Swithin looked round, and saw the tall Hungarian holding out his hand.
He took it, thinking, 'What a fool I've been!' There was something in
the Hungarian's gesture which said, “You are worthy of me!”
It was annoying, but rather impressive. The man seemed even taller than
before; there was a cut on his cheek, the blood from which was trickling
down his beard. “You English!” he said. “I saw you stone Haynau—I saw
you cheer Kossuth. The free blood of your people cries out to us.” He
looked at Swithin. “You are a big man, you have a big soul—and strong,
how you flung them down! Ha!” Swithin had an impulse to take to his
heels. “My name,” said the Hungarian, “is Boleskey. You are my friend.”
His English was good.
'Bulsh-kai-ee, Burlsh-kai-ee,' thought Swithin; 'what a devil of a
name!' “Mine,” he said sulkily, “is Forsyte.”
The Hungarian repeated it.
“You've had a nasty jab on the cheek,” said Swithin; the sight of the
matted beard was making him feel sick. The Hungarian put his fingers
to his cheek, brought them away wet, stared at them, then with an
indifferent air gathered a wisp of his beard and crammed it against the
cut.
“Ugh!” said Swithin. “Here! Take my handkerchief!”
The Hungarian bowed. “Thank you!” he said; “I couldn't think of it!
Thank you a thousand times!”
“Take it!” growled Swithin; it seemed to him suddenly of the first
importance. He thrust the handkerchief into the Hungarian's hand, and
felt a pain in his arm. 'There!' he thought, 'I've strained a muscle.'
The Hungarian kept muttering, regardless of passers-by, “Swine! How you
threw them over! Two or three cracked heads, anyway—the cowardly swine!”
“Look here!” said Swithin suddenly; “which is my way to the Goldene
Alp?”
The Hungarian replied, “But you are coming with me, for a glass of
wine?”
Swithin looked at the ground. 'Not if I know it!' he thought.
“Ah!” said the Hungarian with dignity, “you do not wish for my
friendship!”
'Touchy beggar!' thought Swithin. “Of course,” he stammered, “if you put
it in that way—”
The Hungarian bowed, murmuring, “Forgive me!”
They had not gone a dozen steps before a youth, with a beardless face
and hollow cheeks, accosted them. “For the love of Christ, gentlemen,”
he said, “help me!”
“Are you a German?” asked Boleskey.
“Yes,” said the youth.
“Then you may rot!”
“Master, look here!” Tearing open his coat, the youth displayed his
skin, and a leather belt drawn tight round it. Again Swithin felt that
desire to take to his heels. He was filled with horrid forebodings—a
sense of perpending intimacy with things such as no gentleman had
dealings with.
The Hungarian crossed himself. “Brother,” he said to the youth, “come
you in!”
Swithin looked at them askance, and followed. By a dim light they groped
their way up some stairs into a large room, into which the moon was
shining through a window bulging over the street. A lamp burned low;
there was a smell of spirits and tobacco, with a faint, peculiar scent,
as of rose leaves. In one corner stood a czymbal, in another a great
pile of newspapers. On the wall hung some old-fashioned pistols, and a
rosary of yellow beads. Everything was tidily arranged, but dusty. Near
an open fireplace was a table with the remains of a meal. The ceiling,
floor, and walls were all of dark wood. In spite of the strange
disharmony, the room had a sort of refinement. The Hungarian took
a bottle out of a cupboard and, filling some glasses, handed one to
Swithin. Swithin put it gingerly to his nose. 'You never know your luck!
Come!' he thought, tilting it slowly into his mouth. It was thick, too
sweet, but of a fine flavour.
“Brothers!” said the Hungarian, refilling, “your healths!”
The youth tossed off his wine. And Swithin this time did the same; he
pitied this poor devil of a youth now. “Come round to-morrow!” he said,
“I'll give you a shirt or two.” When the youth was gone, however, he
remembered with relief that he had not given his address.
'Better so,' he reflected. 'A humbug, no doubt.'
“What was that you said to him?” he asked of the Hungarian.
“I said,” answered Boleskey, “'You have eaten and drunk; and now you are
my enemy!'”
“Quite right!” said Swithin, “quite right! A beggar is every man's
enemy.”
“You do not understand,” the Hungarian replied politely. “While he was
a beggar—I, too, have had to beg” (Swithin thought, 'Good God! this is
awful!'., “but now that he is no longer hungry, what is he but a German?
No Austrian dog soils my floors!”
His nostrils, as it seemed to Swithin, had distended in an unpleasant
fashion; and a wholly unnecessary raucousness invaded his voice. “I
am an exile—all of my blood are exiles. Those Godless dogs!” Swithin
hurriedly assented.
As he spoke, a face peeped in at the door.
“Rozsi!” said the Hungarian. A young girl came in. She was rather short,
with a deliciously round figure and a thick plait of hair. She smiled,
and showed her even teeth; her little, bright, wide-set grey eyes
glanced from one man to the other. Her face was round, too, high in the
cheekbones, the colour of wild roses, with brows that had a twist-up at
the corners. With a gesture of alarm, she put her hand to her cheek, and
called, “Margit!” An older girl appeared, taller, with fine shoulders,
large eyes, a pretty mouth, and what Swithin described to himself
afterwards as a “pudding” nose. Both girls, with little cooing sounds,
began attending to their father's face.
Swithin turned his back to them. His arm pained him.
'This is what comes of interfering,' he thought sulkily; 'I might have
had my neck broken!' Suddenly a soft palm was placed in his, two eyes,
half-fascinated, half-shy, looked at him; then a voice called, “Rozsi!”
the door was slammed, he was alone again with the Hungarian, harassed by
a sense of soft disturbance.
“Your daughter's name is Rosy?” he said; “we have it in England—from
rose, a flower.”
“Rozsi (Rozgi),” the Hungarian replied; “your English is a hard tongue,
harder than French, German, or Czechish, harder than Russian, or
Roumanian—I know no more.”
“What?” said Swithin, “six languages?” Privately he thought, 'He knows
how to lie, anyway.'
“If you lived in a country like mine,” muttered the Hungarian, “with all
men's hands against you! A free people—dying—but not dead!”
Swithin could not imagine what he was talking of. This man's face, with
its linen bandage, gloomy eyes, and great black wisps of beard, his
fierce mutterings, and hollow cough, were all most unpleasant. He seemed
to be suffering from some kind of mental dog-bite. His emotion indeed
appeared so indecent, so uncontrolled and open, that its obvious
sincerity produced a sort of awe in Swithin. It was like being forced
to look into a furnace. Boleskey stopped roaming up and down. “You
think it's over?” he said; “I tell you, in the breast of each one of us
Magyars there is a hell. What is sweeter than life? What is more sacred
than each breath we draw? Ah! my country!” These words were uttered so
slowly, with such intense mournfulness, that Swithin's jaw relaxed; he
converted the movement to a yawn.
“Tell me,” said Boleskey, “what would you do if the French conquered
you?”
Swithin smiled. Then suddenly, as though something had hurt him, he
grunted, “The 'Froggies'. Let 'em try!”
“Drink!” said Boleskey—“there is nothing like it”; he filled Swithin's
glass. “I will tell you my story.”
Swithin rose hurriedly. “It's late,” he said. “This is good stuff,
though; have you much of it?”
“It is the last bottle.”
“What?” said Swithin; “and you gave it to a beggar?”
“My name is Boleskey—Stefan,” the Hungarian said, raising his head; “of
the Komorn Boleskeys.” The simplicity of this phrase—as who shall say:
What need of further description?—made an impression on Swithin; he
stopped to listen. Boleskey's story went on and on. “There were many
abuses,” boomed his deep voice, “much wrong done—much cowardice. I could
see clouds gathering—rolling over our plains. The Austrian wished to
strangle the breath of our mouths—to take from us the shadow of our
liberty—the shadow—all we had. Two years ago—the year of '48, when every
man and boy answered the great voice—brother, a dog's life!—to use a pen
when all of your blood are fighting, but it was decreed for me! My son
was killed; my brothers taken—and myself was thrown out like a dog—I
had written out my heart, I had written out all the blood that was in
my body!” He seemed to tower, a gaunt shadow of a man, with gloomy,
flickering eyes staring at the wall.
Swithin rose, and stammered, “Much obliged—very interesting.” Boleskey
made no effort to detain him, but continued staring at the wall.
“Good-night!” said Swithin, and stamped heavily downstairs.