+By F. Harris Deans.+
Other travellers may have experienced adventures in inns. They may
have been awakened--many declare they have--in the early hours of the
morning by the creaking of the stairs; have listened, frozen with
horror, to the whispered colloquy between the villainous innkeeper and
his equally villainous wife outside his door; have heard the stealthy
sharpening of a knife. I admit that such adventures may have befallen
other wayfarers, but that anyone has lived through a night at an inn as
strange as that spent by me I am unable to believe.
[Illustration: MR. F. HARRIS DEANS, WHO HERE RELATES AN AMUSING
EXPERIENCE THAT BEFELL HIM IN HUNGARY.
_From a Photograph._]
The only person--at one time I had regarded him as a friend--to whom
I have hitherto nerved myself to recount my experience regarded it
as an excuse--nay, more than an excuse, an incentive--for mirth. The
thoughtful reader, however, who now becomes acquainted with my story
will, I feel confident, place himself in imagination in my position,
so that his perusal of this article will, at all events, enable him to
refrain from ribald laughter.
I will confess at the outset that my knowledge of Hungarian is limited
to some dozen words. The time of day I will pass with you in the most
fluent Ungarisch; if you, enraptured at my accent, wish to continue the
conversation, and will confine yourself to remarking that the weather
is hot or cold (you must not say warm or chilly), I will agree, or
disagree, with you--curtly, maybe, but nevertheless I will do so; if
you are thirsty I will order you wine, beer, or water; your hunger I
will satisfy with bread. Further, I can amuse, instruct, and elevate
you by counting up to ten.
The reader who himself possesses some knowledge of Hungarian will share
with me my admiration of my linguistic accomplishments. It takes some
years of patient efforts for an Hungarian himself to learn his own
language. I feel confident, had I been so fortunate (I am writing this
in the heart of Hungary, and the inhabitants are an impulsive people)
as to have been born an Hungarian, I should have borne dumbness with
equanimity.
All this--though, to the broad-minded, it excuses my ignorance of the
language--does not alter the fact that I was fully aware beforehand
that in certain regions of the country I should not be able to enjoy
heart-to-heart talks with the people. Even in England there are whole
villages which speak no tongue save their native one. I did not,
however, anticipate that my ignorance would land me in the weird
adventure here set forth.
In a town, however, such as Arad I did not anticipate that there would
exist one miserable, imbecile, uneducated incompetent--who, alas, only
knows my opinion of him through a far too polite interpreter--who spoke
only his own language, and that this one disreputable outcast and
disgrace to an educated nation should cross my path.
I arrived in Arad--a town of about sixty thousand people, lying
near the Roumanian border--at about 2 a.m. I had not slept for over
thirty-six hours, and I was so tired that I would have shared a bed
with a Roumanian peasant. Can I say more?
At the nearest hotel I pulled myself together and demanded, in what
was, under the circumstances, very tolerable German, a bedroom. There
was no difficulty about this; there was a room vacant. Gladly I filled
in particulars of myself on the Police Form as the law demands.
"Are you an Austrian or a German?" inquired the porter.
I glanced at him sharply; I was in no mood for sarcasm. Besides, if it
came to that, _his_ German wasn't of much account. But no; his face
was gravity itself; courteous curiosity was its only expression. I
pointed--I had no mind to risk my reputation as a linguist by further
speech--to the form I had just filled in.
"London," he read. "So, ein Englander?"
"_Ja_," said I.