have a son and a daughter."
Beldi laughed good-naturedly, the two women smiled at each other and
Kutschuk Pasha looked with satisfaction at his son, while the latter
drew the heron's feather out of his turban, tore off the jeweled clasp
which had been most pleasing to the little Aranka, and gave it to the
child with generous gallantry. The little maid reached for the costly
present timidly, without the slightest suspicion of either its
material or moral worth; but when once the trinket was in her hand she
would not have let it go for anything in the world. The parents
suddenly became silent. True, their expression was a smiling one, but
their eyes were serious.
CHAPTER VI
THE BATTLE OF NAGY-SZÖLLÖS
Meanwhile Michael Apafi assured by Ali Pasha that help would come to
him in a short time, advanced on Schassburg and there awaited the
change of fortune. John Kemény came against him with a great army of
German and Hungarian troops in imposing numbers, and he himself was a
bold general in time of action. Michael Apafi could make but slight
opposition. He had a few hundred stiff-necked Szeklers incapable of
discipline, together with the blue janissaries who had stayed behind
as bodyguard for him; in all not the tenth of Kemény's force in point
of strength. By the advice of Stephen Apafi the Prince determined to
stay in Schassburg on the defensive until he could be joined by the
auxiliaries from his Turkish patron. This decision was pleasing to the
Saxon burghers, for behind the walls of their own town they knew how
to defend themselves, but in open field they were never quite
comfortable. With the Szeklers it was just the opposite. It was
Nalaczy's mission to keep them in a warlike frame of mind. One evening
he brought them to such a state of excitement at the inn that with the
dawn they went noisily to the windows of the Prince and swore roundly
that the gate must be opened to them for they were determined to
attack Kemény and fight it out to the death. The Prince and his
advisers came down in terror and strove in every way to make them
understand that Kemény's troops were more numerous than they; that the
half of his army was made up of musketeers while on their side none
but the Saxons knew how to use firearms; that if they should make a
sally by one gate the enemy would rush in by the other and all would
be confusion. But the man who thinks he can clear a Szekler's mind of
an idea once gained is much mistaken.
"We are either going to be led against the enemy or we are going
home," they shouted. "We positively will not consent to stay here ten
years like the Trojans, for we are needed at home. Portion out to
every man the number of the enemy that falls to his share, these he
shall strike down and then take his discharge. We do not wish to stay
here and be besieged and starved out, and then thrown to the dogs and
rats."
"If you do not wish to stay, my friends, you may go," was the final
decision of Apafi, "but it would be madness for me to be drawn into an
engagement."
The Szeklers said never a word but took up their knapsacks, shouldered
their spears and moved out of Schassburg as if they never had been
there. From this time on the Szeklers were Apafi's enemies and
remained so until his death.
The next day Kemény's forces were beneath the city walls, where Apafi
had barely armed men enough to guard the gates. Wenzinger was the man
who best understood the art of war. This general, true to the
principles of the military art in which he had been trained, first
inspected the ground, then carefully occupied any point which could be
of any importance, taking care to cover the besieging forces in every
direction; in short, in accordance with a systematic method he
prolonged his preparations so that when at last he was ready to begin,
at that very moment came the news that the Turkish auxiliaries were
approaching on the double-quick. Thereupon, still in accordance with
his system, he assembled the scattered troops and made ready to meet
the approaching Turks. But John Kemény was in the way. He feared that
if the Turkish force proved large his forces would have to take
flight, and in that case with Schassburg in the rear they would come
between two fires. He preferred to wait the attack of his enemy and
withdrew from the town altogether, taking up his position in
Nagy-Szöllös in a spot that will for some time still to come be known
as an important battlefield; from that point he watched calmly the
advance of Kutschuk Pasha's horsemen into Schassburg.
Apafi, in his anxiety over a state of affairs into which he had fallen
through no fault of his own, had not eaten anything for three days,
when word was brought him that the auxiliaries had come. It was
already late in the evening when Kutschuk Pasha, after a forced march
over rough mountain paths, entered the city. Apafi rode forward to
greet the Turk, whom he looked upon as his guardian angel. Great was
his astonishment when, after carefully surveying the line, he learned
that they were barely equal to the fifth part of the opposing force.
"What does your Grace intend with this small force?" he asked the
Pasha.
"God knows, who from above orders the fates of men," answered the Turk
with characteristic fatalism; and did not take the Prince into his
plans any further.
That night the Turks encamped in the public square in front of the
Prince's dwelling. At last Apafi could sleep again after so many
restless nights. It was such a satisfaction to him to hear the
snorting of the horses under his window and the clanking of the
sentinels' swords, that he fell asleep with a light heart amid these
quieting sounds; then too there was the thought that with these troops
he could hold out for some time, when--something might happen. Long
before dawn he was wakened by the rattling on a board which called
the Turkish horsemen to breakfast.
"They breakfast early," thought the Prince, turned over and fell
asleep again. As he dozed it seemed to him that he heard dervishes
singing; their song is of a kind to make a man sleep even if he felt
wide awake; but soon his Excellency was roused again by the sound of
trumpets. "What are they doing in the middle of the night?" he cried
out with annoyance; he got up, looked from the window, and saw that
the Turkish riders had already mounted, though it was still dark; and
with another sound of the trumpet the entire company rode out. The
noise of the hoofs on the pavement and the words of command sounded
out in the night.
"What a restless fellow this Pasha is!" thought Apafi, "he does not
give his army any rest even at night, and that too after so many
hardships," and with these thoughts he went to bed again, fell into
still sweeter sleep, and woke late in the morning. The sun was high in
the heavens when Apafi rang for John Cserei, at that time his
factotum. His first question was,
"What is the Pasha doing?"
"He withdrew from the town during the night and sent back a messenger
who has been waiting since dawn."
"Let him enter," said Apafi, and began to dress in haste.
With Kutschuk's messenger entered Stephen Apafi, Nalaczy and Daczo.
They too had been waiting two hours for the Prince to awaken, and
besides this they were eager for the Pasha's message.
"What news? Speak quickly," called Apafi to the messenger.
The latter stood with arms crossed, bowed to the ground, and began,
"Excellent Prince, my lord, Kutschuk Pasha, sends you the following
message through me, 'Stay quietly in Schassburg and keep good hope;
with the troops under your command guard the walls and gates.'
Meantime my lord Kutschuk Pasha will advance against John Kemény and
enter into an engagement with him wherever he finds him. It will be a
struggle unto death, even if he should perish with his entire host."
This announcement so confounded the Prince that he could find no word
of reply. Kutschuk Pasha in point of numbers was equal to the fifth of
Kemény's force; besides, his troops were worn out with forced marches.
The man who could hope for victory at such a time must believe in
miracles.
"Let us prepare for the worst," said Stephen Apafi, "and put our trust
in God."
That was the most sensible speech to be made under the circumstances.
Michael Apafi let affairs take their course, any man who chose might
guard the walls. The guards left their soldiers to look out for
themselves and the soldiers did not trouble themselves much about the
walls. The fate of the land lay in God's hand, literally speaking, for
the hand of man was withdrawn. The Prince did no more than to order
old Cserei to keep watch in the church tower and let them know when he
saw the troops moving.
* * * * *
Meanwhile John Kemény had halted in Nagy-Szöllös, which was a few
hours distant from Schassburg. He made his headquarters in the little
parsonage, and the little room is still shown where he rested for the
last time, and the round hill in the garden on which stood a
summerhouse where the Prince had begun his last meal but had not
finished it.
The Hungarian forces consulted for a long time with Wenzinger and the
Prince about the course of action. Some advised taking the town by
storm and others maintained that they should besiege it and starve the
people to submission. Wenzinger shook his head.
"Permit me, my lord," said the experienced German, "to express my
opinion. I am an old soldier, have been through all kinds of
campaigns, know the value of superior forces in war and also of good
positions, and know how to balance the two. I have learned by
experience that often a hundred men under favorable circumstances are
more difficult to displace than a thousand. I also know what a
difference the spirit of an army makes. I know too the importance of
taking into account the different kinds of weapons, and the importance
of nationality. We have ten thousand men and there are barely three
thousand drawn up against us. But we must take into consideration that
the greater part of our Hungarian force consists of horsemen, and that
it is impossible to storm a city with horsemen--still less possible to
compel a Hungarian on a horse to dismount and fight on foot;
furthermore I would remark that the Hungarian is a brave fighter when
drawn up against foreigners, but whenever I have seen him against his
own people,--and I have frequently had the opportunity, he has been so
lazy and indifferent that it seemed as if he could hardly wait to turn
his back on the battlefield. We have a force of men that are very good
on the defensive, and if we had them behind the walls of that town we
could hold out against a force of ten times that number; but except
behind fortifications they are of no use. They are strong enough to
defend a bastion but too weak to storm one. Then we have no cannon for
storming so we must send to Temesvar for cannon, and before they can
arrive over those roads--and it is a great question too whether the
commander will send us any--Ali Pasha may return with fresh forces,
while we shall have spent the time here to no purpose. So I maintain
that we had better wait here no longer. We are in no condition to take
the enemy within the walls by force or siege. We cannot suppose him so
mad as to be drawn into an open engagement. The wisest thing for us
under these circumstances is to go without delay to Hungary, there get
troops and cannon, and then make it our object to force the enemy into
a field engagement."
Kemény, who was not accustomed to listen for any length of time to
words of reason, could hardly wait for Wenzinger to come to a pause;
as if the plan of action was of the most trifling importance to him,
he interrupted with frivolous impatience,
"Let's put it off until afternoon. General, after dinner everything
looks different."
"No, indeed, not after dinner," said the German; "there is no time to
be lost. We are in the midst of war where every hour is precious and
not in the Diet where an affair can be dragged out for years."
At this hit the Hungarians laughed loudly, seized Wenzinger by the
arm, and dragged him with jests to the table, saying,
"You know we have plenty of time after dinner."
"Many such soldiers whom no one can command would quite meet my
views," said Wenzinger, half in jest and half in vexation, and then he
spoke no more during the meal, but drank the harder.
During the dinner John Uzdi, captain of the scouts, entered the
extemporized banquet-hall with terror in his face. In his extreme
haste speech almost failed him.
"Majesty--I saw great clouds of dust in the direction of Schassburg,
and coming this way."
The Prince turned his head with humorous nonchalance toward the
messenger; "If it is any pleasure to you to inspect those clouds of
dust, why keep on looking at them."
Wenzinger sprang up from his place.
"I too must see them," he said, and ordered his horse brought forward
at once. "Evidently the enemy has come out to draw us nearer."
The rest did not allow themselves to be disturbed but went on with
their pleasures. After a few minutes Wenzinger came hurrying back; on
his features could be read that secret joy which a soldier always
feels when his plan nears success.
"Victory," he cried, as he entered, "the enemy is moving off, bag and
baggage; provided only he is not doing it for appearances, and is not
avoiding a battle, all's won."
At this news some of the men rose and began to buckle on their swords,
but the Prince did not leave his place.
"Are they still far away?" he asked the general, calmly.
"Half an hour distant," answered the other with glowing countenance.
"Then let them come nearer, and meantime sit down beside me."
"The Devil I will!" said the general, angrily, "I have hardly time to
assign the army their positions."
"What is the use of assigning them positions? Let them march in a
solid column so that the enemy will be frightened to death at the mere
sight of them."
"Quite right. However, I do not wish to frighten them away but to
surround them. One half of the army I will draw up against them, and
the other I will arrange as follows: one division shall steal through
the grain fields and cut off the enemy's retreat in the direction of
this city; another shall fall on his flank just above the millstream;
and the third shall be stationed as rear guard. Your Majesty with his
court shall join the rear guard."
"What," said Kemény, roused at last, "I in the rear guard! Hungarian
Princes are in the habit of going first in battle."
"That was well enough in former times, but in a combined assault, so
precious a life that must always be looked out for is only in the
general's way, and has a disturbing effect on the movements of the
troops. But if it is your Majesty's express wish, then I give over the
command to you and take my place in the rank and file. Let your
Majesty take the command. Here only one can be general."
"Stay at your post and arrange matters as you will, only let me choose
my position as I wish, and it shall not interfere with yours."
And Kemény staid at table with a few of the men. Wenzinger had hardly
time to make the necessary arrangements when word was brought the
Prince that the army was in line of battle. Kemény rose calmly from
his place, girded on his sword, but forbade them to put on his coat of
mail.
"What for," he cried, "is the heart beneath any bolder?"
Then he had his finest horse led forward, which tossed his head so
fiercely that two men could hardly hold his bridle. The spirited black
beast reared and plunged; his nostrils steamed, the white foam flecked
his breast and his long waving tail reached almost to the ground.
Kemény swung himself into his saddle, drew his sword and galloped to
the head of the army. Everybody was astonished at the fine rider. He
adapted his movements to the horse as if they were one creature. When
the high-spirited horse reached the front he began to slacken his
pace, struck his hoofs on the ground and seemed to salute the army
with his head.
The men broke out into a loud huzza. At this moment the Prince's horse
stumbled and fell forward, breaking the silver bit in his mouth; only
the greatest skill and presence of mind saved the Prince from plunging
over his horse's head. His attendants crowded about him.
"That's a bad sign, your Majesty," stammered Alexis Bethlen. "Let your
Majesty mount another horse."
"No, it is not a bad sign," replied Kemény, "for I staid in my
saddle."
"However it would be well if your Majesty would not ride this horse.
He will keep stumbling now that he has been frightened."
"I intend to stay on this horse just to show that I do not give in to
omens and am not afraid of them," replied Kemény, defiantly, and
ordered the bridle with broken bit to be taken away and another
brought. Just then Kutschuk's trumpeter sounded for the attack.
* * * * *
The Turkish horsemen were drawn up in the form of a crescent with the
ends turned backward, and in the centre rode Kutschuk Pasha. The
Turkish general on this occasion wore a costume of unusual splendor.
His caftan was of heavy silk embroidered in flowers of gold; under
this a dolman woven in threads of gold, and around his waist a costly
Oriental shawl; his sword was studded with precious stones; in his
turban was the entire wing of a gerfalcon, with a diamond clasp. He
rode a fiery Arab steed with slender neck, long braided mane and
flowing black tail. The proud creature tossed his head and shook the
fringed housings; there was a kind of gold net over his body with
leather knots at the ends from which hung large golden crescents
hitting against each other. As soon as Kutschuk Pasha came in sight of
the princely troops of Kemény, he prostrated himself on the ground and
kissed the earth three times, raised himself as many times to his
knees, lifted his hands and devout face to heaven and cried "Allah,
Allah!" Then he mounted his horse again, ordered his son called to
him, tore a falcon feather from his turban, and said as he stuck it in
the boy's cap, "Now go to the left wing of the enemy and try to fight
bravely, for it is better that you should fall by the enemy's hand and
I should see you dead than that you should flee and be obliged to fall
a sacrifice to my sword."
With these words he put his hand on the weapon at his side. Feriz Bey
bowed with an expression of the deepest homage, kissed his father's
robe and galloped proudly to his appointed post. He seemed to know
that all eyes were now directed to those falcon feathers that his
father had placed in his turban. The Pasha then rode along the front
of his host and spoke to his men:
"Brave comrades, now you see the enemy with your own eyes. I will not
say whether their numbers are great or small, for you can see for
yourselves. They are many more than we, but trust in Allah and fight
bravely; it is more honorable to fall here sword in hand, than to
disgrace numbers by flight. We are in the middle of Transylvania;
whoever runs away will be hunted down by pursuers before he can get to
the borders, but even if any one should escape the Sultan will have
him killed. We have no choice but victory or death."
Then he turned to the Wallachians and addressed them in hard, angry
tones:
"Well do I know, you dogs, that you are ready to ride off at the first
shot, but I have given orders to the troops stationed on the outside
to shoot down any one of you who so much as looks backward."
Then the Pasha took his place at the head of the host and with
unsheathed sword gave the sign to the trumpeter. As he once more
surveyed the troops he noticed that the Moors in their metal caps
stationed behind him had reached for their guns and made ready to aim.
"What do you mean!" growled the Pasha. "Down with your muskets! The
enemy has more of them. Nothing but swords now! Let every man ride
boldly against the enemy and when I give the sign, bend low on his
horse and gallop forward without trembling."
The army obeyed the command. The Moors slung their weapons on their
shoulders, drew their broad swords and marched forward following the
Pasha. Kemény's troops stood before them like a wall of steel. In the
first line the musketeers and behind them the infantry. In the centre
was Wenzinger and on the right wing John Kemény. The troops on the
flanks marched stealthily behind the mill and the grain fields to
attack the rear. When the Turks were almost within shot of Kemény's
army Kutschuk Pasha turned round and cast commanding glances at his
soldiers right and left, at which they instantly dropped their heads
on their horses' necks, swung their swords forward, struck spurs into
their horses' flanks and rode madly into the lines of the enemy.
"Allah! Allah! Allah!" rang out three times from the lips of the
assailing Turks. At the third shout there came a tremendous report.
Kemény's musketeers had at that moment fired in line at the assailing
horsemen and their ranks were for the instant enveloped in smoke.
Generally speaking such firing does little harm in war, causing more
noise than destruction. In this case only two Turks fell with their
horses, the rest galloped forward under the hot firing. Wenzinger saw
that his artillery had no time to load again and gave command for the
infantry to advance. If these troops could have stood their ground
against the attack of the horsemen until the artillery could load
again, or until the flank troops could have fallen on the Turks in the
rear, Kemény would have won the battle, but the ranks of the infantry
were broken through at the first onset, and after a desperate
engagement largely mown down. Thereupon the defenseless musketeers
fled in great numbers and by their cries threw the rest of the army
into the utmost confusion. Wenzinger tried to restore order at once by
giving command for a retreat along the whole line, and had this been
carried out the engagement might have taken another turn. But the
horseguards who were under the command of the Prince, by Kemény's
orders stood where they were; the rest of the troops changed their
position and continued to fight with those opposite them. The Pasha
suddenly turned from the pursuit of the musketeers in their mad flight
and fell upon Kemény with his entire force. The latter, attacked in
front and on the side at the same time, lost his wits, and as there
was neither time nor space for an orderly retreat, plunged frantically
along the first way that opened. Naturally he did not notice in such a
flight that he was riding down his own infantry, then in retreat,
since the horseguards who had charged in disorderly assault at the
rank still in line, and trampled down their own troops, had prevented
the use of the reserves; so the whole army was brought into confusion
and disorder.
The infantry threw down their weapons and fled, pursued by the
horsemen of both armies; any still remaining in line were trampled to
death by the horsemen. Neither the genius of the leader nor the
self-sacrifice of a few brave men availed to restore order. The wild
flight in one part threw the rest into confusion. The battle was
completely lost. In the general panic that reigned the Prince too
fled. As he had been in the front ranks of the battle he was now at
the rear, and could with difficulty escape his pursuers in such a
tumult. The Turks pursued closely and knocked down all within reach.
Close on the track of the Prince followed a young Turk, and as his
horse carried a much lighter weight he soon overtook the Prince. By
the falcon's feather waving in his turban could be recognized Feriz
Bey, son of Kutschuk Pasha. His features were ablaze with a youthful
glow, those of the Prince were dark with rage and shame. During the
flight he often looked back and gnashed his teeth. "To flee from a
child is a disgrace," he cried out in his anger. Several times he
tried to stop but his maddened horse swept him along. Meantime the
youth had come so near that he began to show his sword. At first the
Prince did not consider the strokes of the boy worthy his attention,
but as the latter coming nearer grew bolder and bolder, the Prince
drew his sword and returned the blows.
"Don't come any nearer, you bastard," shouted Kemény, furiously, "or
I'll deal you a blow that will knock your very breath out."
By this time Feriz with a bound of his horse reached the side of the
Prince and aimed a Damascus blade at his neck, while Kemény leaning
back, drew his sword for a fearful blow. The two swords were whizzing
through the air, when Kemény's horse stumbled again and fell with a
broken leg. This gave his blow another direction, and instead of
hitting Feriz as he had intended, he struck the head of his own horse
and cleft it in twain just as the young Turk's sword gleamed against
Kemény's forehead. The Prince, falling from his horse looked darkly at
his foe: the blood was streaming from his forehead. Once more he
struck his spurs into his horse and the poor creature struggled to his
hind feet, only to fall backward with his rider still clinging to him,
and rider and horse were trampled under the feet of the pursuing
enemy. During the wild conflict nobody paid any attention to the spot
where the Prince had fallen.
Several days later in the Schassburg market-place his torn coat and
broken weapon, found and offered for sale by some Turkish
freebooters, were bought by Michael Apafi and laid away for
safe-keeping in the treasury at Fogaras. Apafi ordered a careful
search for the body of the fallen Prince, that he might bury it with
due honors, but nobody could distinguish the Prince's corpse among the
stripped and mutilated.
* * * * *
When the battle was won Kutschuk Pasha ordered the trumpet sounded to
call back his men from the pursuit of the conquered foe. At the sound
of the retreat the Turkish horsemen came bounding back man for man, in
marked contrast to the usual custom of Turkish armies, who are as
disorderly after victory as their vanquished foes. Kutschuk had
accustomed them to stern discipline. The men returned blackened with
smoke and covered with blood, but none more so than Feriz Bey; in his
coat were the holes made by many balls and he rode his third horse
since the beginning of the conflict; two had been shot under him.
Kutschuk embraced his son without a word, kissed his brow, fastened
his own Order of Nischan on his breast and exchanged swords with him,
a mark of the highest honor among the Turks of those times.
Ferhad Aga, the leader of the right wing, was brought in dead. He had
received all kinds of wounds and was completely covered with shots,
spear-thrusts, and sabre-cuts. Kutschuk sprang from his horse, fell
weeping upon the corpse, covered it with kisses and swore by Allah
that he would not have given this man's life for all Transylvania. He
did not go into town until Ferhad had been buried. The dervishes
surrounded the body at once, washed it, wrapped it in fragrant linen,
and the Pasha himself selected a sunny spot under the trees. There the
dead man was laid with his face toward the East, a spear with waving
pennant was planted above the grave, and a guard of men set for three
days to keep off the witchlike Djinns from the body of the fallen
one.
CHAPTER VII
THE PRINCESS
After the battle of Nagy-Szöllös John Kemény's faithful followers fled
to Hungary and transferred their allegiance from the fallen one to his
son Simon Kemény. But his sinking fortunes had few friends, and while
the faction of the younger Kemény grew daily less, Apafi's gained from
day to day. By his triumph he won over the best and most distinguished
of the town, the judges, nobility, commanders of the fortresses, in
short everybody hurried to do him homage. The State in a body
recognized him as Prince. Only a few places where Kemény had left
German garrisons, still resisted, among these Klausenburg. Kutschuk
Pasha brought Apafi with a strong force under the walls of this town.
He had a tent pitched for him in sight of the old town in Hidele. At
that time it was a place of thatched huts, and there the new Prince
received deputations. By early dawn Apafi was fairly besieged by the
hosts of visitors and place-seekers. At first the newly-chosen Prince,
carried away by the novelty of his agreeable position, was able to
fulfil the wishes of everybody and refused hardly a request. As soon
as Nalaczy and Daczo learned that he had his boots on, they were with
him and announced great crowds of people outside the tent eager for
entrance. Apafi made haste to dress that no one need wait. He could
hardly expect to satisfy everybody. Among the throng was Ladislaus
Csaki; he came to offer the Prince as page the same son who had filled
Kemény's glass a few weeks before. Apafi could hardly express his
pleasure at this offer. Then came Gabriel Haller who bowed countless
times and in the name of his two companions made an elaborate speech
to Apafi. Apafi could scarcely conceal his childish pleasure in being
called Excellency, a title used in Transylvania only for great
princes. He invited Gabriel Haller at once to dine with him. At the
back of the tent a raised seat had been placed, which the modest
Prince positively would not accept until his brother Stephen had
forcibly set him there. He received everybody standing and accompanied
each one to the door when he went. Then they came singly to present
themselves, make requests of the Prince, or swear allegiance.
At the Prince's side stood Nalaczy, Daroczy, Stephen Apafi and John
Cserei, who repeatedly urged the Prince to sit down. The oaths of
allegiance were received, the commanders of the citadels laid their
keys in the Prince's hand and then followed visits.
First came Martin Pok, the jailer at Fogara, with the humble request
that he should be made captain of this stronghold instead of the
foreign incumbent who had fled with Simon Kemény. Apafi promised to
remember him. John Szasz came next, supreme judge in Hermanstadt, to
make complaint that his fellow citizens had persecuted him and beg the
Prince for help. Apafi took him under his protection. Then followed
Moses Zagoni who begged that the Prince would most graciously set him
free from certain taxes imposed by Kemény and still in arrears. He too
went away comforted by Apafi.
Last of all came before the Prince, a Szekler of the mountains, in
short peasant coat and jacket of fur, who, he said, came sent from
Olahfalu to bring Apafi the oath of allegiance in the name of his
people, and to make his strange requests: first, that Olahfalu should
be permitted to be only two miles distant from Klausenburg (the actual
distance between the two places was more than twenty); secondly, that
there should be a law enacted that if a man had not a horse he should
go on foot.
The Prince received these strange requests with laughter. They seemed
to put him in extremely good spirits and the young student, Clement,
sought to take advantage of this. He was a crooked-nosed, high-cheeked
youth, wrapped to the chin in a foxskin, who knelt before Apafi and
handed him a roll of parchment that with the aid of his friends Apafi
took and unrolled. Within, he found a green leaved tree showing the
complete genealogy of his family. In this document he was connected
with the Bethlens and Bathorys, taken back to King Aba and on the way
connected with Huba, one of the seven leaders of the Magyars. But the
good man did not rest even here; the lineage extended even to Csaba,
youngest son of Attila. On the mother's side it went still further to
the daughter of the Emperor Porphyrogeneta, and on the father's side
to Nimrod the first king on earth. This flattery seemed to annoy Apafi
somewhat, but he had not sufficient decision to order the flatterer
out of the tent. He rolled up the genealogy, put it behind him and
undertook to satisfy the impertinent poet with a few ducats. But that
did not disturb the Prince's good-humor in the very least. It seemed
as if he must express especial thanks to each man for approaching him,
and show him the obligation that he felt; and after he had received
and listened to the various suppliants, as if this were all too
little, he turned to Nalaczy and Daczo with the question, "Is there
nothing that I can do for you? What reward shall I make you for the
fidelity with which you have stood by me from the first?"
Nalaczy and Daczo had for some time been puzzling their minds as to
what request they might make that should not be too small.
"I leave the reward of my trifling services to the generosity of your
Excellency," said Nalaczy, thinking that without doubt the Szeklers
would now receive a new captain instead of Beldi.
"The little that I have done for your Excellency does not now deserve
mention," said Daczo, but it occurred to him that the position of
Captain of the train bands at Klausenburg, left vacant by Banfy's
flight, would be an appropriate one.
Apafi was well-disposed toward them and perhaps might have made these
excellent but useless people his privy counsellors, but to their great
misfortune, at that very moment there was a tumult at the entrance to
the tent. When the guard drew back the curtain Kutschuk Pasha entered.
The Prince sprang from his seat and would have hurried to him, but his
brother Stephen pulled his coat and whispered in his ear:--
"Maintain your dignity in the presence of the Turk; he is only a
subordinate Pasha while you are Prince of Transylvania."
In spite of the warning Apafi was not satisfied until Kutschuk made
him a sign to be seated, and although the Turk remained standing
before the Prince, the impression on the bystanders was that Apafi
appeared amiable and grateful and Kutschuk haughty and dignified.
"How can I thank you for your exertions in my behalf?" Apafi asked
the Pasha, with true feeling.
"Not to me, but to the Sultan have you cause to be grateful," the
other replied, drily. "I was only following out his wishes when I
placed you on the throne of Transylvania. Your enemies, with God's
help, I have laid low, except for a few strongholds still in their
possession; as soon as these are won my task is at an end. The rest is
my affair. To-morrow I march to the siege of Klausenburg and shall not
rest until the city is taken at any cost; when that stronghold has
fallen the rest will go of their own accord."
"Then in your judgment it is not necessary that I should order the
country troops to horse?" said Apafi.
"I do not need them," replied Kutschuk. "Let them stay at home and
look after their own affairs. My troops will do it all."
Apafi was going to thank the Pasha for his generosity, when he
suddenly became aware that the eyes of all were turned toward a side
entrance of the tent, where somebody had entered without announcement.
The Prince looked in that direction, and what he saw caused him to
forget for the moment Transylvania, Kutschuk Pasha and Klausenburg.
There before him stood his wife, the beautiful and stately Anna
Bornemissa.
Her look was indeed princely. How well this imperious countenance
knew how to maintain a friendly and yet proud gaze! No adornment was
noticeable in her costume, but was there any need of precious stones
where such speaking eyes gleamed? Did this royal figure need velvet
and ermine to be recognized? Apafi saw her to-day for the first time
since his departure. She was as beautiful as ever. Accustomed now to
good fortune and comfort, her features had gained a transparent gleam;
her eyes, long unfilled with sorrow, were brighter than ever; the
smile of her lips that had known such joy only a short time, was all
the sweeter, and her figure formerly slight had now gained in
roundness. The gracious dignity of her figure and movements suited her
well.
When Apafi caught sight of his wife he forgot all propriety and
dignity, hurried toward her, seized her hand, drew his trembling wife
to him, as was his wont when a plain nobleman, and kissed her mouth
and cheeks in a way plainly audible to the assembled states. Anna
nestled into the embrace of her husband, offered her beautiful lips to
his kisses, and at the same time her great serious eyes, over her
husband's shoulder, seemed to be searching the faces of those
assembled in the tent, resting a longer or shorter time on each
individual. The embrace seemed on Apafi's part to have no end, until
Anna with a smile freed herself and said:
"You are lavishing all your effusions on me alone; there is some one
else here who claims his share."
She motioned to her maid, Sarah, who with smiling countenance had
followed her mistress into the tent, and now disclosed to Apafi's eyes
a beautiful sleeping child that, covered with a silken wrap, the maid
had lulled in her arms.
Beside himself with joy, Apafi took the child in his arms and kissed
the round angel-face again and again. The child woke up, endured the
kisses and embraces without a cry, and tugged at his father's beard,
to the unspeakable joy of his parents.
The men standing about thought it fitting to congratulate the Prince
on his paternal joy.
Apafi turned to them and said:--"Do you see how serious he is? he does
not cry, because he is a man."
Anna beckoned Stephen Apafi to her and whispered to him:--"I trust the
gentlemen will not be annoyed if family joys and cares withdraw the
Prince from public affairs for a few minutes."
"Your ladyship has taken the words out of my mouth," replied Stephen.
"I was just on the point of speaking to them."
With that he turned to those present and begged them to leave the
Prince to himself for the few moments claimed by family ties, and to
withdraw to the adjoining tent. The gentlemen considered the request
natural and left the tent, Kutschuk Pasha leading.
Anna took the child from her husband's hands, gave it over to Sarah
and sent them away.
When they were alone Apafi approached his wife with new expressions of
tenderness. She took her husband by the hand, looked him earnestly in
the eye, and said:
"It is to the Prince that I have come."
This earnest look cooled Apafi a little, which did not escape Anna's
notice, and she drew toward him again affectionately.
"It seemed to me probable that the Prince might need me more than the
husband," and then she added with her irresistible smile, "I hope you
will not misunderstand my intentions in this."
Apafi put his arm around his wife and drew her to him. The throne was
quite wide enough for both.
"You are right. It is well you have come. There is always something
lacking when I cannot see you. You certainly deserve to come nearest
my heart; I am not in the least afraid to lay your mind in the balance
with any man in the circle."
"Who are all these men?" asked Anna.
"You shall know them by their names. The tall, slender man is
Ladislaus Csaki who has just offered me his son for a page."
"No time lost there. It is only a short time since the boy was serving
Kemény."
Apafi's face darkened a little.
"The man with the heavy moustache is Gabriel Haller."
Anna clapped her hands with surprise.
"Is that he?"
"What fault have you to find with him?"
"That he has always served your enemies as a spy. He brought Kemény
the first news of your coronation, and he was the one who announced
the approach of Kutschuk Pasha."
Apafi's face grew darker still.
"And I have invited the man to dine," he muttered between his teeth.
"What do Nalaczy and Daczo wish, that they are here on so friendly a
footing?"
"They are my faithful partisans who have been on my side from the
beginning."
"Do not for that reason give them the first positions in the land. In
a large sphere of activity, simple, ignorant men do more harm than
sensible antagonists. Reward them, but only in proportion to their
work."
"That I will," said the distressed Prince, and strove in every way
possible to make the rôle of husband prominent throughout the rest of
the scene, but Anna did not stop.
"What is John Szasz trying to get from you? I saw him too."
"The poor fellow is being persecuted," replied Apafi, curtly, for he
began to weary of this fault-finding.
"There are bad reports in circulation about this man. It is said, and
plainly, too, that he carried off a young girl from Saxony, and when
he had wearied of her had her poisoned. The parents have begun a
prosecution and he sees no safety except in winning your favor by
flattery."
Apafi started up furious. "If that is true I will show Szasz the door;
he shall not find protection with me."
"And for what purpose is the noble ragged Szekler here, I should like
to know? His face seemed to me to indicate subtlety, for the Szekler
is never so sly and dangerous as when he looks simple."
At this question the Prince was overcome with merriment. Fairly
choking with laughter, he said, "He was the deputy of the people of
Olahfalu."
At the mention of this name Anna too could hardly repress a smile.
"Poor people, all sorts of untrue stories are told of them; their
minds work strangely."
"You understand everybody perfectly. Now explain the meaning of the
demand which the Szekler has made of me. He begged for two things. In
the first place that the distance between Olahfalu and Klausenburg
from this time on should be considered only two miles."
"Oh, the sly simpleton," said Anna. "They already have the privilege
of offering their lumber for sale at a distance of two miles and now
their purpose is to open a market for themselves in Klausenburg as
well."
"You are quite right," replied Apafi, convinced. "Now their second
request seems somewhat suspicious to me, although it had nothing to do
with their public affairs. They wished it to be established by law
that anybody who had not a horse should go on foot."
"I understand," said Apafi's wife, after short reflection, "Olahfalu
has recently been made a post-town, and on this ground the couriers,
as they pass through, often demand horses. The good people are weary
of the burden and for that reason wished a new law which should
enforce going on foot for the couriers."
Apafi stamped angrily with his foot.
"The villain, to allow himself such a jest. You will see how I shall
pay him for that. But it is time to admit the gentlemen again."
"One word more, Apafi," said Anna, with a winning glance, throwing her
arms around her husband's neck. "I noticed Kutschuk Pasha among those
waiting. I suppose he came to take leave."
Apafi drew back startled.
"On no account to take leave. Surely you understand that we are here
to take Klausenburg by storm? This depends on Kutschuk Pasha."
"Michael," said his wife, entreatingly, and laid her hands on his
shoulders;--"will you allow Klausenburg to be taken by the Turks? do
you forget that the Ottomans have never of their own accord given back
a Hungarian stronghold once taken by them? do you not remember that
Klausenburg is the capital of your country and that those within its
walls are your own people, of your country and of your faith? will you
expose them to the rage of assailants? they who might otherwise be
your friends are pagans and foreigners, whom you cannot allow to
prevail against your own people. Did not your heart sink when you saw
the walls of Klausenburg? could you look at these dwellings, these
towers, without remembering that they are the homes of your people,
the churches of your God into which the besiegers would throw their
firebrands? Could you look at these walls without seeing on them
mothers huddled together with their young children in their arms,
crying out to you that within dwelt your own people, an innocent,
true-hearted folk? and could you make your entry into the capital city
of your own country over the fallen bodies of these women and
children?"
Apafi stood up, his forehead bathed in perspiration. In his confused
expression were traces of involuntary repentance.
"No indeed, Anna, no indeed! do not think me so heartless. I who could
never withstand a woman's tears, could I be insensible to the sorrow
of an entire people? but what can I do? I had intended to call out the
troops of the country, to invest the city and to compel the garrison
to yield; but what could I do with Kutschuk Pasha? he is determined to
take the city by storm at once, and I can find no valid reason to
bring against it."
"Be calm. All those in command of Turkish troops now in Transylvania
have received firmans ordering them to join the army of the
General-in-chief at Neuhaüsel as soon as possible. Kutschuk has
doubtless received a firman of this character."
"I did not know that. Is that the reason he has been in such a hurry
to storm the town?"
"You too will receive such an order from the Turkish Council of State.
Under the pretext that this order has already come it will be an easy
matter to prevail on the Pasha to abandon the siege of Klausenburg."
"I will try it, Anna. I will do it," replied Apafi, pacing back and
forth in the tent. "I owe it to my people. Better abandon those walls
than force my way through with fire and sword."
"You must not do that either," answered his clever wife. "There are
ways and means of getting possession of the stronghold beside taking
it by storm."
Apafi stood still and looked at his wife inquiringly. She drew him to
her and whispered as follows: "Before you reached the walls of
Klausenburg, I commissioned Raldi and several other of our faithful
followers to try to win the garrison over to our side; this morning
our spies brought me word that the infantry are so won over to us by
promises and the force of circumstances that at the first sound of the
drum from here they are ready to open the gates and give themselves up
to you, bag and baggage. The cavalry alone cannot then offer further
resistance."
Apafi in amazement said, "You certainly were created for a prince."
Anna took her husband gently by the arm, led him to the throne and
made him take his seat.
"The sceptre is no toy, Apafi," she said, earnestly. "Never forget
that posterity and eternity sit in judgment on princes. Every deed and
every word of a ruler may mean safety or destruction to millions.
Therefore consider everything that you say or do. Now I am going. Be
firm."
Anna kissed her husband on the brow and as she did so her glance fell
on the roll of parchment of the traveling student.
"What kind of campaign plan is this?" she asked, taking up the
parchment.
Annoyed, Apafi tried to take it from her hand, but he was too late.
Anna had unrolled it and as she looked at the tuft-hunting pedigree,
cast a reproachful glance at the prince who stood before her with
downcast eyes.
"Did you have that drawn up?" she asked him, quietly.
"No indeed!" answered Apafi, quickly. "An impertinent poet brought it
to me."
"Throw it into the fire," said his wife, calmly.
"That is what I meant to do. I got rid of the author by means of a few
ducats."
"He deserved a thrashing, and not gold," said Anna, angrily; then her
features grew gentle again. She looked her husband straight in the eye
and said in kindly tone;--"Be strong; be a Prince. Grant protection to
the faithful, pardon to those who return in penitence, and scorn to
the flatterer."
With these words she bowed low, kissed her husband's hand and was gone
before he could reply.
Apafi then sent for those in waiting to return. It was very evident
from the expression of their faces as they entered that they thought
they might now ask and expect everything good from the Prince, for the
happiness of the previous family scene would naturally leave him in a
state of mind in which he could not refuse anybody.
Stephen Apafi was the only one cool-headed enough to observe the
change in his brother's features during this interval. Genuine
princely firmness, dignity and energy seemed now enthroned upon this
countenance.
"Faithful comrades," began Apafi in a strong voice without waiting for
any one to speak;--"in respect to the requests with which you have
approached us, it is our wish to send you away with a just and worthy
answer. Your oaths of allegiance we have received with due
appreciation and hope you will not cease to remain constant in your
loyalty. You, Ladislaus Csaki, we hereby permit to return home to
share the peace of the family circle; as for your son we will have him
maintained in foreign lands at our expense until he seems fitted for
our service."
Ladislaus Csaki thanked him gloomily for the favor granted of
returning to the peace of his own family circle, when he would so
gladly have remained with his family at court.
Gabriel Haller the Prince passed over as if he did not see him, and
turned to Nalaczy and Daczo, who made every effort to appear humble.
"My faithful friend, Stephen Nalaczy, in consideration of your active
zeal for us we appoint you first chamberlain at our court; and you,
John Daczo, we appoint Lieutenant of Csikszerda."
Both men looked as would any one who had expected a great reward and
received a very small portion. They could hardly express their thanks
to their Prince for his favor, so great was their chagrin.
Meantime Martin Pok had pressed forward that he might not be left out,
and completely hid the worthy Cserei, who was standing modestly behind
the others.
"Why do you stand so in the background?" said Apafi, beckoning to him.
Thinking that the signal was for him, Martin Pok advanced still
farther.
"We meant you, Cserei," continued the Prince. "Do you think we do not
know how to search out our tried and faithful followers? Your fidelity
and wisdom are known to us and for that reason we deem it advisable to
appoint you Captain of the castle at Fogara."
Martin Pok was so amazed that he looked up at the ceiling to see if it
was falling.
"Martin Pok on the other hand," continued the Prince, "we confirm in
his former position. He will remain jailer of the same castle."
Martin Pok gasped. Cserei wished to remonstrate, but the Prince
motioned to him to keep quiet.
The next in turn was John Szasz.
"The charge of a great crime has been brought against you, which we
have neither desire nor power to free you from. You will be taken
under guard to Hermanstadt and we advise you to try to defend yourself
there as well as you can."
John Szasz looked in astonishment to right and left. He was utterly
unable to comprehend what had happened.
"You, Moses Zagoni, will give in your accounts to the next treasury
officers."
Zagoni considered it advisable to address words of consolation to
Szasz by way of concealing his own discomfiture.
Now the Prince came to the messenger from Olahfalu, and it was high
time; for while the Prince had been portioning out these different
favors the smile had gradually vanished from his countenance and the
comical old countryman was now at his own expense to restore
cheerfulness to the company.
"What I promised you,"--said the Prince turning toward him, and in
doing so he could scarcely conceal his amusement;--"remains pledged to
you. Olahfalu shall be just two miles from Klausenburg, if that is of
any advantage to you; and also everybody who has not a horse shall go
on foot if you wish it; but I make this condition; that you shall not
bring any timber to Klausenburg to sell, and that you furnish the post
couriers the necessary teams."
The Szekler shook his head, scratched it and raised his eyes to the
Prince as if to ask with a look how Apafi had found out his dodges.
The Prince could not keep from laughing at the embarrassed expression
of the Szekler and at that the others laughed unrestrainedly. But the
Szekler who had thus far smiled confusedly, now grew serious at the
general outburst, tossed his head back defiantly, looked furiously at
the lords, drew up his coat and hurled these words at those standing
around:
"Listen to me, you lords! I will stand it from the Prince that he
makes fun of me, but I will ask you not to laugh at my expense."
The Prince motioned them to be silent, and to turn their attention
called up the traveling student, Clement, who slouched in on his long,
thin legs, looking as if he would fall on his knees at any moment.
"We have given orders to our treasurer," said the Prince, "to pay you
from our own private purse for the work which you have done, three
groschen."
"Your Excellency says"--stammered out the poet.
"You heard perfectly well. Three groschen, I said; that is the price
of the writing material you have spent on the work. Hereafter employ
your time more profitably."
Then the Prince signified that the audience was over. They left the
tent with low bows. Kutschuk Pasha alone remained. During the entire
scene the Pasha had shaken his head in surprise, as if he would not
have expected this from Apafi, and when he was left alone with him he
noticed that it was no longer necessary to urge Apafi to maintain his
princely bearing toward others. Apafi wore a friendly look, but in his
friendliness one saw princely condescension.
"With regret we have learned," he began, turning to the Pasha, "that
we must shortly lose you, whose bravery we so admired and whose
friendship we so honored."
The Pasha hurriedly drew near in surprise.
"What does your Excellency mean?"
"In consequence of those firmans which order the Transylvania guards
to assemble in the camp of the Grand Vizier, it will be our misfortune
not to see you in our circle longer."
Kutschuk bit his lips angrily. "Whence could he get his information so
soon?" thought he.
"We would gladly retain you, for your person is more precious to us
than any other. We know that the commands of the Sublime Porte demand
immediate obedience, and therefore that you may not for us draw down
the displeasure of the Sublime Porte, we have so conducted the taking
of Klausenburg that we shall march in without any assault; in that way
you will be relieved of the burdensome task of maintaining your
troops here any longer. As for your services in establishing our
position as Prince, we will settle this in person with the Vizier, as
we too have been summoned to Neuhaüsel."
During this speech Kutschuk Pasha with folded arms stared in wonder at
the Prince's firm glance, and when the Prince had concluded still kept
the same position without answering a word.
Apafi went on calmly:
"However, to express even in a slight degree the gratitude which we
owe you individually, accept from us this slight remembrance, more as
a token of our high esteem than as reward."
And the Prince took from his neck a gold chain set with beautiful
jewels, and hung it about the neck of the Pasha. Kutschuk stood still
riveted to the spot. He watched the Prince closely, and wrinkled his
forehead gloomily. Then suddenly he began to laugh and said:
"Well done, Apafi, very well done! I observe you are in the habit of
giving your intelligence over to your wife for safe-keeping. Salem
Aleikum."
And the Pasha went off shaking his head.
Apafi with lightened feelings hurried to his wife.
Gabriel Haller waited for some time at the door, until an attendant
informed him that the Prince was dining with his family and then he
stole away.
* * * * *
A few days later Apafi made his entry into Klausenburg with fife and
drum.
CHAPTER VIII
AZRAELE
Again we are in Hungary, among the mountains of Homolka, in that part
of the country where no one has yet cared to dwell. In a circuit of
ten miles there is not a single village to be seen. Over the entire
mountain chain not a single roadway; even the footpaths break off
suddenly in the rocks, either leading to a waterfall covered over with
leaves, or to an abandoned charcoal hut where no grass could grow in
the sooty vicinity.
While the sunbeams lie aslant over this region, drawing over it a
gilded veil of mist, we can hardly distinguish a single object of the
panorama. Gradually a broad ravine draws our attention. The mountain
peaks which seemed to close in all sides are blue grey, and in the
centre of this ravine rises a huge, solitary rock, looking just as if
it had fallen from heaven. A hasty glance passes it by lightly, but a
more careful observer discovers a small wooden bridge, supported on
piles, which appears to connect this circle of mountain summits with
one of the steep walls adjoining. Gradually we become aware that this
trestle is not the work of nature; those stones forming walls which
appear to continue the mountain heights are really the work of man's
hand. It is a massive rock-bastion built as high as its support. And
as the walls are built out in all directions as high as the steep
edges of the cliff, it looks as if it had grown out of the rock, and
as if the vines clinging to the walls were there simply to form a
natural tangle.
In the year 1664 the eye that glanced over these walls might see
within magic buildings. Corsar Bey, the terror of the country,
inhabited this stronghold, and at his bidding hedges of roses sprang
up on the bastions, and the castle stood in a grove of orange and
pomegranate trees. On all sides could be seen those splendid buildings
which Oriental pomp erects for the moment's pleasure: spacious domed
buildings overlaid with sky-blue enamel where the sun mirrored itself;
gay painted towers on the bastions with balconies decorated with
Moorish carvings, and on these vases of flowers; slender white
minarets covered over with vines; lattice-work kiosks with slender
gilded columns, the whole as light as a card house; nothing but gilded
wood, painted glass, enameled tiles, and gay-colored rugs. From the
pointed roof-tops waved gay flags and high above all shone a golden
crescent. Every kiosk, every dome, every minaret was adorned with
crescents and flags. It seemed a magic castle ready to vanish; but
the walls surrounding this delicate structure impregnable. On all
sides were impassably steep rocks behind which the pursued, if he once
reached them, could defend himself against a hundred times as many.
The guards stood day and night with lighted fuse by the cannon, which
Corsar Bey had had cast on the spot, as there was no way of conveying
such defence there. Two of these fiery-throated monsters were turned
toward the bridge, to blow it to atoms in case of attack.
From this vantage ground Corsar Bey roved the land, plundering and
killing defenseless people; if he fell upon an army he ordered his
Spahis and Bedouins to turn about while he, taking advantage of the
mountain paths, fled to his castle with the booty loaded on beasts of
burden, the Timariots, stationed in reserve, made a barricade of trees
and stoned to death those who dared follow into the valleys.
Sometimes he allowed his pursuers to follow him close to the castle,
and while they shot at the walls of cliff with their small cannon
dragged up with the utmost difficulty, and thought to starve him out,
he would play the trick on them of bursting out from some subterranean
passage to rob and burn in their rear. Every attempt to surprise him,
to surround him, was in vain. The inhabitants of the surrounding
villages began to withdraw to more remote places to escape this
frightful neighborhood.
After the battle of St. Gotthard, (1664) in which the Turkish general
lost twelve thousand men in an engagement with Hungarian and Austrian
troops, a twenty years' peace was concluded between the Porte, the
Transylvania principality and the Emperor, which left the Turk in
possession of all the fortresses conquered or built in Hungary. The
men of these fortresses now carried on the war on their own account;
robbing and burning where they could. The Sultan could not hold each
one accountable; all he could do was to empower the complainants to
seize the disturbers of peace and do with them as they would.
In these times five or six counties, a few nobles, or the people of
single villages would combine to carry on war against the foe within
their borders. The country did not concern itself and furthermore
could not have done so had it wished. The Roman Emperor was engrossed
in the Spanish Succession, the Sultan in a war against Venice, the
lesser antagonists struggled as they could.
* * * * *
Now, away from our sight, cold outer world--narrow panorama of
mountain and horizon without charm. Arise before us, magic halls! We
see a magnificent apartment, the splendor of which bears us to a more
beautiful world, while thought flitting from object to object, grows
weary of the beautiful and luxurious, sought out by fancy and employed
to form a poetic, charming whole.
On a purple couch in the most splendid room of the castle lay Azraele,
Corsar Bey's favorite. Beside her rested a live panther, stretched out
like a gay footstool, and played with her hair like a young kitten.
* * * * *
The clatter of horses' hoofs was heard ringing out from the winding
way that led through the valley and Corsarburg. The noise was heard
through the woods long before the riders could be distinctly seen.
Soon they reached the height where the road, climbing to the mountain
ridge runs along its length. It was Corsar Bey with his robber band.
First came the beasts of burden laden with spoils. From the full
leathern sacks gleamed church treasures; then came the Bey himself
with his gay horsemen recruited from all classes; spahis clothed in
silk and carrying long spears. Bashkirs with bow and arrow, Bedouins
in white cloaks with brass-hilted swords. The Bey was in his prime,
his thin beard and moustache barely showed on his brown face, his high
cheekbones and broad chin gave him a bold, cruel look. His dress was
covered with jewels in barbaric profusion. His troop followed him in
silence. Blood was clinging to all their garments: some had not taken
the trouble to wipe it off their faces. The beasts trotted quietly
toward the castle urged on by fellahs, while the troop followed them
along the mountain ridge.
* * * * *
The shadows of night had fallen.
"I am afraid," said Azraele.
"Why are you afraid?" said Corsar.
"I have had bad dreams," replied Azraele, trembling. "I dreamed that
the Giaours stormed your castle by night and murdered you. I tried to
throw myself down from the battlements but could not, and I was
caught. A Christian had me. Oh, it was frightful."
"Don't be afraid," said Corsar. "The Koran says only the birds can fly
and no one can get into this castle who has not learned to fly. But
even if it were possible you need not be afraid of falling into the
hands of the infidels, for there under the entrance is a fuse reaching
to the powder houses; if all is lost you have only to touch that fuse
with the night lamp, and the entire place will be blown to atoms, with
us and our foes."
"What a comforting thought," said Azraele.
Suddenly she sprang up again with a scream. "Do not you hear the noise
of the Djinns?" and she trembled in every limb.
The Bey looked around him in terror. A storm raged without; the
weather vanes creaked. From the tops of the minarets the wind threw
the tiles on the kiosks below. The lightning flashed and the thunder
made the crags tremble.
"Do you hear these invisible creatures howling and rattling the closed
windows with their mighty hands?"
"By the shades of Allah, I do," said the man, his eyes fixed with
fear.
"Have mercy, have mercy! Away from this house, you bad spirits," cried
Azraele. "May the sunbeams strike you and the darkness bury you. Go
torment the Christians. May your wings break on the top of our
crescents as you float over them. Ha, how their eyes shine! Spirit of
Allah, cover us, that they may not see us with their eyes of fire."
The great, strong man trembled like a child. His superstitious fear
had taken all strength out of his heart.
"Do you hear how they murmur? Say a prayer quickly aloud and stop your
ears, so you shall not hear what they say."
At this moment the frightful storm broke in a window pane and the wind
rushing in shook the curtains and made the lights flicker.
"Ah, do you see him?" cried Azraele. "Be still, don't look, don't open
your eyes. Cover your face. Asafiel, the angel of Death is here. Don't
you feel his cold breath? Hush, cover yourself up, perhaps he does not
notice you."
Corsar clung to Azraele and covered his face with his hands.
"What do you want?" called Azraele, as if she were speaking with a
visible spirit. "Whom have you come for, black shade, your eyes
glowing with blue fire? There is nobody here but me. Corsar has not
come. Come later, come an hour later. Away with you, black creature!
May Allah crush you!"
Corsar did not dare open his eyes.
"Away with you, I say."
At this moment the lightning struck one of the bastions and shook the
mountains to their foundations. When the sound of thunder ceased, a
light fall of rain began on the roof; the roar of the storm grew more
and more distant; was heard dully near by and howled mournfully in the
distant woods.
"He has gone," whispered Azraele, in a barely audible tone. "He
promised to be back in an hour. Corsar, you can live just one hour."
"One hour!" repeated Corsar, with dulled senses. "Oh, Azraele, where
can you hide me?"
"That is quite impossible. Asafiel is relentless. One hour more and
then he will carry you off."
"Bargain with him. If he must have dead men, I will have a hundred
slaves beheaded. Promise him blood, treasure, prayers, burning
villages, everything. Only beg him to spare my life."
"It is of no use. In my dreams I saw your sword broken in two. Your
days are numbered. There is only one way of escape for you--one way of
baffling this bloodthirsty angel. Some one of the dead must exchange
names with you and Asafiel when he comes for you must drag him off in
your stead."
"That is right. That is right," stammered the strong man in fear.
"Find me such a dead man who will exchange names with me. You know the
incantations. Go call up somebody from his grave; promise him
everything, fellah or rajah, I will give him my name and take his. Go,
hurry."
"You must go yourself. Throw your cloak around you. Leave your weapons
here; spirits are afraid of sharp iron. We will go down into the
churchyard under the castle walls, set fire to amber and borax over a
tripod, plunge the magic staff into the most recent grave and so
compel its inmate to appear before you. When the spirit has appeared
you must take three steps toward him and call out three times bravely,
'Die for me!' Then the spirit will vanish and Asafiel will not call
for you."
"But you will be near me," said the timid Corsar.
"I will be at your side. Now hurry. An hour is a short time."
Corsar threw on his cloak and repeated the beginning of a prayer the
end of which he could not recall.
"Be careful not to wake the guards," said Azraele, cautiously, "if a
human being should by chance hear us the power of the enchantment
would be broken, for they might utter a prayer that would contradict
ours. We will saddle our own horses and go down by the secret path. We
must not say a word on the way and you must not look behind."
The Bey was ready. He put on his furlined cloak he was so cold.
Azraele called to the panther lying on the rug,
"Oglan, you shall go too and keep watch. If we meet a wild beast you
shall defend us."
As if he had understood the words of his mistress the panther rose on
his hind feet and laid his paws on her arm, and the trembling man
clung to her on the other side. A strange group! A pale woman wrapped
in white, and by her side two princely creatures, a haughty man
steeled for conflict, and a panther; both mastered by a glance from
her, driven to joy or to despair.
* * * * *
The Moslem churchyard below the castle is planted with cypresses. Amid
these dark trees of mourning are the graves rising ghostlike with
their layers of white stones. At the sound of the approaching steps a
grey wolf ran out from the graves, otherwise the place was absolutely
desolate. The clouds were broken after the storm; and here and there
might be seen the dark blue sky with stars like diamonds. The
raindrops were falling from the trees. The rumbling of the thunder was
still heard occasionally in the distance and the lightning played over
the mountain tops brightening all with its white light.
The figures reached the churchyard by the underground passage and
dismounted from their horses beside the graves. Azraele laid the reins
of both horses in Oglan's mouth. The clever beast stood still on his
hind feet and held the two snorting horses more firmly than any post
could.
The man and woman reached a high grave with its stone just showing
among the branches of a weeping willow. "It is hardly probable that a
slave rests under this stone," whispered Azraele to the trembling
knight; she placed her magic pan on the stone and lighted the amber
and borax which blazed up and cast a white vapor over the grave. In
the distance was heard a slight rustling and Corsar's horse whinnied
restlessly.
"What's that?" asked knight.
"The Djinns," answered Azraele. "Don't look behind you."
Then she raised the magic wand and uttered an incantation over the
grave interspersing it with unintelligible words.
"Restless spirit, appear at my command. Whether you are beneath the
dark tree of Hell, or in the garden of the houris. Whether you sleep
bound by chains of fire, or on beds of roses, hear my call. Flee
through the air, cleave the darkness and appear before me in living
form as you were. Appear!"
At the words she struck with her wand against the side of the stone,
and there rose up from behind a figure wrapped in white.
"Now take three steps toward him," said Azraele to the dazed knight,
"and speak to him."
Corsar Bey approached the figure before him with tottering steps, and
said in a hoarse, quavering voice:
"My name is Corsar Bey; and you, accursed shade, who are you?"
"I am Balassa," said the spirit with a clear voice.
The white shroud fell off and revealed a mighty man with unsheathed
sword in his hands.
"Corsar Bey, you are my prisoner," he said to the Turk, who stood
petrified at the sudden turn.
The next moment the Bey put his hand to his side and not finding any
sword there, ran with a cry of rage to his horse, threw himself into
the saddle and used his spurs, but Oglan held the horse firmly with
the bridle in his teeth, and when the horse tried to move, the panther
dug his claws into him and held him back.
"To Hell with you, you cursed beast," yelled Corsar, foaming with
rage, and gave the panther a kick.
But the panther only pulled the bridle this way and that, stood in the
horse's way and frightened him with its leaps, compelling him to
circle about.
"Speak to your beast, Azraele," screamed the Bey, turning around, and
looking for his beloved saw her in the arms of the young Hungarian.
At this instant the churchyard became alive. The Hungarian soldiers
who had been lying concealed tore the Bey from his horse. Even when
thrown to the ground he tried to defend himself with stones.
"A curse upon you," said the vanquished outlaw.
The troops moved past him along the secret passage to his castle, and
an hour later by the light of his burning castle he saw his favorite
ride away mounted behind Balassa.
CHAPTER IX
THE PRINCE AND HIS MINISTER
A few years had passed since Apafi rose to his princely rank. We are
in the period when, in consequence of the sudden death of Nicholas
Zrinyi the party of Hungarian malcontents had lost their standing and
most of them had gone to Transylvania, which country was rejoicing in
Home rule, owing to the rivalry of the German and Turkish monarchs.
True, the country paid the Sublime Porte a tribute, but in its diets
it could make what plans it would; and if the Tartars did burn the
villages of the country to the ground, in that very act they gave
proof that they did not consider the country their own. All the
fortresses were in the hands of the Prince, who could maintain as many
soldiers as he had means to pay, and carry on war whenever he found
himself in a position to do so. Furthermore, if it gave him any
satisfaction, he could even dupe the Turks.
The Turk did not find anything to object to in the constitution of the
country; in its privileges, its patriarchal aristocracy, its Latin
language and Hungarian costume, nor in its many religions; all that
did not concern him. He pitied from his soul the poor people who gave
so bright an outlook to the affairs of the country. He did not exert
himself in the least to procure them a more exact acquaintance with
his own simple system; in this respect he was like the Turk in the
story, who when he saw a Hungarian eating with his open knife in hand,
sat down behind in confident expectation that the Hungarian would put
out his eyes in carrying his knife to his mouth, and when he saw that
this did not happen, went away in the pleasant belief that it
certainly would happen a little later.
* * * * *
Great changes had taken place in Ebesfalva in this time; the princely
residence was no longer the simple manor house. At some distance from
that, on a height, the Prince had a castle built with a high square
tower, and from each corner rose small pointed turrets; the entrance
was guarded by two stone lions, and on the façade was this inscription
in high relief:
"Fata viam invenient."
Beyond the carved columns along the front was a corridor connecting
one wing of the castle with the other; the windows were all made with
pointed arches and with antique decorations, and the inner court was
reached through an arched passage under the building. In this
courtyard instead of plows and wagons we now see rampart guns and long
culverins. Instead of farm boys, we see outside the gates guards in
yellow cloaks and red hose. To reach the Prince's office you must pass
through long passage-ways and echoing apartments where pages announce
your arrival from door to door, and when at last the reception-room is
reached you stand not in the presence of the Prince but of Michael
Teleki, his first counsellor. He is the same bald-headed man whom we
met on that memorable day that saw the death of Nicholas Zrinyi.
In early days the good man had been only a captain fallen into
disfavor with George Rakoczi. Since then his affairs had prospered and
he was now chief captain of Kövar and all powerful in the name of the
Prince. His mother was the sister of the Princess. Through the
protection of his aunt he came into the protection of the Prince. Once
there Teleki needed no further support; his comprehensive mind, his
extended acquaintance, his statesmanlike training made him
indispensable to the Prince, who preferred to bury himself in his
books and antiquities and considered himself hindered by anything that
took him from his family or his studies.
His reception-room to-day was crowded with men who wished to speak to
his Excellency. They were the Hungarian fugitives whom the Prince
seemed to hold in special horror. These restless, gloomy people,
always in quest of war, did not suit the placid, meditative nature of
the Prince. Now he shut them all out, and admitted only, of all his
courtiers, a learned pastor, John Passai who had a professorship in
Nagy-Emged, and was dear to the Prince on account of his learning.
Apafi's office looked more like that of a student than a ruler. The
walls were covered with bookcases, in the corners were maps, and on
the narrow spaces remaining were clocks, which the Prince wound up
himself. The chairs and sofas were covered with books needed at once,
so that often when the Prince received the visit of a friend he did
not know where to seat him. Sometimes even the floor was covered with
maps, dusty documents and open books; if Teleki entered at such a
moment he would have to pick his way with as much care as a man
looking for a dry path through the mud.
At this moment Apafi and the pastor stood before a table on which lay
some old coins. Apafi looked carefully at a gold piece, turned it in
his fingers and held it to the light. Passai stood in front of the
Prince like a post, hat in hand, with knitted brows. Apafi twirled the
coin and studied it on both sides.
"Those are not Roman letters," he growled, "neither are they Greek nor
Arabic; and they certainly are not Hunnic. I have never seen such
characters. Where were they found?" he asked, turning to Passai.
"In Varhely, when the Wallachians were clearing away the old temple."
"Why did they clear it away?"
"It was an old ruin that they called a Roman temple."
"But it cannot have been a Roman temple, for it is not a Roman coin."
"I agree with you, but the Wallachians are in the habit of calling
every ruin in Transylvania Roman."
"But why did they clear it away?"
"The villagers thought they might burn the statues for lime."
"O godless people!" cried Apafi, "to make lime out of rare works of
art. Did you not try to save at least part from destruction?"
"I bought a cover of a sarcophagus adorned with sculpture, and a well
preserved sphinx; but it was not convenient for the Wallachian who was
moving them to lift them whole, so he broke the statues in five or six
pieces that he might carry them in his cart more easily."
"He deserves to be impaled! I will have a law passed that nobody
hereafter shall dare lay hands on any antique."
"I am afraid your Excellency will be too late, for when the people
learned that I was paying for their stones, the story went abroad that
I was hunting for diamonds and carbuncles in the stones, and they
broke them all up in such small pieces that now they might be used
for writing sand."
"Have you spoken with the Lord of Deva about the mosaic?"
"He will not let it go at any price. He said that none of his
ancestors had ever sold any of their possessions. If he would only
allow it to be moved from the spot where it was found,--but he will
not even consent to that. As it is the corn-stall stands over it and
the oxen lie on the figures of Venus and Cupid."
"I have a great mind to confiscate the property and so get possession
of the priceless treasures," said Apafi, with the zeal of a student,
and again turned to examine the puzzling coin.
At this moment Teleki entered the Prince's apartment with an important
air, took some writing from a silk envelope, opened it and placed it
in Apafi's hand. The Prince appeared to read it with care and knit his
brow as he did so. Suddenly he called out, "They certainly are Dacian
letters!"
"What!" said Teleki, astounded, with wide open eyes. He could not
comprehend how the Prince had found Dacian writing in the letter
handed him.
"Yes, I am positive. I remember reading, perhaps in Dio Cassius, that
the Romans had medals struck with a Dacian inscription and on the
obverse the picture of a headless man. Here it is."
"But your Highness," said Teleki with annoyance, "the writing that I
handed you"--
Now for the first time Apafi noticed that there was a parchment in his
hand waiting to be read, and sullenly gave it back to Teleki.
"I have told you already that I did not wish to see anybody to-day. In
a month's time the Diet will be convened and then the Hungarians may
talk about their affairs as much as they will."
"But, I beseech your Highness," replied Teleki, satirically, "this
writing has nothing to do with the Hungarians, but with his grace the
Tartar Khan."
"What does he want?" said Apafi, and glanced at the parchment, but
when he saw its length he laid it aside. "I will make short work of
him. Who brought the letter?"
"An Emir."
Apafi girded on his sword and went into the reception-room.
"Good-day, good-day," he said, hastily, to those assembled. In this
way he made an end of their long greetings, and gave a searching
glance through the throng.
"Where is the Emir?"
At this the Tartar deputy came forward. He stood boldly before the
Prince with an air of consequence.
"Salem Alech."
"What is it?" said Apafi, curtly.
The Emir measured the Prince keenly with his piercing eyes, threw his
head back and said:
"My lord, the gracious Kuba Khan sends word to you, Prince of the
Giaours, that you are a false, faithless, godless man. You gave your
word of honor that we should live as neighbors and how do you conduct
yourself now? A year ago it happened that in passing through Saxony we
visited cities the names of which a true-believer may not utter, and
there took our usual plunder in due form. They were always profitable,
but as some of them were not quite quick enough in the payment of the
tribute, at the command of his Grace, Kuba Khan, they were burned to
ashes as punishment, that they might improve. Then did they improve?
Not at all. For when we visited there again this year we found only
the bare walls that we had left before. The unbelieving dogs fled
before us and left us only a search. So then, my lord the mighty Kuba
Khan sends word to you to know what kind of a Prince you are that you
allow these unbelieving dogs to leave their towns and make fools of
us. Formerly when we came the hay had been put in barns, the grain
threshed and the cattle fatted; now we find nothing but weeds, with
hares and other unclean creatures that you unbelievers are accustomed
to eat. And that we may not take our revenge, the towns are not built
up again. Now if you do not wish to bring down upon your head the
wrath of the mighty Khan, see to it that you order those fugitives
back to their towns, and send word to the rest of the Saxon towns that
have surrounded themselves with inaccessible walls, to open their
gates to us. Otherwise we will visit you in Klausenburg with fire and
sword and leave not one stone above another."
During this speech Apafi had several times grasped his sword. Then he
reconsidered and said calmly:
"Go back, give greetings to your lord, and tell him that we will give
him satisfaction at once."
Then he turned his back on the messenger and would have left the room
at once, but Teleki placed himself in his way.
"That is not enough, your Highness. Once for all there must be an end
made of this dog-headed Tartar's coming into the presence of the
Prince of Transylvania with such a speech."
"Then speak to him yourself."
Teleki advanced toward the Emir with an earnest, dignified expression,
looked him fixedly in the eye, and said firmly:
"Your lord is indeed the ruler of Tartary, and my lord the Prince of
Transylvania, and his Majesty, the Sultan is one lord of us all. Know
then that his Majesty the Sultan did not make your lord Khan of
Tartary to dwell at Vienna, nor did he set Michael Apafi on the
throne of Transylvania to support your lord. Go back to your land and
do not come here any more to wonder that a town burned down by you one
year is not built up the next. We will take care that the houses are
rebuilt and also that the bastions are made high enough to keep you
off. If you have any desire to pay us a visit in Klausenburg we will
take care that you do not have your trouble for nothing, and shall
know how to greet you from afar with our good cannon."
The Emir fumed with rage; his eyes were bloodshot, his hand felt for
his dagger and he stammered out:
"If a slave should make such a speech in the presence of my lord he
would have his head cut off at once."
Apafi now touched Teleki on the shoulder and said:
"Good, Teleki! you spoke like a man."
The Emir turned on his heel and hurried out of the room, shaking his
fist.
This scene put Apafi into a good humor, especially toward Teleki. The
minister read this in the Prince's face and took advantage of it at
once. Taking one of the bystanders by the hand he brought him up to
Apafi and introduced him in these words:
"My future son-in law, your Excellency."
An introduction under any other title would probably have been evaded
by Apafi, but in this form it was impossible not to accept it. He
found himself compelled to look at the young man. He was a
fine-looking, slender youth and had no trace of a beard. With his
feminine features the only sign of the man was his independent
bearing. Apafi was pleased with him.
"What is the name of your son-in-law?" he asked Teleki.
The latter answered with a peculiar smile:
"Emerich Tököli, son of Stephen Tököli."
At mention of this name Apafi grew serious and said:
"Your father was a good friend of mine." But he did not offer him his
hand.
"I know that," replied the young man, "and for that reason I sought
your Highness."
"If only he had not been such a disturber of the peace. It is well
that you have not followed his counsel. I remember well the contest
between the defeated and half-crazed David Zolyomi. Both had married
daughters of Bethlen, who had received as dowry in common the castle
of Bajda-Hunyad; one had one-half, and one the other; after the two
men had taken counsel together they gathered their servants in their
respective castle-yards, began battle and shot at each other from the
opposite windows; both had a great love for war. Your father was in
battle just before his death. In the very hour of death he needed the
thunder of cannon and the tumult of the siege. It is well that you are
not like him. You look gentle."
"That is praise undeserved," said Tököli, proudly. "I too was in the
stormed castle and defended it until my father fell."
Apafi heard this with displeasure. However he wished to show interest
in the youth and so after a pause he asked:
"And how did you happen to save yourself?"
At that Emerich turned red and did not answer at once.
Teleki told the truth as if excusing the youthful fire of the young
man.
"He is so young that in woman's clothes he easily escaped the notice
of the besiegers."
This amusing explanation put Apafi in good humor again. He stroked the
bright red cheeks of the boy and motioned to Teleki to introduce the
rest of the men. They were all of them Hungarian fugitives. The Prince
exerted himself to meet them kindly. Just then an official entered and
announced,
"His Excellency, the ambassador of France wishes to be admitted."
Evident confusion came over Apafi. He drew Teleki to him and whispered
in his ear,
"I will not, I cannot receive him. Go out and speak with him and
explain the matter to him."
Apafi slipped quickly out of the reception-room, rejoiced that this
time he had rolled off the burden on Teleki. However he stood and
listened at the door thinking that there might be some sudden outbreak
after his back was turned. And something did happen, though not of a
character to make one's hair stand on end. The ambassador uttered a
jovial laugh, and with that all in the room burst out laughing as if
at a word of command.
"Something strange must have happened," thought Apafi, "to force these
men to such offensive laughter," and he opened the door part way. But
he could not fully open the door, for the learned Passai, renowned for
his gravity, had fallen into such a fit of laughter that he leaned
against the door of the private office.
"Let me in, Passai," said the curious Prince; and when the door was
opened the cause of the general laughter became clear. The worthy
minister stood in the middle of the room clad in Hungarian costume.
You cannot imagine anything more comical! the good man, aside from the
fact that he was quite stout, was smooth-shaven and wore always a
friendly smile; but this unusual costume gave him an appearance so
ridiculous that only a Hungarian can appreciate it. Everybody knows
that the Magyar costume for men shows the figure very plainly. Then
too the worthy Frenchman moved about so helplessly in his tight hose
and spurred boots that it seemed as if he might lose his footing any
moment. He had forgotten to put on his scarf, which added to the
comical effect of his costume, his long curled wig, making him look
for all the world like a lion, and his round hat with a long heron's
feather completed his droll appearance. Apafi saw no reason why he
should not join in the laughter.
With the French ease in mingling jest and earnest the ambassador
tripped up to him and said,
"Your Highness, you have so many times refused me admittance that the
idea occurred to me that perhaps I did not come in appropriate
costume, and as your Highness sees, results have proved the wisdom of
the idea for now that I have approached you in Hungarian costume I
have been so fortunate as to see you."
"Parbleu!" replied Apafi, with difficulty, suppressing his desire to
laugh. "I am always glad to see you. The only condition I impose is
that politics shall not enter into our conversations. But you have no
sash, and without the sash the Hungarian costume is as incomplete as
the French costume without culottes."
Saying this the Prince took a jeweled sash and himself fastened it
about the figure of the ambassador.
"And what does this mean? who told you to stick your handkerchief in
your trousers? only a haiduk does that, a nobleman puts his in his
calpac. But what a fine handkerchief that is of yours!"
"Is it not a beauty?"
"It is, indeed, with its silk wreaths and gold and silver embroidery
around the hem. Paris alone can furnish the like."
"But the truth is it was made in Transylvania."
"Incredible!"
"And what is more in Ebesfalva."
Apafi looked at the Reverend gentleman in astonishment.
"And I am not to know the skilful hands that busy themselves in this
way!"
"Your Highness does know them. The name of the maker is in one corner
of the handkerchief embroidered in beautiful Gothic letters."
Apafi looked at each corner of the handkerchief in turn; no two were
embroidered alike; in one was a wreath of oak leaves, in one a trophy,
in the third a Turkish, a Hungarian and a French sword fastened
together with a ribbon, in the fourth under a Prince's crown was
embroidered the name Apafi.
The Prince read the name aloud. The bystanders looked at him timidly
expecting an outburst of anger. To the astonishment of all a smile
played over the Prince's lips; he put the handkerchief in the Reverend
gentleman's hat, put this on the ambassador's head, and said with very
good humor:
"So you have succeeded in winning over my wife?"
The minister laughed at the ambiguous joke.
"But you will not win me," added Apafi, laughing.
The minister bowed low; then held his head erect and said
significantly:
"Those mightier than I will accomplish it."
At this moment the door opened and a servant announced:
"Her Highness Anna Bornemissa, wife of Apafi, wishes to be admitted to
the presence of the Prince."
Apafi looked at Teleki.
"This is your work."
Teleki answered calmly: "At your service, Highness."
"Did you bring the ambassador to the Princess?"
"Even so, Highness."
"Then it was you who advised him to appear in this masquerade that he
might the more readily draw me out."
"That too was my work, your Highness."
"A very foolish plan on your part, Michael Teleki."
"That remains to be proved, your Highness," thought his minister, in
proud consciousness of his clever superiority.
Madame Apafi entered the room. Her bearing was princely as was her
dress. The gentlemen present vied with each other in greeting her.
Apafi stepped quickly toward her, drew her arm within his and
endeavored with marked consideration to take her to his private room.
"Let us stay here," said the Princess. "It is time enough to look at
your Dutch clocks later; at present there are more serious affairs
before us; the gentlemen from Hungary are waiting for a hearing."
"I know already what they wish, and have said that I will not hear
anything more on the subject."
"Then you will listen to me. Yes, to me. I too am a Hungarian and make
supplication to the Prince of Transylvania for help in the name of my
Fatherland. That it may not be said that I influenced the Prince's
will in secret, I have come here publicly before his throne and
beseech him for protection for Hungary, whose sons are called
strangers here in Transylvania where her daughter is the princess."
It was evident to all that Apafi would have much preferred to listen
to men rather than to his wife, but he was caught this time. She stood
before him as a suppliant, and there was no way of escape. Teleki
ordered the pages outside not to give admittance to any one else.
Apafi sat in an armchair in feverish excitement, and listened to the
words of his wife. But before Anna could begin her speech the rattling
of a coach was heard in the courtyard, and shortly after came the
sound of decided footsteps through the corridor, and an imperious
voice familiar to all inquired if the Prince was within.
When the page attempted to stand in his way a still more authoritative
voice called, "Out of the way, boy." At the same time Dionysius Banfy
pushed his way into the room. He was just as he had alighted from his
carriage. His cheeks were redder than usual and his eyes blazed; he
went directly to the Prince and said without preliminaries:
"Do not listen to these men, your Highness, do not listen to a word
they say."
The Prince greeted Banfy with a smile and the words, "Welcome,
kinsman."
"Pardon, your Highness, that in my haste I forgot to greet you; but
when I heard that these Hungarians had gained audience here I was
beside myself. What do you want?" he went on, turning to the Hungarian
nobleman. "It is not enough for them that they have brought their own
country to ruin by their restlessness; they would like to drag ours
down too."
"You speak of us," said Teleki, with cold scorn, "as if we belonged
to some Tartar race and had been driven here from God knows what
strange, savage country."
"On the contrary, I have spoken of you, my lords, as people who from
the very first have by your restlessness involved Transylvania in a
course leading to destruction. The Hungarians are, to a man, stupid."
"I beg you not to forget that I too"--said Madame Apafi.
"It is with no pleasure that I see the will of your Highness is
authority here."
Madame Apafi turned to her brother-in-law in injured pride:
"I shall not for that reason cease to remain your well-wishing
relative," and with these words she left the room.
"You might have spoken to the Prince more becomingly," said Teleki,
sharply, to the great lord.
"What have I said to the Prince, as yet?" asked Banfy, shrugging his
shoulders. "I cannot get anywhere near him with you in the way. So
far, I have only spoken against those, and shall continue to speak
against those who have absolutely no right to stand at the foot of the
throne. I mean you too, Michael Teleki. I know very well why you have
this Hungarian campaign so much at heart. It is not enough for you to
stand first after the Prince in Transylvania, you would like to be
Palatine of Hungary as well. What a delusion you are cherishing! The
French promise help to Hungary. Hungary promises Teleki the
Palatinate. Teleki promises Apafi a crown; and all are lying, and all
are going to deceive one another."
"My lord," replied Teleki, bitterly, "is it allowed to speak so to
guests, to kinsmen who are unfortunate and in exile?"
"Nobody need instruct me in magnanimity," replied Banfy, proudly.
"Guest and fugitive have always found refuge with me; and if these
fugitives wish us to share our home, our fatherland with them, here is
my hand; I receive them to a share. But in the same way in which I
should have the sense to forbid my guests to set fire to the house
over my head, so do I protest against setting fire to the country. And
if they do not stop trying to disturb the peace once more prospering
in our country I will use every means to have them driven out."
"These words need not surprise us," said Teleki in bitter satire,
turning to the noblemen, "My gracious lord has been of late years
pardoned by the Prince. Before that time he was in arms against us."
Apafi sat uneasily. "Have done with this quarreling. You are
dismissed. As you see my counsellors are in opposition and without
them I can do nothing."
"We will bring it before the Diet," said Teleki, solemnly.
The Prince withdrew, greatly annoyed, to his private room, and the
lords went out the other door.
Banfy looked at him proudly as he went away and then straightened his
fur cap.
"My good standing is at an end," he said mockingly as he went away.
Teleki looked after him coldly. When all had gone Teleki whispered a
few words to a page, who went away and soon came back with a
curly-haired blonde youth.
It seems as if we had already seen this young man at some time, but
for so short a time that we cannot at once recall him. Over his warm
dress hung a beggar's pouch, and in his hand was a knotted stick.
"So at last you allow me to come into the presence of the Prince," he
said in a somewhat imperious tone to Teleki.
"Take your place here at the door," replied the minister. "The Prince
will soon pass on his way to dinner; you may then speak with him."
The young man with the beggar's pouch sat for a long time at the
Prince's door, until Apafi finally appeared and the beggar placed
himself at once in his way.
"Who are you?" asked the Prince astonished.
"I am the ransomed knight Emerich Balassa, who was once named among
Hungary
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/32708