I AND THE DEMON
It was already late in the evening when Balnokhazy's butler brought me a
letter, and then hurriedly departed, before I could read it.
It was Lorand's writing. The message was short:
"My dear brother:--I have been betrayed and must escape: comfort our
dear parents. Good-bye."
I leaped up from my bed:--I had already gone to bed that I might get up
early on the morrow:--and hastened to dress.
My first idea was to go to Balnokhazy. He was my uncle and relation, and
was extremely fond of us: besides, he was very influential; he could
accomplish anything he wished, I would tell him everything frankly, and
beg him to do for my brother what he was capable of doing: to prevent
his prosecution and arrest, or, if he was convicted, to secure his
pardon. Why, to such a great man nothing could be impossible.
I begged old Marton to open the door for me.
"What! discipulus negligens! To slip out of the house at night is not
proper. He who wanders about at night can be no Lieutenant Governor--at
most a night-watchman."
"No joking now; they are prosecuting my brother! I must go and help
him."
"Why didn't you tell me at once? Prosecute indeed? You should have told
me that. Who? Perhaps the butcher clerks? If so, let us all six go with
clubs to his aid."
"No, they are not butcher clerks. What are you thinking of?"
"Why, in past years the law-students were continually having brawls with
butcher clerks."
"They want to arrest him," I whispered to him, "to put him in prison,
because he was one of the 'Parliamentary youth' lot."
"Aha," said Marton, "that's where we are is it? That is beyond my
assistance. And, what can you do?"
"I must go to my uncle Balnokhazy at once and ask him to interfere."
"That's surely a wise thing to do. Under those circumstances I shall go
with you. Not because I think you would be afraid to go by yourself at
night, but that I may be able to tell the old man by-and-bye that you
were not in mischief."
The old fellow put on a coat in a moment, and a pair of boots, then
accompanied me to the Balnokhazys.
He did not wish to come in, but told me that, on my way back, I should
look for him at the corner beer-house, where he would wait for me.
I hurried up stairs.
I was greatly disappointed to find my brother's door closed: at other
times that had always been my first place of retreat.
I heard the piano in the "salon": so I went in there.
Melanie was playing with the governess.
They did not seem surprised that I came at so late an hour; I only
noticed that they behaved a little more stiffly towards me than on other
occasions.
Melanie was deeply engrossed in studying the notes. I enquired whether I
could speak with my uncle.
"He has not yet come home from the club," said the governess.
"And her ladyship."
"She has gone to the ball."
That annoyed me a little.
"And when do they come home?"
"The Privy Councillor at eleven o'clock, he usually plays whist till
that hour; her ladyship probably not until after midnight. Do you wish
to wait?"
"Yes, until my uncle returns."
"Then you can take supper with us."
"Thank you, I have already had supper."
"Do they have supper so early at the baker's?"
"Yes."
I then sat down beside the piano, and thought for a whole hour what a
stupid instrument the piano was; a man's head may be full of ideas, and
it will drive them all out.
Yet I had so much to ponder over. What should I say to my uncle when he
came. With what should I begin? How could I tell him what I knew? What
should I ask from him?
But how was it possible that neither was at home at such a critical
time? Surely they must have been informed of such a misfortune. I did
not dare to introduce Lorand's name before the governess. Who knows what
others are? Besides, I had no sympathy for her. For me a governess
seemed always a most frivolous creature.
In the room there was a large clock that caused me most annoyance. How
long it took for those hands to reach ten o'clock! Then, when it did
strike, its tone was of that aristocratic nasal quality that it must
have acquired from the voices of the people around it.
Sometimes the governess laughed, when Melanie made some curious mistake;
Melanie, too, laughed and peeped from behind her music to see if I was
smiling.
I had not even noticed it.
Then my pretty cousin poutingly tossed back her curly hair, as if she
were annoyed that I too was beginning to play a part of indifference
towards her.
At last the street-door bell rang. From the footsteps I knew my uncle
had come. They were so dignified.
Soon the butler entered and said I could speak with his lordship, if I
so desired.
Trembling all over, I took my hat, and wished the ladies good-night.
"Are you not coming back, to hear the end of the Cavatina;" inquired
Melanie.
"I cannot," I answered, and left them there.
My uncle's study was on the farther side of the hall; the butler lighted
my way with a lamp, then he put it down on a chest, that I might find my
way back.
"Well, my child, what do you want?" inquired my uncle, in that gay,
playful tone, which we are wont to use in speaking to children to
express that we are quite indifferent as to their affairs.
I answered languidly, as if some gravestone were weighing upon my
breast,
"Dear uncle, Lorand has left us."
"You know already?" he asked, putting on his many colored embroidered
dressing-gown.
"You know too?" I exclaimed, taken aback.
"What, that Lorand has run away?" remarked my uncle, coolly buttoning
together the silken folds of his dressing gown; "why I know more than
that:--I know also that my wife has run away with him, and all my wife's
jewels, not to mention the couple of thousand florins that were at
home--all have run away with your brother Lorand."
How I reached the street after those words; whether they opened the door
for me; whether they led me out or kicked me out, I assure you I do not
know. I only came to myself, when Marton seized my arm in the street and
shouted at me:
"Well sir Lieutenant-Governor, you walk right into me without even
seeing me. I got tired of waiting in the beer-house and began to think
that they had run you in too. Well, what is the matter? How you
stagger."
"Oh! Marton," I stammered, "I feel very faint."
"What has happened?"
"I cannot tell anyone that."
"Not to anyone? No! not to Mr. Brodfresser,[47] nor to Mr.
Commissioner:--but to Marton, to old Marton? Has old Marton ever let out
anything? Old Marton knows much that would be worth his while to tell
tales about: have you ever heard of old Marton being a gossip? Has old
Marton ever told tales against you or anyone else? And if I could help
you in any way?"
[Footnote 47: The name given to Desiderius' professor ("bread
devourer").]
There was a world of frank good-heartedness in these reproaches; besides
I had to catch after the first straw to find a way of escape.
"Well, and what did my old colleague say?--You know the reason I call
him 'colleague,' is that my hair always acts as if it were a wig, while
his wig always acts as it if were hair."
"He said," I answered tremblingly, hanging on to his arm, "he knew more
than I. Lorand has not merely run away, but has stolen my uncle's wife."
At these words Marton commenced to roar with laughter. He pressed his
hands upon his stomach and just roared, then turned round, as if he
wished to give the further end of the street a taste of his laughter;
then he remarked that it was a splendid joke, at which remark I was
sufficiently scandalized.
"And then he said--that Lorand had stolen his money."
At this Marton straightened himself and raised his head very seriously.
"That is bad. That is 'a mill,' as Father Fromm would say. Well, and
what do you think of it, sir?"
"I think, it cannot be true; and I want to find my brother, no matter
what has become of him.
"And when you have found him?"
"Then, if that woman is holding him by one hand, I shall seize the other
and we shall see which of us will be the stronger."
Marton gave me a sound slap on the back, saying "Teufelskerl.[48] What
are you thinking of?--would other children mind, if a beautiful woman
ran away with their brother? But this one wishes to stand between them.
Excellent. Well, shall we look for Master Lorand? How will you begin?"
[Footnote 48: Devil's fellow: _i. e._, devil of a fellow.]
"I don't know."
"Let me see; what have you learned at school? What can you do, if you
are suddenly thrown back on your own resources? Which way will you
start? Right or left: will you cry in the street, 'Who has seen my
brother?'"
Indeed I did not know how to begin.
"Well,--you shall see that you can at times make use of that old fellow
Marton. Trust yourself to me. Listen to me now, as if I were Mr.
Brodfresser. If two of them ran away together, surely they must have
taken a carriage. The carriage was a fiacre. Madame has always the same
coachman, number 7. I know him well. So first of all we must find
Moczli: that is coachman No. 7. He lives in the Zuckermandel. It's a
cursed long way, but that's all the better, for by the time we get to
his house we shall be all the surer to find him at home."
"If he was the one who took them."
"Don't play the fool now, sir studiosus. I know what cab-horses are.
They could not take anyone as far as the border; at most as far as some
wayside inn, where speedy country horses can be found: there the
runaways are waiting while the fiacre is returning."
In astonishment I asked what made him surmise all this: when it seemed
to me that with speedy country horses they might already be far beyond
the frontier.
"Sir Lieutenant-Governor," was Marton's hasty reproof; "How could you
have such ideas? You expect to become Lieutenant-Governor some day, yet
you don't know that he who wishes to pass the frontiers must be supplied
with a passport. No one can go without a pass from Pressburg to Vienna;
Madame has quite surely despatched Moczli back to bring to her the
gentleman with whose 'pass' they are to escape farther."
"What gentleman?"
"An actor from the theatre here, who will arrange that the young
gentleman shall pass the frontier with his passport."
"How can you figure it all out?"
Marton paused for a moment, made an ugly mouth, closed his left eye, and
hissed through his teeth, as if he would express by all this pantomime
that there are things which cannot be held under children's noses.
"Well, never mind; you do wish to be a county officer or something of
the kind. So you must know about such things sooner or later, when you
will have to examine people on such questions. I will tell you--I know
because Moczli once told me just such a story about madame."
"Once before?"
"Certainly," said Marton chuckling wickedly. "Ha ha! Madame is a cute
little woman. But then no one knows of it--only Moczli and I; and
Madame's husband. Her husband has already pardoned her for it: Moczli
was well paid; and what business is it of Marton's? All three of us hold
our tongues, like a broiled fish. But it is not the first time it has
happened."
I do not know why, but this discovery somehow relieved my bitterness. I
began to surmise that Lorand was not the most deeply implicated in the
crime.
"Well, let us go first of all to Moczli," said Marton; "But I have a
promise to exact from you. Don't say a word yourself; leave the talking
to me. For he is a cursed fellow, this Moczli; if he finds that we wish
to get information out of him, he will lie like a book: but I will
suddenly drive in upon him, so that he will not know whether to turn to
the right or to the left. I will spring something on him as if I knew
all about it, that will scare him out of his wits and then I'll press
him close, so that it'll take his breath away, and before he knows it
I'll have that secret squeezed out of him to the very last drop. You
must observe how it is done, so that you can make use of similar methods
in the future when in the position of Lieutenant-Governor you will have
to cross-question some suspicious rascal in order to wring the truth out
of him!"
By this time we had started at a brisk pace along the banks of the
Danube. I wasn't dressed for such a dismal night, and old Marton was
doing his best to shield me with the wing of his coat against the
chilling gusts that rushed against us from the river. At the same time
he made every effort to make me believe that what we were engaged in was
one of the finest jokes he had ever taken a hand in, and that our
recollections of it will afford us no end of amusement in the future. At
the foot of the castle-hill, along the banks of the Danube was a group
of tottering houses; tottering because in spring, when the ice broke up,
the Danube roared and dashed among them. Here lived the fiacre drivers.
Here were the cab-horses in tumble-down stables.
It was a ball-night: in the windows of the tumble-down houses candles
were burning, for the cabmen were waiting till midnight, when they would
again harness their horses and return to fetch their patrons from the
ball-room.
Marton looked in at one window so lighted; he had to climb up on
something to do so, for the ground floor was built high, in order that
the water might not enter at the windows.
"He is at home," he remarked, as he stepped down, "but he is evidently
preparing to go out again, for he has his top-coat on."
The gate was open; the carriage was in the courtyard, the horses in the
shafts, covered with rugs.
Their harness had not even been taken off: they must have just arrived
and had to start again at once.
Marton motioned to me to follow him at his heels while he made his way
into the house.
The door we ran up against could not be opened unless one knew the
tricks that made it yield. Marton seemed to be well acquainted with the
peculiarities of the entrance to Moczli's den: first he pressed down on
the door knob and raised the whole door bracing against it with his
shoulder, then turning the knob and giving the door a severe kick it
flew open and in the next moment we found ourselves in a dingy, narrow
hole of a room smelling horribly of axle-grease, tallow and
tobacco-smoke.
On a table, which was leaning against the wall with the side where a leg
was broken, stood a burning tallow-dip stuck into the mouth of an empty
beer-jug, and by its dim light Moczli was seated eating--no, devouring
his supper. With incredible rapidity he was piling in and ramming down,
as it were, enormous slices of blood-sausage in turn with huger chunks
of salted bread.
His many-collared coat was thrown over his huge frame, and his
broad-brimmed hat that was pressed over his eyes was still covered with
hoar-frost that had no chance of thawing in that cold, damp room, the
wall of which glistened like the sides of some dripping cave.
Moczli was a well-fed fellow, with strongly protruding eyes, which
seemed almost to jump out of their sockets as he stared at us for
bursting in upon him without knocking.
"Well, where does it 'burn?'" were his first words to Marton.
"Gently, old fellow; don't make a noise. There is other trouble! You are
betrayed and they will pinch the young gentleman at the frontier."
Moczli was really scared for a moment. A tremendous three-cornered chunk
of bread that he had just thrust in his mouth stuck there staring
frightenedly at us like Moczli himself and looking for all the world as
if a second nose was going to grow on his face; however he soon came to
himself, continued the munching process, gulped it all down, and then
drank a huge draught out of a monstrous glass, his protruding eyes being
all the while fixed on me.
"I surely thought there was a fire somewhere, and I must go for a
fire-pump again with my horses.--I must always go for the pump, if a
fire breaks out anywhere. Even if there is a fire in the mill quarter,
it is only me they drive out: why does not the town keep horses of her
own?"
"Do you hear, Moczli," Marton interrupted, "don't talk to me now of the
town pumps don't sprinkle your throat either, for it's not there that it
is burning, but your back will be burning immediately, if you don't
listen to me. Her ladyship's husband learned all. They will forestall
the young gentleman at the frontier, and bring him back."
Moczli endeavored to display a calm countenance, though his eyes belied
him.
"What 'young gentleman' do you mean, and what 'ladyship?'"
Marton bent over him and whispered,
"Moczli, you don't want to make a fool of yourself before me, surely.
Was it not you that took away Balnokhazy's wife in the company of a
young gentleman? Your number is on your back: do you think no one can
see it?"
"If I did take them off, where did I drive them to? Why to the ball."
"A fine ball, indeed. You know they want to arrest the 'juratus.' He
will find one for you soon where they play better music. Here is his
younger brother, just come from seeing his lordship, who told him his
wife had eloped with the young gentleman whom they would search for in
every direction."
Moczli was at this moment deeply engaged in picking his teeth. First
with his tongue, then with his fingers, until he found a wisp of straw
with which to clean them, and at which, like drowning people, he
clutched to save himself.
"Well, do you think I care: anyone may send for anyone else for all I
mind. I have seen no one, have taken no one away. And if I did take
someone, what business of mine is it to know what the one is doing with
the other? And even if I did know that someone has eloped with someone
else's wife, what business is it of mine? I am no 'syndic' that I should
bother my head to ask questions about it: I carry woman or man, who
pays, according to the tariff of fares. Otherwise I know absolutely
nothing."
"Well, good-bye, and God bless you, Moczli," said Marton hastily. "If
you don't know about it, someone else must know about it. However, we
didn't come here to gaze into your dreamy eyes, but to free this young
gentleman's brother: we shall search among the other fiacres, until we
find the right one, for it is a critical business: and if we find that
fiacre in which the young fellow came to harm and cannot manage to
secure his escape, I would not like to be in his shoes."
"In whose shoes?" inquired Moczli, terrified.
"In the young gentleman's not at all, but still less in the
fiacre-driver's. Well, good-night, Moczli."
At these words Moczli leaped up from his chair and sprang after Marton.
"Wait a moment: don't be a fool. Come with me. Take your seats in my
fiacre. But the devil take me if I have seen, heard or said anything."
Therewith he removed the rugs from his horses, placed me inside the
carriage, covering me with a rug, took Marton beside him on the box, and
drove desperately along the bank of the Danube.
Long did I see the lamps of the bridge glittering in the water; then
suddenly the road turned abruptly, and, to judge by the almost
intolerable shaking of the carriage and the profound darkness, we had
entered one of those alleys, the paving of which is counted among the
curses of civilization, the street-lamps being entrusted to the care of
future generations.
The carriage suddenly proceeded more heavily: perhaps we were ascending
a hill: the whip was being plied more vigorously every moment on the
horses' backs: then suddenly the carriage stopped.
Moczli commenced to whistle as if to amuse himself, at which I heard the
creaking of a gate, and we drove into some courtyard.
When the carriage stopped, the coachman leaped off the box, and
addressed me through the window.
"We are here: at the end of the courtyard is a small room; a candle is
burning in the window. The young gentleman is there."
"Is the woman with him too?" I inquired softly.
"No. She is at the 'White Wolf,' waiting with the speedy peasant cart,
until I bring the gentleman with whom she must speak first."
"He cannot come yet, for the performance is not yet over."
Moczli opened his eyes still further.
"You know that too?"
I hastened across the long dark courtyard and found the door of the
little room referred to. A head was to be seen at the lighted window.
Lorand was standing there melting the ice on the panes with his breath,
that he might see when the person he was expecting arrived.
Oh how he must have loved her. What a desperate struggle awaited me!
When he saw me from the window, he disappeared from it, and hurried to
meet me.
At the door we met and in astonishment he asked:
"How did you get here?"
I said nothing, but embraced him, and determined that even if he cut me
in pieces, I would never part from him.
"Why did you come after me? How did you find your way hither?"
I saw he was annoyed. He was displeased that I had come.
"Those, who saw you take your seat in a carriage, directed me."
He visibly shuddered.
"Who saw me?"
"Don't be afraid. Someone who will not betray you."
"But what do you want? Why did you come after me?"
"You know, dear Lorand, when we left home mother whispered in my ear,
'take care of Lorand,' when grandmother left us here, she whispered in
my ear, 'take care of your brother.' They will ask me to give account
of how I loved you. And what shall I tell them, if they ask me 'where
were you when Lorand stood in direst danger?'"
Lorand was touched; he pressed me close to his heart, saying:--
"But, how can you help me?"
"I don't know. I only know that I shall follow you, wherever you go."
This very naive answer roused Lorand to anger.
"You will go to hell with me! Do I want irons on my feet to hinder my
steps when I scarce know myself whither I shall fly? I know not how to
rescue myself, and must I rescue you too?"
Lorand was in a violent rage and strove to shake me off from him. Yet I
would not leave go of him.
"What if I intend to rescue you?"
"You?" he said, looking at me, and thrusting his hands in his pockets.
"What part of me will you defend?"
"Your honor, Lorand."
Lorand drew back at these words.
"My honor?"
"And mine:--You know that father left us one in common, one we cannot
divide--his unsullied name. It is entirely mine, just as it is entirely
yours."
Lorand shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
"Let it be yours entirely: I give over my claim."
This indifference towards the most sacred ideas quite embittered me. I
was beside myself, I must break out.
"Yes, because you wish to take the name of a wandering actor, and to
elope with a woman who has a husband."
"Who told you?" Lorand exclaimed, standing before me with clenched
fists.
I was far from being afraid of anyone: I answered coolly.
"That woman's husband."
Lorand was silent and began to walk feverishly up and down the narrow,
short, little room. Suddenly he stopped, and half aside addressed me,
always in the same passionate tones.
"Desi, you are still a child."
"I know."
"There are things which cannot yet be explained to you."
"On such subjects you may hold your peace."
"You have spoken with that woman's husband?"
"He said, you had eloped with his wife."
"And that is why you came after me?"
"Yes."
"Now what do you want?"
"I want you to leave that woman."
"Have you lost your senses?"
"Mine? Not yet."
"You wish perhaps to hint that I have lost mine: it is possible, very
possible."
Therewith he sat down beside the table, and leaning his chin on his
hands, began to gaze abstractedly into the candle-flames like some real
lunatic.
I stepped up to him, and laid my head on his shoulder.
"Dear Lorand, you are angry with me."
"No. Only tell me what else you know."
"If you wish I will leave you here and return."
"Do as you wish."
"And what shall I tell dear mother, if she asks questions about you?"
Lorand dispiritedly turned his head away from me.
"You wrote to me to cheer and comfort mother and grandmother:--tell me
then, what shall I write to them, if they enquire after you?"
Lorand answered defiantly,
"Write that Lorand is dead."
At his answer the blood boiled within me. I seized my brother's hands
and cried to him:
"Lorand, till now the fathers were suicides in our family: do you wish
that the mothers should continue the list?"
It was a pitiless remark of mine, I knew. Lorand commenced to shiver, I
felt it. He stood up before me and became so pale.
I wished I had addressed him more gently.
"My dear brother Lorand, could you bear to become responsible for a
mother, who left her child, and for another who died for her child?"
Lorand clasped his hands and bowed his head.
"If you only knew what you are saying to me now?" he said with such
bitter reproach that I can never forget it.
"But I have not yet told you all I know."
"What do you know? As yet you are happy--your life mere play--passion
does not yet trouble you. But I am already lost, through what, you have
no idea, and may you never have!"
How he must love that woman!
It would have cost me few words to make him hate and despise her, but I
did not wish to break his heart. I had other means with which to steel
his heart, that he might wake up, as from a delirious dream, to another
life.
I too had had visions about my piano-playing beauty: but I had forgotten
that ideal for ever and ever, for being able to play, after she knew her
mother had run away.--But that was mere childish love, a child's
thought---there is something, however, in the heart which is awakened
earlier, and dies later than passion, that is a feeling of honor, and I
had as much of that as Lorand: let us see whose was the stronger.
"Lorand, I don't know what enchantment it was, with which this woman
could lure you after her. But I know that I too have a magic word, which
will tear you from her."
"Your magic word?--Do you wish to speak of mother? Do you wish to stand
in my way with her name?--Do so.--The only effect you will produce, by
worrying me very much, will be that I shall blow my brains out here
before you: but from that woman you can never tear me."
"I have no intention to speak of poor mother. It is a different subject
I have in mind."
"Something, or someone else."
"It is Balnokhazy, for whose sake you are going to leave this woman."
Lorand shrugged his shoulders.
"Do you think I am afraid of Balnokhazy's prosecution?"
"He has no intention of prosecuting you. He has been very considerate to
his wife in similar cases. Well, don't knit your eyebrows so; I am not
saying a word about his wife. I have no business with women. Balnokhazy
will not prosecute you, he will merely tell the world what has happened
to him."
Lorand, with a bitter smile of scorn, asked me:
"What will he relate to the world?"
"That his wife broke open his safe, stole his jewels, and his ready
money, and eloped with a young man."
Lorand turned abruptly to me like one whom a snake has bitten,
"What did he say?"
"That his faithless wife in company with a young man, whom he had
treated like his own child, has stolen his money, and then run away,
like a thief--with her companion in theft!"
Lorand clutched at the table for support.
"Don't, don't say any more."
"I shall. I have seen the safes, empty, in which the family treasures
were wont to be piled. I heard from the cabman, who handed in her
travelling bag after her that 'it must have been full of gold, it was so
heavy.'"
Lorand's face was burning now like the clouds of a storm-swept sky at
sunset.
"Did you have the bag in your hands?" I asked him.
"Not a word more!" Lorand cried, pressing my arm so that it pained me.
"That woman shall never see me again."
Then he sank upon the table and sobbed.
How glad I felt that I had been able to move him.
Soon he raised his tear-stained face, stood up, came to me, embraced and
kissed me.
"You have conquered!--Now tell me what else you want with me?"
I was incapable of uttering a word, so oppressed was my heart in my
delight, my anguish. It was no child's play, this. Fate is not wont to
entrust such a struggle to a child's hands.
"Brother, dear!" more I could not say: I felt as he must have when he
brought me up from the bottom of the Danube.
"You will not allow anyone," he whispered, "to utter such a calumny
against me."
"You may be sure of that."
"You will not let them degrade me before mother?"
"I shall defend you. You see that after all I am capable of defending
you.--But time is precious:--they are prosecuting you for another crime
too, you know, from which to escape is a duty. There is not a moment to
lose. Fly!"
"Whither? I cannot take new misfortunes to mother's house."
"I have an idea. We have a relation of whom we have heard much, far off
in the interior of the country, where they will never look for you,
since we were never on good terms with him, Uncle Topandy."
"That infidel?" exclaimed Lorand; then he added bitterly, "It was a good
idea of yours, indeed: I shall have a very good place in the house of an
atheist, who lives at enmity with the whole earth, and with Heaven
besides."
"There you will be well hidden."
"Well and for ever."
"Don't say that. This danger will pass away."
"Listen to me, Desi," said Lorand severely. "I shall abide by what you
say: I shall go away, without once looking behind: I shall bury myself,
but on one condition, which you must accept, or I shall go to the
nearest police station and report myself."
"What do you wish?"
"That you shall never tell either mother or grandmother, where I have
gone to."
"Never?" I inquired, frightenedly.
"No, only after ten years, ten years from to-day."
"Why?"
"Don't ask me: only give me your word of honor to keep my secret. If you
do not do so, you will inflict a heavy sorrow on me, and on all our
family."
"But if circumstances change?"
"I said, not for ten years. And, if the whole world should dance with
delight, still keep peace and don't call for me, or put my mother on my
tracks. I have a special reason for my desire, and that reason I cannot
tell you."
"But if they ask me, if they weep before me?"
"Tell them nothing ails me, I am in a good place. I shall take another
name, [49]Balint Tatray. Topandy also shall know me under that name. I
shall find my way to his place as bailiff, or servant, whichever he will
accept me as, and then I shall write to you once every month. You will
tell my loved ones at home what you know of me. And they will love you
twice as well for it: they will love you in place of me."
[Footnote 49: A name peculiarly Magyar.]
I hesitated. It was a difficult promise.
"If you love me, you must undertake it for my sake."
I clung to him and said I would undertake to keep the secret. For ten
years I would not say before mother or grandmother where their dearest
son had gone.
Would they reach the end of those ten years?
"You undertake that--on your word of honor?" said Lorand, gazing deeply
into my eyes; "on that honor by which you just now so proudly appealed
to me? Look, the whole Aronffy name is borne by you alone. Do you
undertake it for the honor of that whole name, not to mention this
secret before mother or grandmother?"
"I do--on my word of honor."
He grasped my hand. He trusted so much to that word!
"Well, now be quick. The carriage is waiting."
"Carriage? With that I cannot travel far. Besides it is unnecessary. I
have two good legs, they will carry me, if necessary, to the end of the
world, without demanding payment afterwards."
I took a little purse, on the outside of which mother had worked a
design, from my pocket, and wished to slip it into Lorand's side-pocket
without attracting attention.
He discovered it.
"What is this?"
"A little money. I thought you might want it for the journey."
"How did you come by it?" enquired my brother in astonishment.
"Why, you know, you yourself paid me two twenties a sheet, when I copied
those writings."
"And you have kept it?"--Lorand opened the purse, and saw within it
about twenty florins. He began to laugh.
How glad I was to see him laugh now, I cannot tell you, his laughter
infected me too, then I do not know why, but we laughed together, very
good-spiritedly. Now as I write these words the tears stand in my
eyes--and I did laugh so heartily.
"Why, you have made a millionaire of me."
Then cheerfully he put my purse into his pocket. And I did not know what
to do in my delight at Lorand's accepting my money.
"Now comrade mine, I could go to the end of the world. I don't have to
play 'armen reisender'[50] on the way."
[Footnote 50: Poor traveller.]
When we stepped out again through the low door into the narrow dark
courtyard, Marton and Moczli were standing in astonishment before us.
Anyone could see they could not comprehend what they had seen by
peeping through the window.
"I am here," said Moczli, touching the brim of his hat, "where shall I
drive, sir?"
"Just drive where you were told to," said Lorand, "take him for whom you
were sent, to her who sent you for him.--I am going in another
direction."
At these words Marton grasped my arm so savagely I almost cried out with
pain. It was his peculiar method of showing his approval.
"Very good, sir," said Moczli, without asking any further questions, and
clambering up onto the box.
"Stop a moment," Lorand exclaimed, taking out his purse. "Let no one say
that you were paid for any services you did me with other people's
money."
"Wha-at?" roughly grumbled Moczli. "Pay me? Am I a 'Hanak fuvaros'[51]
that someone should pay me for helping a 'juratus' to escape? That has
never happened yet."
[Footnote 51: A Slavonian coachman who hires out his coach and
carriages.]
With that he whipped up his horses, and drove out of the courtyard.
"That's the trump for you," said Marton, "that's Moczli. I know Moczli,
he's a sharp fellow, without him we should never have found our way
here. Well, sir, and whither now?"
This remark was made to Lorand. My brother was acquainted with the
jesting old fellow, and had often heard his humorous anecdotes, when he
came to see me.
"At all events away from Pressburg, old man."
"But which way? I think the best would be over the bridge, through the
park."
"But very many people pass there. Someone might recognize me."
"Then straight along the Danube, down-stream; by morning you will reach
the ferry at Muehlau, where they will ferry you over for two kreuzers.
Have you some change? You must always have that. Men on foot must
always pay in copper, or they will be suspected. It's a pity I didn't
know sooner, I could have lent you a passport. You might have travelled
as a baker's assistant."
"I shall travel as a 'legatus.'[52]"
[Footnote 52: A travelling preacher. A kind of missionary sent out by
the "Legatio."]
"That will do finely."
Meantime we reached the end of the street. Lorand wished to bid us
farewell.
"Oho!" said Marton, "we shall accompany you to the outskirts of the
town; we cannot leave you alone until you are in a secure place, on the
high-road. Do you know what? You two go on in advance and I shall remain
close behind, pretending to be a little drunk. Patrols are in the
street. If I sing loudly they will waste their attention on me, and will
not bother you. If necessary, I shall pitch into them, and while they
are running me in, you can go on. To you, Master Lorand, I give my stick
for the journey. It's a good, honest stick. I have tramped all over
Germany with it. Well, God bless you."
The old fellow squeezed Lorand's hand.
"I have a mind to say something. But I shall say nothing. It is well
just as it is,--I shall say nothing. God bless you, sir."
Therewith the old man dropped back, and began to brawl some yodling air
in the street, and to thump the doors with his fists, in accompaniment,
like some drunken reveller.
"Hai-dia-do."
Taking each other's hand we hastened on. The streets were already very
dark here.
At the end of the town are barracks, before which we had to pass: the
cry of the sentinel sounded in the distance. "Who goes there? Guard
out!" and soon behind our backs we heard the squadron of horsemen
clattering on the pavement.
Marton did just as he had said. He pitched into the guard. Soon we heard
a dream-disturbing uproar, as he fell into a noisy discussion with the
armed authorities.
"I am a citizen! A peaceful, harmless citizen! Fugias Mathias (this to
us)! Ten glasses of beer are not the world! I am a citizen, Fugias
Mathias is my name! I will pay for every thing. If I have broken any
bottles I will pay for them. Who says I am shouting? I am singing.
'Hai-dia-do;' let any one who doesn't like it try to sing more
beautifully himself!"
We were already outside of the town, and still we heard the terrible
noise which he made in his self-sacrifice for our sakes.
As we came out into the open, we were both able to breathe more freely;
the starry sky is a good shelter.
The cold, too, compelled us to hasten. We had walked a good half-hour
among the vineyards, when suddenly something occurred to Lorand.
"How long do you wish to accompany me?"
"Until day breaks. In this darkness I should not dare to return to the
town alone."
Now he became anxious for me too. What could he do with me? Should he
let me go home alone at midnight through these clusters of houses in
that suburb of ill-repute. Or should he take me miles on his way with
him? From there I should have to return alone in any case.
At that moment a carriage approached rapidly, and as it passed before
us, somebody leaped down upon us from the back seat, and laughing came
where we were beside the hedge.
In him we recognized old Marton.
"I have found you after all," said the old fellow, smiling. "What a fine
time I have had. They really thought I was drunk. I quarrelled with
them. That was the 'gaude!' They tugged and pulled, and beat my back
with the flat of their sabres: it was something glorious!"
"Well, how did you escape?" I asked, not finding that entertainment to
the accompaniment of sabre-blows so glorious.
"When I saw a carriage approaching, I leaped out from their midst and
climbed up behind:--nor did they give me a long chase. I soon got away
from them."
The good old man was quite content with the fine amusement which he had
procured for himself.
"But now we must really say adieu, Master Lorand. Don't go the same way
as the carriage went: cut across the road here in the hills to the lower
road; you can breakfast at the first inn you come to: you will reach it
by dawn. Then go in the direction of the sunrise."
We embraced each other. We had to part. And who knew for how long?
Marton was nervous. "Let us go! Let Lorand too hurry on _his_ way."
Why, ten years is a very long way. By that time we should be growing
old.
"Love mother in my place. Then remember your word of honor." Lorand
whispered these words. Then he kissed me and in a few moments had
disappeared from my sight down the lower road among the hills.
Who knew when I should see him again?
Marton's laugh awoke me from my reverie.
"You know--" he inquired with a voice that showed his inclination to
laugh--"You know ha! ha--you know why I told Master Lorand not to go in
the same direction as the carriage?"
"No."
"Did you not recognize the coachman? It was Moczli."
"Moczli?"
"Do you know who was inside the carriage?--Guess!--Well, it was Madame."
"Balnokhazy's wife?"
"The same--with that certain actor."
"With whose passport Lorand was to have eloped?"
"Well if one is on his way to elope--it is all the same:--one must have
a companion, if not the one, then the other.'"
It was all a fable to me. But such a mysterious fable that it sent a
cold chill all over me.
"But where could they go?"
"Where?--Well, as far as the frontier, perhaps. Anyhow, as far as the
contents of that bag, which Moczli handed into the carriage after her
ladyship, will last.--Hai-dia-do."
Now it was really exuberance of spirits that made old Marton sing in
Tyrolese manner, that refrain, "hai-hai-dia-hia-do."
He actually danced on the dusty road--a galop.
Was it possible? That madonna face, than which I have never seen a more
beautiful, more enchanting--either before or since that day!