THE GIRL SUBSTITUTE[4]
[Footnote 4: In former days it was the custom for a Magyar and a German
family to interchange children, with a view to their learning the two
languages perfectly. So Fanny Fromm is interchanged with Desiderius
Aronffy.]
A pleasant old custom was then in fashion in our town: the interchange
of children,--perhaps it is in fashion still. In our many-tongued
fatherland one town is German-speaking, the other Magyar-speaking, and,
being brothers, after all to understand each other was a necessity.
Germans must learn Magyar and Magyars, German. And peace is restored.
So a method of temporarily exchanging children grew up: German parents
wrote to Magyar towns, Magyar parents to German towns, to the respective
school directors, to ask if there were any pupils who could be
interchanged. In this manner one child was given for another, a kind,
gentle, womanly thought!
The child left home, father, mother, brother, only to find another home
among strangers: another mother, other brothers and sisters, and his
absence did not leave a void at home; child replaced child; and if the
adopted mother devoted a world of tenderness to the pilgrim, it was with
the idea that her own was being thus treated in the far distance; for a
mother's love cannot be bought at a price but only gained by love.
It was an institution that only a woman's thought could found: so
different from that frigid system invented by men which founded
nunneries, convents, and closed colleges for the benefit of susceptible
young hearts where all memory of family life was permanently wiped out
of their minds.
After that unhappy day, which, like the unmovable star, could never go
so far into the distance as to be out of sight, grandmother more than
once said to us in the presence of mother, that it would not be good for
us to remain in this town; we must be sent somewhere else.
Mother long opposed the idea. She did not wish to part from us. Yet the
doctors advised the same course. When the spasms seized her, for days we
were not allowed to visit her, as it made her condition far worse.
At last she gave her consent, and it was decided that we two should be
sent to Pressburg. My brother, who was already too old to be exchanged,
went to the home of a Privy Councillor, who was paid for taking him in,
and my place was to be taken by a still younger child than myself, by a
little German girl, Fanny, the daughter of Henry Fromm, baker.
Grandmother was to take us in a carriage--in those days in Hungary we
had only heard rumors of steamboats--and to bring the girl substitute
back with her.
For a week the whole household sewed, washed, ironed and packed for us;
we were supplied with winter and summer clothing: on the last day
provisions were prepared for our journey, as if we had intended to make
a voyage to the end of the world, and in the evening we took supper in
good time, that we might rise early, as we had to start before daybreak.
That was my first departure from my home. Many a time since then have I
had to say adieu to what was dearest to me; many sorrows, more than I
could express, have afflicted me: but that first parting caused me the
greatest pain of all, as is proved by the fact that after so long an
interval I remember it so well. In the solitude of my own chamber, I
bade farewell separately to all those little trifles that surrounded me:
God bless the good old clock that hast so oft awakened me. Beautiful
raven, whom I taught to speak and to say "Lorand," on whom wilt thou
play thy sportive tricks? Poor old doggy, maybe thou wilt not be living
when I return? Forsooth old Susie herself will say to me, "I shall never
see you again Master Desi." And till now I always thought I was angry
with Susie; but now I remark that it will be hard to leave her.
And my dear mother, the invalid, and grandmother, already so
grey-haired!
Thus the bitter strains swept onward along the strings of my soul, from
lifeless objects to living, from favorite animals to human
acquaintances, and then to those with whom we were bound soul to soul,
finally dragging one with them to the presence of the dead and buried. I
was sorely troubled by the thought that we were not allowed to enter,
even for one moment, that solitary house, round the door of which the
ivy was entwining anew. We might have whispered "God be with thee! I
have come to see thee!" I must leave the place without being able to say
to him a single word of love. And perhaps he would know without words.
Perhaps the only joy of that poor soul, who could not lie in a
consecrated chamber, who could not find the way to heaven because he had
not waited till the guardian angel came for him, was when he saw that
his sons love him still.
"Lorand, I cannot sleep, because I have not been able to take my leave
of that house beside the stream."
My brother sighed and turned in his bed.
My whole life long I have been a sound sleeper (what child is not?) but
never did it seem such a burden to rise as on the morning of our
departure. Two days later a strange child would be sleeping in that bed.
Once more we met together at breakfast, which we had to eat by
candle-light as the day had not yet dawned.
Dear mother often rose from her seat to kiss and embrace Lorand,
overwhelmed him with caresses, and made him promise to write much; if
anything happened to him, he must write and tell it at once, and must
always consider that bad news would afflict two hearts at home. She
only spoke to me to bid me drink my coffee warm, as the morning air
would be chilly.
Grandmother, too, concerned herself entirely with Lorand: they enquired
whether he had all he required for the journey, whether he had taken his
certificates with him--and a thousand other matters. I was rather
surprised than jealous at all this, for as a rule the youngest son gets
all the petting.
When our carriage drove up we took our travelling coats and said adieu
in turn to the household. Mother, leaning on Lorand's shoulder, came
with us to the gate whispering every kind of tender word to him; thrice
she embraced and kissed him. And then came my turn.
She embraced me and kissed me on the cheek, then tremblingly whispered
in my ear these words:
"My darling boy,--take care of your brother Lorand!" I take care of
Lorand? the child of the young man? the weak of the strong? the later
born guide the elder. The whole journey long this idea distracted me,
and I could not explain it to myself.
Of the impressions of the journey I retain no very clear recollections:
I think I slept very much in the carriage. The journey to Pressburg
lasted from early morning till late evening; only as twilight came on
did a new thought begin to keep me awake, a thought to which as yet I
had paid no attention: "What kind of a child could it be, for whom I was
now being exchanged? Who was to usurp my place at table, in my bed-room,
and in my mother's heart? Was she small or large? beautiful or ugly?
obedient or contrary? had she brothers or sisters, to whom I was to be a
brother? was she as much afraid of me as I was of her?"
For I was very much afraid of her.
Naturally, I dreaded the thought of the child who was meeting me at the
cross-roads with the avowed intention of taking my place as my mother's
child, giving me instead her own parents. Were they reigning princes,
still the loss would be mine. I confess that I felt a kind of sweet
bitterness in the idea that my substitute might be some dull, malicious
creature, whose actions would often cause mother to remember me. But if,
on the contrary, she were some quiet, angelic soul, who would soon steal
my mother's love from me! In every respect I trembled with fear of that
creature who had been born that she might be exchanged for me.
Towards evening grandmother told us that the town which we were going to
was visible. I was sitting with my back to the horses, and so I was
obliged to turn round in order to see. In the distance I could see the
four-columned white skeleton of a building, which was first apparent to
the eye.
"What a gigantic charnel-house," I remarked to grandmother.
"It is no charnel-house, my child, but it is the ruin of the citadel of
(Pressburg) Pozsony."[5]
[Footnote 5: Pozsony. A town in Hungary is called by the Germans
Pressburg.]
A curious ruin it is. This first impression ever remained in my mind: I
regarded it as a charnel-house.
It was quite late when we entered the town, which was very large
compared to ours. I had never seen such elegant display in shop-windows
before and it astonished me as I noticed that there were paved sidewalks
reserved for pedestrians. They must be all fine lords who live in this
city.
Mr. Fromm, the baker, to whose house I was to be taken, had informed us
that we need not go to an hotel as he had room for all of us, and would
gladly welcome us, especially as the expense of the journey was borne by
us. We found his residence by following the written address. He owned a
fine four-storied house in the Fuersten allee,[6] with his open shop in
front on the sign of which peaceful lions were painted in gold holding
rolls and cakes between their teeth.
[Footnote 6: Princes avenue.]
Mr. Fromm himself was waiting for us outside his shop door, and hastened
to open the carriage door himself. He was a round-faced, portly little
man, with a short black moustache, black eyebrows, and close-cropped,
thick, flour-white hair. The good fellow helped grandmother to alight
from the carriage: shook hands with Lorand, and began to speak to them
in German: when I alighted, he put his hand on my head with a peculiar
smile:
"Iste puer?"
Then he patted me on the cheeks.
"Bonus, bonus."
His addressing me in Latin had two advantages; firstly, as I could not
speak German, nor he Magyar, this use of a neutral tongue removed all
suspicions of our being deaf and dumb; secondly, it at once inspired me
with a genuine respect for the honest fellow, who had dabbled in the
sciences, and had, beyond his technical knowledge of his own business,
some acquaintance with the language of Cicero. Mr. Fromm made room for
grandmother and Lorand to pass before him up a narrow stone staircase,
while he kept his hand continuously on my head, as if that were the part
of me by which he could best hold me.
"Veni puer. Hic puer secundus, filius meus."
So there was a boy in the house, a new terror for me.
"Est studiosus."
What, that boy! That was good news: we could go to school together.
"Meus filius magnus asinus."
That was a fine acknowledgment from a father.
"Nescit pensum nunquam scit."
Then he discontinued to speak of the young student, and pantomimically
described something, from which I gathered that "meus filius," on this
occasion was condemned to starve, until he had learnt his lessons, and
was confined to his room.
This was no pleasant idea to me.
Well, and what about "mea filia?"
I had never seen a house that was like Mr. Fromm's inside. Our home was
only one-storied, with wide rooms, and broad corridors, a courtyard and
a garden: here we had to enter first by a narrow hall: then to ascend a
winding stair, that would not admit two abreast. Then followed a rapid
succession of small and large doors, so that when we came out upon the
balconied corridor, and I gazed down into the deep, narrow courtyard, I
could not at all imagine how I had reached that point, and still less
how I could ever find my way out. "Father" Fromm led us directly from
the corridor into the reception room, where two candles were burning
(two in our honor), and the table laid for "gouter." It seemed they had
expected us earlier. Two women were seated at the window, Mrs. Fromm and
her mother. Mrs. Fromm was a tall slender person; she had grey curls (I
don't know why I should not call them "Schneckles," for that is their
name) in front, large blue eyes, a sharp German nose, a prominent chin
and a wart below her mouth.
The "Gross-mamma" was the exact counterpart of Mrs. Fromm, only about
thirty years older, a little more slender, and sharper in feature: she
had also grey "Schneckles"--though I did not know until ten years later
that they were not her own:--she too had that wart, though in her case
it was on the chin.
In a little low chair was sitting that certain personage with whom they
wished to exchange me.
Fanny was my junior by a year:--she resembled neither father nor mother,
with the exception that the family wart, in the form of a little brown
freckle, was imprinted in the middle of her left cheek. During the whole
time that elapsed before our arrival here I had been filled with
prejudices against her, prejudices which the sight of her made only more
alarming. She had an ever-smiling, pink and white face, mischievous blue
eyes, and a curious snub-nose; when she smiled, little dimples formed in
her cheeks and her mouth was ever ready to laugh. When she did laugh,
her double row of white teeth sparkled; in a word she was as ugly as the
devil.
All three were busy knitting as we entered. When the door opened, they
all put down their knitting. I kissed the hands of both the elder
ladies, who embraced me in return, but my attention was entirely devoted
to the little lively witch, who did not wait a moment, but ran to meet
grandmother, threw herself upon her neck, and kissed her passionately;
then, bowing and curtseying before us, kissed Lorand twice, actually
gazing the while into his eyes.
A cold chill seized me. If this little snub-nosed devil dared to go so
far as to kiss me, I did not know what would become of me in my terror.
Yet I could not avoid this dilemma in any way. The terrible little
witch, having done with the others, rushed upon me, embraced me, and
kissed me so passionately that I was quite ashamed; then twining her arm
in mine, dragged me to the little arm-chair from which she had just
risen, and compelled me to sit down, though we could scarcely find room
in it for us both. Then she told many things to me in that unknown
tongue, the only result of which was to persuade me that my poor good
mother would have a noisy baggage to take the place of her quiet,
obedient little son; I felt sure her days would be embittered by that
restless tongue. Her mouth did not stop for one moment, yet I must
confess that she had a voice like a bell.
That was again a family peculiarity. Mother Fromm was endowed with an
inexhaustible store of that treasure called eloquence: and a sharp,
strong voice, too, which forbade the interruption of any one else, with
a flow like that of the purling stream. The grandmamma had an equally
generous gift, only she had no longer any voice: only every second word
was audible, like one of those barrel-organs, in which an occasional
note, instead of sounding, merely blows.
Our business was to listen quietly.
For my part, that was all the easier, as I could not suspect what was
the subject of this flow of barbarian words; all I understood was that,
when the ladies spoke to me, they addressed me as "Istok,"[7] a jest
which I found quite out of place, not knowing that it was the German for
"Why don't you eat?" For you must know the coffee was brought
immediately, with very fine little cakes, prepared especially for us
under the personal supervision of Father Fromm.
[Footnote 7: "Issdoch," the German for "but eat." (Why don't you eat?)
While Istok is a nickname for Stephan in Magyar.]
Even that little snub-nosed demon said "Issdoch," seized a cake, dipped
it in my coffee, and forcibly crammed it into my mouth, when I did not
wish to understand her words.
But I was not at all hungry. All kinds of things were brought onto the
table, but I did not want anything. Father Fromm kept calling out
continually in student guise "Comedi! Comedi!" a remark which called
forth indignant remonstrances from mamma and grossmamma; how could he
call his own dear "Kugelhuff"[8] a "comedy!!!"
[Footnote 8: A cake eaten everywhere in Hungary.]
Fanny in sooth required no coaxing. At first sight anyone could see that
she was the spoiled child of the family, to whom everything was allowed.
She tried everything, took a double portion of everything and only after
taking what she required did she ask "darf ich?"[9]--and I understood
immediately from the tone of her voice and the nodding of her head, that
she meant to ask "if she might."
[Footnote 9: i. e., darf ich, "may I?"]
Then instead of finishing her share she had the audacity to place her
leavings on my plate, an action which called forth rebuke enough from
Grossmamma. I did not understand what she said, but I strongly suspected
that she abused her for wishing to accustom the "new child" to eating a
great deal. Generally speaking, I had brought from home the suspicion
that, when two people were speaking German before me, they were surely
hatching some secret plot against me, the end of which would be, either
that I would not get something, or would not be taken somewhere, where
I wished to go.
I would not have tasted anything the little snub-nose gave me, if only
for the reason that it was she who had given it. How could she dare to
touch my plate with those dirty little hands of hers, that were just
like cats-paws?
Then she gave everything I would not accept to the little kitten;
however, the end of it all was, that she again turned to me, and asked
me to play with the kitten.
Incomprehensible audacity! To ask me, who was already a school-student,
to play with a tiny kitten.
"Shoo!" I said to the malicious creature; a remark which,
notwithstanding the fact that it seemed to belong to some
strange-tongued nationality, the animal understood, for it immediately
leaped down off the table and ran away. This caused the little snub-nose
to get angry with me, and she took her sensitive revenge upon me, by
going across to my grandmother, whom she tenderly caressed, kissing her
hand, and then nestled to her bosom, turning her back on me; once or
twice she looked back at me, and if at the moment my eye was on her,
sulkily flung back her head; as if that was any great misfortune to me.
Little imp! She actually occupied my place beside my grandmother--and
before my eyes too.
Well, and why did I gaze at her, if I was so very angry with her? I will
tell you truly; it was only that I might see to what extremes she would
carry her audacity. I would far rather have been occupied in the
fruitless task of attempting to discover something intelligent in a
conversation that was being carried on before me in a strange tongue: an
effort that is common to all men who have a grain of human curiosity
flowing in their veins, and that, as is well-known, always remains
unsuccessful.
Still one combination of mine did succeed. That name "Henrik"
often struck my ear. Father Fromm was called Henrik, but he
himself uttered the name: that therefore could not be other than
his son. My grandmother spoke of him in pitiful tones, whereas
Father Fromm assumed a look of inexorable severity, when he gave
information on this subject; and as he spoke I gathered frequently
the words "prosodia,"--"pensum"--"labor"--"vocabularium"--and
many other terms common to dog-Latin: among which words like
"secunda"--"tertia"--"carcer" served as a sufficiently trustworthy
compass to direct me to the following conclusion: My friend Henrik might
not put in an appearance to-day at supper, because he did not know his
lessons, and was to remain imprisoned in the house until he could
improve his standing by learning to repeat, in the language of a people
long since dead, the names of a host of eatables.
Poor Henrik!
I never had any patience with the idea of anyone's starving, and
moreover starving by way of punishment. I could understand anyone being
done to death at once: but the idea of condemning anyone in cold blood
to starve, to wrestle with his own body, to strive with his own heart
and stomach, I always regarded as cruelty. I deemed that if I took one
of those little cakes, which that audacious girl had piled up before me
so forcibly, and put it in my pocket, it would not be wasted.
I waited cautiously until nobody was looking my way, and then slipped
the cake into my pocket without accident.
Without accident? I only remarked it, when that little snub-nose laughed
to herself. Just at that moment she had squinted towards me. But she
immediately closed her mouth with her hand, giggling between her
fingers, the while her malicious, deceitful eyes smiled into mine. What
would she think? Perhaps that I am too great a coward to eat at table,
and too insatiable to be satisfied with what I received. Oh! how ashamed
I was before her! I would have been capable of any sacrifice to secure
her secrecy, perhaps even of kissing her, if she would not tell
anyone.... I was so frightened.
My fright was only increased by the grandmother, who first looked at the
cake-dish, and then looked at each plate on the table in turn,
subsequently resetting her gaze upon that cake-dish; then she gazed up
to the ceiling, as if making some calculation, which she followed up by
considerable shaking of her head.
Who could not understand that dumb speech? She had counted the cakes;
calculated how many each had devoured; how many had been put on the
dish, had added and subtracted, with the result that one cake was
missing: what had become of it? An inquisition would follow: the cake
would be looked for, and found in my pocket, and then no water could
ever wash away my shame.
Every moment I expected that little demoniacal curiosity to point to me
with that never-resting hand of hers, and proclaim: "there in the new
child's pocket is the cake."
She was already by my side, and I saw that father, mother and
Grandmother Fromm turned to me all with inquiring looks, and addressed
some terrible "interpellatio" to me, which I did not understand, but
could suspect what it was. And Lorand and grandmother did not come to my
aid to explain what it all meant.
Instead of which snub-nose swept up to me and, repeating the same
question, explained it by pantomimic gestures; laying one hand upon the
other, then placing her head upon them, gently closed her eyes.
Oh, she was asking, if I were sleepy? It was remarkable, how this
insufferable creature could make me understand everything.
Never did that question come more opportunely. I breathed more freely.
Besides, I made up my mind never to call her "snub-nose devil" any more.
Grandmother allowed me to go: little Fanny was to show me to my room: I
was to sleep with Henrik: I said good-night to all in turn, and so
distracted was I that I kissed even Fanny's hand. And the little bundle
of malice did not prevent me, she merely laughed at me for it.
This girl had surely been born merely to annoy me.
She took a candle in her hand and told me to follow her: she would lead
the way.
I obeyed her.
We had not quite reached the head of the corridor when the draught blew
out the candle.
We were in complete darkness, for there was no lamp burning here of an
evening on the staircase, only a red glimmer, reflected probably from
the bakery-chimney, lit up the darkness, and even that disappeared as we
left the corridor.
Fanny laughed when the candle went out, and tried for a time to blow the
spark into a flame: not succeeding, she put down the candle-stick, and
leaning upon my arm assured me that she could show me the way in this
manner too.
Then, without waiting for a remark from me, she took me with her into
the pitchy darkness. At first she spoke, to encourage me, and then began
to sing, perhaps to make me understand better; and felt with her hands
for the doors, and with her feet for the steps of the staircase.
Meanwhile I continually reflected: "this terrible malicious trifler is
plotting to lead me into some flour-bin, shut the door upon me, and
leave me there till the morning: or to let me step in the darkness into
some flue, where I shall fall up to my neck into the rising dough;--for
of that everything is full."
Poor, kind, good Fanny! I was so angry with you, I hated you so when I
first saw you!... And now, as we grow old....
I should never have believed that anyone could lead me in such
subterranean darkness through that winding labyrinth, where even in
broad daylight I often entirely lost my whereabouts. I only wondered
that this extraordinarily audacious girl could refrain from pulling my
hair as she led me through that darkness, her arm in mine, though she
had such a painful opportunity of doing so. Yes, I quite expected her to
do so.
Finally we reached a door, before which there was no need of a lamp to
assure a man of the room he was seeking. Through the door burst that
most sorrowful of all human sounds, the sound of a child audibly
wrestling with some unintelligible verse, twenty, fifty, a thousand
times repeated anew, and anew, without becoming intelligible, while the
verse had not yet taken its place in the child's head. Through the
boards sounded afar a spiral Latin phrase.
"His atacem, panacem, phylacem, coracem que facemque." Then again:
"His acatem, panacem, phylacem, coracem que facemque."
And again the same.
Fanny placed her ear against the door and seized my hand as a hint to be
quiet. Then she laughed aloud. How can anyone find an amusing subject in
a poor hard-brained "studiosus," who cannot grasp that rule, inevitable
in every career in life, that the second syllable of dropax, antrax,
climax "et caethra graeca" in the first case is long, in the second
short--a rule extremely useful to a man later in life when he gets into
some big scrape?
But Fanny found it extremely ridiculous. Then she opened the door and
nodded to me to follow her.
It was a small room under the staircase. Within were two beds, placed
face to face; on one I recognized my own pillows which I had brought
with me, so that must be my sleeping place. Beside the window was a
writing-table on which was burning a single candle, its wick so badly
trimmed as to prove that he who should have trimmed it had been so
deeply engaged in work that he had not remarked whether darkness or
light surrounded him.
Weeping, his head buried in his hands, my friend Henrik was sitting at
that table; as the door opened he raised his head from the book over
which he was poring. He greatly resembled his mother and grandmother:
he had just such a pronounced nose; but he had bristly hair, like his
father, only black and not so closely cropped. He, too, had the family
wart, actually in the middle of his nose.
As he looked up from his book, in a moment his countenance changed
rapidly from fear to delight, from delight to suspicion. The poor boy
thought he had gained a respite, and that the messenger had come with
the white serviette to invite him to supper: he smiled at Fanny
entreating compassion, and then, when he saw me, became embarrassed.
Fanny approached him with an enquiring air, placed one hand on his
thigh, with the other pointed to the open book, probably intending to
ask him whether he knew his lessons.
The great lanky boy rose obediently before his little confessor, who
scarce reached to his shoulder, and proceeded to put himself to rights.
He handed the book to Fanny, casting a farewell glance at the
disgusting, insufferable words; and with a great gulp by which he hoped
to remove all obstacles from the way of the lines he had to utter,
cleared his throat and began:--
"His abacem, phylacem ..."
Fanny shook her head. It was not good.
Henrik was frightened. He began again:
"His abacem, coracem...."
Again it was wrong. The poor boy began over five or six times, but could
not place those pagan words in the correct order, and as the mischievous
girl shook her head each time he made a mistake, he finally became so
confused that he could not even begin; then he reddened with anger, and,
gnashing his teeth, tore the graceless book out of Fanny's hand, threw
it down upon the table and commenced an assault upon the heathen words,
and with glaring eyes read the million-times repeated incantation: "His
abacem, panacem, phylacem, coracem facemque," striking the back of his
head with clinched fist at every word.
Fanny burst into uncontrollable laughter at this scene.
I, however, was very sorry for my companion. My learning had been easy
enough, and I regarded him with the air of a lord who looks from his
coach window at the bare-footed passers-by.
Fanny was unmerciful to him.
Henrik looked up at her, and though I did not understand her words, I
understood from his eyes that he was asking for something to eat.
The strong-headed sister actually refused his request.
I wished to prove my goodness of heart--my vanity also inclined me to
inform this mischievous creature that I had not put away the bun for my
own sake--So I stepped up to Henrik and, placing my hand on his shoulder
with condescending friendliness, pressed into his hand the cake I had
reserved for him.
Henrik cast a glance at me like some wild beast which has an aversion to
petting, then flung the bun under the table with such violence that it
broke into pieces.
"Dummer kerl!"[10]
[Footnote 10: "Stupid fellow!"]
I remember well, that was the first title of respect I received from
him.
Planting his knuckles on the top of my head, he performed a tattoo with
the same all over my head.
That is called, in slang, "holz-birn."[11] By this process of
"knuckling" the larger boys showed their contempt for the smaller, and
it belongs to that kind of teasing which no self-respecting boy ever
would allow to pass unchallenged. And before this girl, too!
[Footnote 11: Literally "Wild-pear" (_wood-pear_) a method of
"knuckling" down the younger boys.]
Henrik was taller than I, by a head, but I did not mind. I grasped him
by the waist, and grappled with him. He wished to drag me in the
direction of my bed, in order to throw me on to it, but with a quick
movement I cast him on his own bed, and holding his two hands tight on
his chest, cried to him:
"Pick up the bun immediately!"
Henrik kicked and snarled for a moment, then began to laugh, and to my
astonishment begged me, in student tongue, to release him: "We should be
good friends." I released him, we shook hands, and the fellow became
quite lively.
What astonished me most was that, at the time I was throwing her
brother, Fanny did not come to his aid nor tear out my eyes, she merely
laughed, and screamed her approval. She seemed to be thoroughly enjoying
herself.
After this we all three looked for the fragments of Henrik's broken bun,
which the good fellow with an expression of contentment dispatched on
its natural way; then Fanny produced a couple of secreted apples which
she had "sneaked" for him. I found it remarkable beyond words that this
impertinent child's thoughts ran in the same direction as my own.
From that hour Henrik and I were always fast friends; we are so to this
day. When we got into bed I was curious as to the dreams I should have
in the strange house. There is a widely-spread belief that what one
dreams the first night in a new house will in reality come to pass.
I dreamed of the little snub-nose.
She was an angel with wings, beautiful dappled wings, such as I had read
of not long since in the legend of Voeroesmarty.[12] All around me she
fluttered: but I could not move, my feet were so heavy, albeit there was
something from which I ought to escape, until she seized my hand and
then I could run so lightly that I did not touch the earth even with the
tips of my feet.
[Footnote 12: A great Hungarian poet who lived and died in the early
part of this century. He wrote legends and made a remarkable translation
of some of Shakespeare's works.]
How I worried over that dream! A snub-nosed angel-- What mocking dreams
a man has, to be sure.
The next day we were early astir; to me it seemed all the earlier, as
the window of our little room looked out on to the narrow courtyard,
where the day dawned so slowly, but Marton, the principal assistant, was
told off to brawl at the schoolboy's door, when breakfast was being
prepared:
"Surgendum disciple!"
I could not think what kind of an assault it was, that awoke me from my
dream, when first I heard the clamorous clarion call. But Henrik jumped
to his feet at once, and roused me from my bed, explaining, half in
student language, half by gesture, that we should go down now to the
bakery to see how the buns and cakes were baked. There was no need to
dress; we might go in our night clothes, as the bakers wear quite
similar costumes. I was curious, and easily persuaded to do anything; we
put on our slippers and went down together to the bakery.
It was an agreeable place; from afar it betrayed itself by that sweet
confectionery smell, which makes a man imagine that if he breathes it in
long enough he will satisfy his hunger therewith. Everything in the
whole place was as white as snow; everything so clean; great bins full
of flour; huge vessels full of swelling dough, from which six
white-dressed, white-aproned assistants were forming every conceivable
kind of cake and bun; piled upon the shelves of the gigantic white oven
the first supply was gradually baking, filling the whole room with a
most agreeable odor.
Master Marton, when he caught sight of me, began to welcome me in a kind
of broken Hungarian "Jo reggelt jo reggelt!"[13]
[Footnote 13: Good morning.]
He had a curious knack of putting the whole of his scalp into motion
whenever he moved his eyebrows up or down; a comical peculiarity of
which he availed himself whenever he wished to make anyone laugh, and
saw that his words did not have the desired effect.
Henrik set to work and competed with the baker's assistants; he was
clever at making dainty little titbits of cakes quite as clever as
anyone there; and pleasure beamed on his face when the old assistant
praised his efforts.
"You see," Marton said to me, "what a ready assistant he would make! In
two years he might be free. But the old man is determined he shall learn
and study; he wants to make a councillor of him." With these words
Marton, by a movement of his eyebrows, sent the whole of the skin on his
head to form a bunch on the crown, for all the world as if it had been a
wig on springs.
"Councillor, indeed! a councillor who gnaws pens when he is hungry!
Thanks; not if they gave me the tower of St. Michael. A councillor, who,
with paper in hand and pen behind ear, goes to visit the bakers in turn,
and weighs their loaves in the balance to see if they are correct
weight."
It seemed that Marton did not take into consideration any other duties
that a councillor might have besides the examining of bakers'
loaves--and that one could hardly gain his approval.
"Yet, if you take a little pains for their sake, you will find them as
gentle as lambs. Give them a 'heitige striozts,'[14] or All Saints Day,
and you will secure your object. Such is Mr. Dintenklek." At this point
Marton could not refrain from breaking out into an unmelodious
"Gassenhauer"[15] the refrain of which was, "Alas! Mr. Dintenklek."
[Footnote 14: A kind of dainty bit suitable to this "holy" occasion.]
[Footnote 15: A popular air sung in the streets.]
Two or three assistants joined in the refrain, of which I did not
understand a word; but as Marton uttered the final words, "Alas Mr.
Dintenklek," his gestures were such as to lead me to suspect that this
Mr. Dintenklek must be some very ridiculous figure in the eye of baker's
assistants.
"Why, of course, Henrik must learn law. The old man says he, too, might
have become a councillor if he had concluded his studies at school.
What a blessing he did not. As it is, he almost murders us with his
learning. He is always showing off how much Latin he knows. Yes, the old
man Latinizes."
As he said this Marton could scarcely control the skin of his head, so
often did he have to twitch his eyebrows in order to express the above
opinion, which he held about his master's pedantry.
Then with a sudden suspicion he turned to me:
"You don't wish to be a councillor, I suppose?"
I earnestly assured him that, on the contrary, I was preparing for a
vacancy in the county.
"Oho! lieutenant-governor? That is different, quite another thing;
travelling in a coach. No putting on of mud boots when it is muddy. That
I allow." And, in order to show how deep a respect he bore towards my
presumptive office position, he drew his eyebrows up so high that his
cap fell back upon his neck.
"Enough of dough-kneading for the present, Master Henrik. Go back to
your room and write out your 'pensum,' for you will again be forbidden
breakfast, if it is not ready."
Henrik did not listen to him, but worked away for all the world as if he
was not being addressed.
Meanwhile Marton was cutting a large piece of dough into bits of exactly
equal size, out of which the "Vienna" rolls were to be formed. This
delicate piece of work needs an accurate eye to avoid cheating either
one's master or the public.
"You see, he is at home here; he does not want his books. And there is
nothing more beautiful, more refined than our art; nothing more
remunerative; we deal with the blessing of God, for we prepare the daily
bread. The Lord's Prayer includes the baker, 'Give us this day our daily
bread.' Is there any mention anywhere of butchers, of tailors or of
cobblers? Well, does anyone pray for meat, for coats, or for books? Let
me hear about him. But they do pray for their daily bread, don't they?
And does the prayer-book say anything concerning councillors? What? Who
knows anything on that score?"
Some young assistant interrupted: "Why, of course, 'but deliver us from
the evil one.'"
This caused everybody to laugh; it caused Henrik to spoil his buns,
which had to be kneaded afresh. He was annoyed by the idea that he had
learned all he had merely in order to be ridiculed here in the bakery.
"Ha, yes," remarked Master Marton, smiling. "It is a great misfortune
that a man is never asked how he wishes to die, but a still greater
misfortune if he is not asked how he wishes to live. My father destined
me to be a butcher. I learned the whole trade. Then I suddenly grew
tired of all that ox-slaughtering, and cow-skinning. I was always
fascinated by these beautiful brown-backed rolls in the shop-window;
whenever I passed before the confectionery window, the pleasant warm
bread-odors just invited me in:--until at last I deserted my trade, and
joined Father Fromm. At that time my moustache and beard were already
sprouting, but I have never regretted my determination. Whenever I look
at my clean, white shirt, I am delighted at the idea that I have not to
sprinkle it with blood, and wear the blood-stained garment the rest of
the day. Everyone should follow his own bent, should he not, Henrik?"
"True," muttered the youth in a tone of anger. "And yet the butcher's
trade is as far above the councillor's as the weather-cock on St.
Michael's tower is above our own vane. I do not like blood on my hands,
yet at least I could wash it off; but if a drop of ink gets on my finger
from my pen, for three days no pumice stone would induce it to depart.
Yes, it is a glorious thing to be a baker's assistant."
Marton now busied himself in shovelling several dozen loaves of white
bread into the heated oven. Meantime the whole "menage" commenced with
one voice to sing a peculiar air, which I had already heard several
times resounding through the bakers' windows.
It runs as follows:
"Oh, the kneading trough is fine,
Very beautiful and fine.
Straight and crooked, round in form
Thin and long, three-legged too,
Here's a stork, and here's a 'ticker,'
While here's a pair of snuffers too,
Stork and ticker, snuffers too,
Bottles, tipsy Michael with them.
Bottles, tipsy Michael with them,
Stork and ticker, snuffers too,
Thin and long, three-legged too,
Straight and crooked, round in form.
Oh! the kneading trough is fine,
Very beautiful and fine."
They sang this air with such a passionate earnestness that, to this day
I must believe, was caused, not by the beauty of the verses, or the
corresponding melody, but rather by some superstitious feeling that
their chanting would prevent the plague infecting the bread while it was
baking, or perhaps the air served as an hour-glass telling them by its
termination that now was the time to take the bread out of the oven. As
they who are wont to use the Lord's Prayer for the boiling of eggs--God
save the mark.
Henrik joined in. I saw he had no longer any idea of finishing his
school tasks, and when the "Oh, the kneading trough" began anew, I left
him in the bakery, and went upstairs to our room. On the table lay
Henrik's unfortunate exercise-book open, full of corrections made in a
different ink; of the new exercise only the first line had been begun.
Immediately I collected the words wanted from a dictionary, and wrote
the translation down on a piece of paper.
Not till an hour later did he return from the scene of his operations,
and even then did not know to what he should turn his hand first. Great
was his delight, then, to see the task already finished; he merely had
to copy it.
He gazed at me with a curious peevishness and said: "Guter kerl."[16]
[Footnote 16: Good fellow.]
From his countenance I could not gather what he had said but the word
kerl made me prepare myself for a repetition of the struggle of
yesterday, for which I did not feel the least inclination.
Scarcely was the copying ready when the steps of Father Fromm resounded
on the staircase. Henrik hastily thrust my writing into his pockets and
was poring over the open book, when the old man halted before the door,
so that when he opened it, such a noise resounded in the room as if
Henrik were trying to drive an army of locusts out of the country: "his
abacem."
"Ergo, ergo; quomodo?" said the old man, placing the palm of his hand
upon my head. I saw that this was his manner of showing affection.
I ventured to utter my first German word, answering his query with a
"Guter morgen;"[17] at which the old fellow shook his head and laughed.
I could not imagine why. Perhaps I had expressed myself badly, or had
astonished him with my rapid progress?
[Footnote 17: Correctly, "Guten Morgen" (wunsch ich): "I wish (you) (a)
good morning."]
He did not enlighten me on the subject; instead he turned with a severe
confessorial face to Henrik: "No ergo! Quid ergo? Quid seis? Habes
pensum? Nebulo!"
Henrik tried whether he could move the skin of his head like Master
Marton did, when he spoke of Mr. Fromm's Latin. For the sake of greater
security he first of all displayed the written exercise to his father,
thinking it better to leave his weaker side until later.
Father Fromm gazed at the deep learning with a critical eye, then
graciously expressed his approval.
"Bonus, Bonus."
But the lesson?
That bitter piece!
Even yesterday, when he had only to recite them to the little snub-nose,
Henrik did not know the verses, and to-day, the book was in the old
man's hand! If he had merely taken the book in his hands! But with his
disengaged hand he held a ruler with the evident intention of
immediately pulling the boy up, if he made a mistake.
Poor Henrik, of course, did not know a single word. He gazed ever
askance at Father Fromm's ruler, and when he reached the first obstacle,
as the old fellow raised the ruler, probably merely with the intention
of striking Henrik's mental capacity into action by startling him,
Henrik was no more to be seen; he was under the bed, where he had
managed to hide his long body with remarkable agility; nor would he come
forth until Father Fromm promised he would not hurt him, and would take
him to breakfast.
And Father Fromm kept the conditions of the armistice, only verbally
denouncing the boy as he wriggled out of his fortress; I did not
understand what he said, I only gathered by his grimaces and gestures
that he was annoyed over the matter--by my presence.
The morning was spent in visiting professors. The director was a
strongly-built, bony-faced, moustached man, with a high, bald forehead,
broad-chested, and when he spoke, he did not spare his voice, but always
talked as if he were preaching. He was very well satisfied with our
school certificates, and made no secret of it. He assured grandmother he
would take care of us and deal severely with us. He would not allow us
to go astray in this town. He would often visit us at our homes; that
was his custom; and any student convicted of disorderliness would be
punished.
"Are the boys musicians?" he asked grandmother in harsh tones.
"Oh, yes; the one plays the piano, the other the violin."
The director struck the middle of the table with his fist: "I am
sorry--but I cannot allow violin playing under any circumstances."
Lorand ventured to ask, "Why not?"
"Why not, indeed? Because that is the fountain-head of all mischief. The
book, not the violin, is for the student. What do you wish to be? a
gypsy, or a scholar? The violin betrays students into every kind of
mischief. How do I know? Why, I see examples of it every day. The
student takes the violin under his coat, and goes with it to the inn,
where he plays for other students who dance there till morning with
loose girls. So I break into fragments every violin I find. I don't ask
whether it was dear; I dash it to the ground. I have already smashed
violins of high value."
Grandmother saw it would be wiser not to allow Lorand to answer, so she
hastened to anticipate him:
"Why, it is not the elder boy, sir, who plays the violin, but this
younger one; besides, neither has been so trained as to wish to go to
any undesirable place of amusement."
"That does not matter. The little one has still less need of scraping.
Besides, I know the student; at home he makes saintly faces, as if he
would not disturb water, but when once let loose, be it in an inn, be it
in a coffee-house, there he will sit beside his beer, and join in a
competition, to see who is the greatest tippler, shout and sing
'Gaudeamus igitur.' That is why I don't allow students to carry violins
under their top-coats to inns, under any circumstances. I break the
violin in pieces, and have the top-coat cut into a covert-coat. A
student with a top-coat! That's only for an army officer. Then, I cannot
suffer anyone to wear sharp-pointed boots which are especially made for
dancing; flat-toed boots are for honest men; no one must come to my
school in pointed boots, for I put his foot on the bench and cut away
the points."
Grandmother hurried her visit to prevent Lorand having an opportunity of
giving answer to the worthy man, who carried his zeal in the defence of
morality to such a pitch as to break up violins, have top-coats cut
down, and cut off the points of pointed boots.
It was a good habit of mine (long, long ago, in my childhood days), to
regard as sacred anything a man, who had the right to my obedience,
might say. When we came away from the director's presence, I whispered
to Lorand in a distressed tone:
"Your boots seem to me a little too pointed."
"Henceforward I shall have them made still more pointed," replied
Lorand,--an answer with which I was not at all satisfied.
In my eyes every serious man was surrounded by a "nimbus" of
infallibility; no one had ever enlightened me on the fact that
serious-minded men had themselves once been young, and had learned the
student jargon of Heidelberg; that this director himself, after a noisy
youth, had arrived at the idea that every young man has malicious
propensities, and that what seems good in him is only make-believe, and
so he must be treated with the severity of military discipline.
Then we proceeded to pay a visit to my class-master, who was the exact
opposite of the director: a slight, many-cornered little man, with long
hair brushed back, smooth shaved face, and such a thin, sweet voice that
one might have taken every word of his as a supplication. And he was so
familiar in his dealings with us. He received us in a dressing gown, but
when he saw a lady was with us, he hastily changed that for a black
coat, and asked pardon--why, I do not know.
Then he attempted to drive a host of little children out of his room,
but without success. They clung to his hands and arms and he could not
shake them off; he called out to some lady to come and help him. A
sleepy face appeared at the other door, and suddenly withdrew on seeing
us. Finally, at grandmother's request, he allowed the children to
remain.
Mr. Schmuck was an excellent "paterfamilias," and took great care of
children. His study was crammed with toys; he received us with great
tenderness, and I remember well that he patted me on the head.
Grandmother immediately became more confident of this good man than she
had been of his colleague, whom we had previously visited. For he was
so fond of his own children. To him she related the secret that made her
heart sad; explained why we were in mourning; told him that father was
unfortunately dead, and that we were the sole hopes of our sickly
mother; that up till now our behaviors had been excellent, and finally
asked him to take care of me, the younger.
The good fellow clasped his hands and assured grandmother that he would
make a great man of me, especially if I would come to him privately;
that he might devote particular attention to the development of my
talents. This private tuition would not come to more than seven florins
a month. And that is not much for the whetting of one's mind; as much
might be paid even for the grinding of scissors.
Grandmother, her spirits depressed by the previous reception, timidly
ventured to introduce the remark that I had a certain inclination for
the violin, but she did not know whether it was allowed?
The good man did not allow her to speak further. "Of course, of course.
Music ennobles the soul, music calms the inclinations of the mind. Even
in the days of Pythagoras lectures were closed by music. He who indulges
in music is always in the society of good spirits. And here it will be
very cheap; it will not cost more than six florins[18] a month, as my
children have a music-master of their own."
[Footnote 18: 1 florin equals 2s English money or 40 cents.]
Dear grandmother, seeing his readiness to acquiesce, thought it good to
make some more requests (this is always the way with a discontented
people, too, when it meets with ready acquiescence in the powers that
be). She remarked that perhaps I might be allowed to learn dancing.
"Why, nothing could be more natural," was the answer of the gracious
man. "Dancing goes hand-in-hand with music; even in Greek days it was
the choral revellers that were accompanied by the harp. In the classics
there is frequent mention of the dance. With the Romans it belonged to
culture, and according to tradition even holy David danced. In the world
of to-day it is just indispensable, especially to a young man. An
innocent enjoyment! One form of bodily exercise. It is indispensable
that the young man of to-day shall step, walk, stand properly, and be
able to bow and dance, and not betray at once, on his appearance, that
he has come from some school of pedantry. And in this respect I obey the
tendency of the age. My own children all learn to dance, and as the
dancing-master comes here in any case my young friend may as well join
my children; it will not cost more than five florins."
Grandmother was extraordinarily contented with the bargain; she found
everything quite cheap.
"By cooeperation everything becomes cheap. A true mental 'menage.' Many
learn together, and each pays a trifle. If you wish my young friend to
learn drawing, it will not cost more than four florins; four hours
weekly, together with the others. Perhaps you will not find it
superfluous, that our young friend should make acquaintance with the
more important European languages; he can learn, under the supervision
oL mature teachers, English and French, at a cost of not more than three
florins, three hours a week. And if my young friend has a few hours to
spare, he cannot do better than spend them in the gymnasium; gymnastic
exercise is healthy, it encourages the development of the muscles along
with that of the brain, and it does not cost anything, only ten florins
entrance fee."
Grandmother was quite overcome by this thoughtfulness. She left
everything in order and paid in advance.
I do not wish anyone to come to the conclusion, from the facts stated
above, that in course of time I shall come to boast what a Paganini I
became in time, what a Mezzofanti as a linguist, what a Buonarotti in
art, what a Vestris in the dance, or what a Michael Toddy in fencing:--I
hasten to remark that I do not even yet understand anything of all
these things. I have only to relate how they taught them to me.
When I went to my private lessons--"together with the others"--the
professor was not at home; we indulged in an hour's wrestling.
When I went to my dancing lessons--"together with the others"--the
dancing master was missing: again an hour's wrestling.
During the French lessons we again wrestled, and during the drawing and
violin hours we spent our time exactly as we did during the other hours;
so that when the gymnastic lessons came round we had no more heart for
wrestling.
I did just learn to swim,--in secret, seeing that it was prohibited, and
truly without paying:--unless I may count as a forfeit penalty that mass
of water I swallowed once, when I was nearly drowned in the Danube. None
even dared to acquaint the people at home with the fact; Lorand saved
me, but he never boasted of his feat.
As we left the house of this very kind man, who quite overcame
grandmother and us, with his gracious and amiable demeanors, Lorand
said:
"From this hour I begin to greatly esteem the first professor: he is a
noble, straight-forward fellow."
I did not understand his meaning--that is, I did not wish to understand.
Perhaps he wished to slight "my" professor.
According to my ethical principles it was purely natural that each
student should admire and love that professor who was the director of
his own class, and if one class is secretly at war with another, the
only reason can be that the professor of one class is the opponent of
the other. My kingdom is the foe of thy kingdom, so my soldiers are the
enemies of thy soldiers.
I began to look at Lorand in the light of some such hostile soldier.
Fortunately the events that followed drove all these ideas out of my
head.