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The Baron's Sons
A Romance of the Hungarian
Revolution of 1848
By
Dr. Maurus JA cubedkai
Author of
"Midst the Wild Carpathians," "Black Diamonds,"
"Pretty Michal," "The Hungarian Nabob," etc.
Translated from the Fourth Hungarian Edition by
Percy Favor Bicknell
Joint Translator of "The Jesuit Relations."
[Illustration]
Boston
L.A C. Page and Company
(Incorporated) 1900
Copyright, 1900
By L.A C. Page and Company
(INCORPORATED)
All Rights Reserved
Colonial Press
Electrotyped and Printed by C.A H. Simonds & Co.
Boston, Mass., U.S.A.
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
No page of history is more crowded with thrilling interest than that
which records the uprising of the Hungarians, in 1848-49, in a gallant
attempt to recover their constitutional rights. The events of that
stirring period, even when related by the sober pen of the annalist,
read more like romance than reality; and thus they cannot fail to lend
themselves admirably to the purposes of historical fiction. More than
one of that brilliant series of novels with which the genius of
Hungary's greatest story-writer has enriched the literature, not of
his own country merely, but of the world, takes its theme from those
memorable scenes in which the author himself played no unimportant
part. Into none of these fascinating romances has the writer succeeded
in crowding so much of the life and colour, of the heroism and
self-sacrifice, the triumph and the despair, of that national
convulsion, as into the pages of "The Baron's Sons" ("_A KA'szA-vA+- Ember
Fiai_," literally, "The Sons of the Stony-hearted Man"). Especially
effective is his description of the historic flight over the
Carpathians of the two hundred and twenty hussars who, at the outbreak
of the Revolution, deserted the Austrian army and hastened to their
country's aid. No chapter in all the author's writings exceeds this
one in breathless interest and in the skilful handling of detail.
The necessity of abridging the author's text, while regretted by no
one more than by the translator, has, it is believed, tended to
contribute to the story an element of unity and compactness which,
owing to the undue elaboration of certain minor details, seems
somewhat lacking in the original. It is with extreme hesitation and
diffidence, however, that I venture, even in self-defence, to impute
the slightest blemish to a style in which so many of the author's
admirers can see no fault. The curtailment has necessitated, in some
chapters, a certain amount of adaptation, and a slight departure from
strict literalness of rendering; but it is hoped that the spirit of
the original has nowhere been sacrificed.
P.A F.A B.
Malden, Mass., April, 1900.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE vii
I. SIXTY MINUTES 1
II. THE PRAYER AT THE GRAVE 15
III. TWO GOOD FRIENDS 21
IV. THE TWO OTHERS 41
V. ALL SORTS OF PEOPLE 59
VI. THE _BACKFISCH_ 69
VII. THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 79
VIII. A WOMAN'S REVENGE 95
IX. THE UNDERSCORED LINES 105
X. THE BETROTHAL 109
XI. THE FIRST STEP 115
XII. SPRING DAYS 123
XIII. THE REVERSE OF THE MEDAL 129
XIV. TRUE LOVE 142
XV. MOTHER AND SON 165
XVI. THROUGH FIRE AND WATER 189
XVII. TIMELY AID 220
XVIII. GREGORY BOKSA 227
XIX. IN THE ROYAL FOREST 242
XX. THE DYING SOLDIER'S BEQUEST 246
XXI. SUNLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT 253
XXII. A WOMAN'S HATRED 258
XXIII. A DUEL BETWEEN BROTHERS 263
XXIV. ZEBULON'S BRIGHT IDEA 278
XXV. GOOD OLD FRIENDS 284
XXVI. AT HOME 291
XXVII. THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER 298
XXVIII. THE SUMMONS ANSWERED 304
XXIX. A POSTHUMOUS MESSAGE 309
XXX. THE PRISON TELEGRAPH 315
XXXI. A HEADACHE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 317
XXXII. THE SUITOR 327
XXXIII. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 334
THE BARON'S SONS.
CHAPTER I.
SIXTY MINUTES.
The post-prandial orator was in the midst of his toast, the
champagne-foam ran over the edge of his glass and trickled down his
fat fingers, his lungs were expanded and his vocal chords strained to
the utmost in the delivery of the well-rounded period upon which he
was launched, and the blood was rushing to his head in the generous
enthusiasm of the moment. In that brilliant circle of guests every man
held his hand in readiness on the slender stem of his glass and
waited, all attention, for the toast to come to an end in a final
dazzling display of oratorical pyrotechnics. The attendants hastened
to fill the half-empty glasses, and the leader of the gypsy orchestra,
which was stationed at the farther end of the hall, held his
violin-bow in the air, ready to fall in at the right moment with a
burst of melody that should drown the clinking of glasses at the close
of the toast.
At this point the family physician entered noiselessly and whispered a
few words in the ear of the hostess, who was presiding at the banquet,
and who immediately rose and, with a mute gesture of apology to those
of the guests who sat near her, withdrew from the room. Meanwhile the
orator continued:
"May that honoured man who, like a second Atlas, bears the burden of
our country on his shoulders, whom all future ages will reverence as
the type of true patriotism, who is the leader of our party's forces
in their march to victory, and whom we all regard as our light-giving
pharos, a tower of strength to our side and the bulwark of our cause,
though at present he is unfortunately unable to be with us in
person,--may he, I say, live to enjoy renewed health and strength and
to bear forward the banner of his party for many, many years to come!"
The final words of this peroration were drowned in a storm of cheers,
an outburst of music, and the confused din caused by the pushing back
of chairs and the dashing of wine-glasses against the wall, while the
guests fell into one another's arms in an ecstasy of enthusiasm.
"Long life to him!" they cried; "may he live a thousand years!"
He to whom the assembled company wished so long a life was the
renowned and honoured Baron Casimir Baradlay, lord lieutenant of his
county, the owner of large estates, and the leader of a powerful
party. The high dignitaries assembled about his hospitable board had
gathered from far and near to determine upon a programme which should
ensure their country's welfare for the coming years. As a fitting
close to this important conference, Baron Baradlay was treating his
partisans to a banquet in the great hall of his castle, and in the
unavoidable absence of the host himself his wife was presiding at the
festive board. The administrator, however, Benedict RideghvAiry, had
taken the absentee's place at the conference.
At the close of the toast, when those near the head of the table
turned to touch glasses with the hostess, her absence was noticed, and
the butler who stood behind her empty chair explained that the
physician had just entered and whispered something in the lady's ear,
whereupon she had left the room. Probably, said he, her husband had
sent for her. Upon this information a number of the guests made
anxious inquiry whether their honoured host was seriously ill; and the
administrator hastened to reassure all present, as far as his voice
could reach down the long table, by telling them that it was merely a
return of the baron's chronic ailment. Some of the better-informed
supplemented this announcement by explaining to their neighbours that
the gentleman had, for perhaps ten years, been subject to frequent
attacks of heart-failure, but could nevertheless, by observing very
regular habits, be expected to live for another ten years or more.
Therefore, as it was only one of his habitual attacks, all joined in
wishing their honoured host many, many years of life and happiness.
The family physician, however, had whispered in the wife's ear these
four words: "Only sixty minutes more!"
"I have been waiting for you," said the husband, as his wife entered
the sick-room, and the words sounded like a reproach.
"I came as soon as I could," returned the other, as if in apology.
"You stopped to weep, and yet you knew my time was short. Let us have
no weakness, Marie. It is the course of nature; in an hour I shall be
a senseless form; so the doctor told me. Are our guests enjoying
themselves?"
A silent nod was the reply.
"Let them continue to do so; do not disturb them, or hasten their
departure. Having assembled for a conference, let them remain for the
funeral banquet. I have long since determined upon all the details of
the burial ceremony. The funeral anthem will be sung by the Debreczen
College chorus--no opera music, only the old psalm tunes. The
customary addresses will be delivered by the superintendent, in the
church, and by the sub-dean, in the house, while the local pastor will
repeat the Lord's Prayer over the grave, and nothing more. Have you
followed me carefully?"
The wife was gazing abstractedly into vacancy.
"I beg you, Marie," urged the speaker, "to bear in mind that what I am
now saying I shall be unable to repeat. Have the goodness, then, to be
seated at this little table by my bed, and write down the directions I
have just given, and also those that I am about to add. You will find
writing materials on the table."
The baroness did her husband's bidding, seating herself at the little
table and writing down what had just been told her. When she had
finished the patient continued as follows:
"You have been a true and faithful wife to me, Marie, ever since our
marriage, and have obeyed all my commands. For an hour longer I shall
continue to be your lord and master, and the orders that I give you
during this hour will furnish you occupation for the rest of your
life. Nor shall I cease after my death to be your lord and master. Oh,
my breath is failing me! Give me a drop of that medicine."
The wife administered a few drops in a little gold teaspoon, and the
patient breathed more freely.
"Write down my words," he continued. "No one but you must hear them or
see them. I have performed a great work which must not perish with me.
The earth is to pause in its course and stand still; or, if the earth
as a whole will not stop, yet our small portion of it must do so.
Many there are who understand me, but few that know how to follow out
my designs, and still fewer that have the requisite courage. I have
three sons who will take my place when I am dead. Write down, Marie,
what my sons are to do after my death. They are all too young to
assume their duties at once. They must first be trained in the school
of life, and, meanwhile, you will be unable to see them. But don't
sigh over that; they are big boys now, and are not to be fondled and
petted any longer.
"My eldest son, A-dAśn,[1] is to remain at the court of St. Petersburg;
it is a good school for him. Nature and disposition have too long
fostered in him an ardent enthusiasm which can bring no good to our
stock, and of which he will there be cured. The Russian court is a
good training school, and will teach him to distinguish between men
born with certain inherited rights, and those born with no rights
whatever. It will teach him to stand on the heights without feeling
dizzy, to recognise the true rights of a wife in the eyes of her
husband, to cast aside all foolish youthful enthusiasm, and, upon his
return hither as a man, to grasp the rudder from which my hand has
fallen. You are to supply him with money enough to play his part
worthily among the young nobles of the Russian court. Let him drain
the cup of pleasure to the dregs. Leave him to his extravagances. To
gain the serene heights of indifference, a young man must first sow
his wild oats."
[Footnote 1: The vowel _Aś_ is sounded much like _oe_ in
_Goethe_. _J_, as in _JenAś_, is pronounced like _y_. In
pronouncing other Hungarian proper names in the book,
let it be noted that _a_ is sounded nearly like _o_ in
_not_; _Ai_ like _a_ in _far_; _e_ like _e_ in _met_;
_A(C)_ like _a_ in _fate_; _o_ like _o_ in _whole_, but
somewhat shorter; _A cubed_ like _o_ in _hole_; _cz_ like
_ts_; _s_ like _sh_; _sz_ like _s_ in _soft_; _g_ is
hard; _gy_ is sounded like _dy_ in _would you_. The
stress of voice is on the first syllable in every case,
though less pronounced than in English. For
typographical reasons the diA|resis has been substituted
for the double acute accent; the latter gives the same
sound to the vowel over which it is placed as the
former, only lengthened.]
[TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: The double acute accent in the
name JenA' and in the title _A KA'szA-vA+- Ember Fiai_ has
been restored in this electronic edition. An
examination of the original Hungarian text found no
other instances where the diA|resis was substituted for
the double acute.]
The speaker paused to look at the clock, which admonished him to
hasten, as time was short and there was still much to say.
"That young girl," he continued, "on whose account he was sent away
from home, you must try to marry to some one. Spare no expense. There
are men enough suitable for her, and we will provide the dowry. Should
the girl prove obstinate in her resolution, you must endeavour to
bring about her father's removal to Transylvania, where we have many
connections. A-dAśn is to remain abroad until the family has moved away
or he himself has married. The matter need not, I think, cause you any
anxiety. My second son, Richard, will remain a month longer in the
royal body-guard; but it offers no opening for a career, and he will
leave it for the cavalry, where he is to serve a year, after which he
must seek an appointment on the general staff. Skill, valour, and
fidelity are three excellent aids to a man in making his way upward,
and all three are developed by service. There are victories yonder
waiting to be won, and my son is to take the lead. There will be war
in Europe when once the earthquake begins, and a Richard Baradlay will
find work enough ready to his hand. His fame shall cast its glory over
us all. He must never marry: a wife would only be in his way. Let his
part be to promote the fortunes of his brothers. What an excellent
claim for their advancement would be the heroic death of their brother
on the battle-field! But you are not writing, Marie. Surely, you are
not weeping? I beg you to overcome such weakness, as there are only
forty minutes left, and I have yet much to say."
The wife mastered her feelings and wrote on.
"My third and youngest son, JenA', is my favourite; I don't deny that I
love him best of the three; but he will never know it. I have always
treated him harshly, and you too must continue so to treat him. Let
him remain at Vienna in the civil service and make his way upward step
by step. The struggle will give him address, shrewdness, and
fruitfulness of resource. Let him learn to supplant others by dint of
superior intelligence and amiability, and to take all possible pains
to please those whom he is afterward to use as ladders for his own
upward progress. Do not spoil him with tender treatment at home, but
let him learn to adapt himself to strangers and judge of their worth.
His ambition must be fostered, and an acquaintance cultivated with
powerful and influential men that shall lead to valuable family
connections."
A momentary distortion of the patient's features bore witness to his
acute suffering. It lasted but a second, however, when the noble will
overcame the weakness of the flesh and enabled the speaker to continue
his dying instructions.
"Three such strong supports--a diplomat, a soldier, and a high
government official--will uphold and preserve the work of my hands.
Alas! why could I not have continued my task a little longer, until
they were farther advanced in their careers? Marie, my wife, I beg and
most solemnly adjure you to obey my behests. Every muscle in my body
is wrestling with death, but my thoughts are not now upon that final
dissolution which must so soon overtake me. This cold sweat on my brow
is not caused by the death-agony, but by the fear lest all my past
striving shall have been for naught, lest the work of a quarter of a
century shall be buried with me. Ah, Marie, if you but knew how my
heart pains me! No, no more medicine; that cannot help me. Show me my
sons' pictures; they will bring relief."
The baroness brought three miniature likenesses and held them before
her husband's eyes. The man with the heart of stone looked at them,
one after the other, and his sufferings abated. He forgot his death
pangs, and pointing with his wasted forefinger at the portrait of the
eldest, he whispered: "He will be most like me, I believe." Then,
waving aside the three miniatures, he continued, coldly: "But no
sentimentality now! The time is short and I shall soon be gathered to
my fathers and leave to my sons what my ancestors left to me. But my
house will remain as the fortress and defence of true principles.
Nemesdomb will live in history as the centre and focus of our national
policy. And you, too, will remain after I am gone."
The writer looked up inquiringly.
"You look at me as if to ask what a woman, a widow, can effect in a
task under which a man broke down. I will tell you. Six weeks after my
death you are to marry again."
The pen fell from the woman's hand.
"That is my command!" continued the stony-hearted man sternly; "and I
have chosen a husband for you in advance. You will give your hand to
Benedict RideghvAiry."
At this the wife could no longer contain herself. She left the
writing-table, sank down upon her knees by the bedside, seized her
husband's hand and wet it with her tears. The patient closed his eyes
and sought counsel in the darkness. He found it.
"Marie," said he, "do not give way in that manner; it is now no time
for tears. My orders must be obeyed. You are young yet,--not forty
years old. You are beautiful and will not lose your beauty.
Twenty-four years ago, when I married you, you were not a whit fairer
than you are to-day. You had raven-black hair and bright eyes, and you
have them yet. You were gentle and modest, and you have not lost those
virtues. I have always loved you warmly, as you well know. In the
first year of our married life my eldest son, A-dAśn, was born; in the
next year my second son, Richard; and in the third my youngest, JenA'.
Then God visited me with a severe illness, and I have ever since been
an invalid. The doctors said I was doomed, and that a single kiss from
your beautiful lips would kill me. And so I have been wasting away for
the last twenty years at your side like a condemned criminal. Before
your eyes the bloom of my life has withered away, and during all this
time you have been merely a dying man's nurse. I have dragged out my
existence from day to day, possessed by a great purpose which alone
enabled me to retain the breath of life in my body amid the most
grievous tortures. Oh, what a life it has been,--a life bereft of
every pleasure! Yet I endured it, denying myself everything for which
other men live. I lived simply for the sake of the future, a future
which I wish to be, for our country, the perpetuation of the past. For
that future I have reared my sons, for it I have spent my strength,
and in it my name will live. On that name now rests the curse of the
present, but it will be glorified by the radiance of the future. It is
for that name, Marie, that I have suffered so much. But you must live
to enjoy yet many years of happiness."
The wife sobbed in mute protest against his commands.
"It is my will," cried the man, and he snatched his hand from her
grasp. "Go back to the table and write. 'This is my dying command: six
weeks after my death my wife is to marry Benedict RideghvAiry, who is
the man most worthy to follow in my footsteps. Only thus shall I rest
easily in my grave and enjoy peace in heaven.' Have you written that,
Marie?"
The pen slipped from the writer's fingers; she buried her face in her
hands and remained silent.
"The hour is fast going," stammered the dying man, struggling against
the approaching dissolution; "but _non omnis moriar_. The work that I
have begun will survive me. Marie, lay your hand on mine and leave it
there until mine begins to stiffen. No foolish sentimentalism, no
tears! I will not let you weep now. We shall not take leave of each
other: my spirit will remain with you and never leave you. Every
morning and evening it will demand of you an account how you have
discharged the duties I have laid upon you in this my dying hour. I
shall be near you constantly."
The woman trembled from head to foot, but the dying man folded his
hands calmly and murmured in broken accents: "The hour is nearly gone.
The doctor was right: I no longer feel any pain; everything grows dark
around me, only my son's pictures are still visible. Who is that
coming toward me out of the darkness? Halt! Advance no farther; I have
yet more that I must say."
But the grim spectre's approach was not to be stayed; it laid its
invisible hand over the dying patient's face, and the powerful man
with the heart of stone succumbed to a force mightier than himself. He
voluntarily closed his eyes and pressed his lips together, not calling
upon any one to help him die, as do ordinary weak mortals; but proudly
and unshrinkingly, as becomes a nobleman, he surrendered his great,
indomitable soul to the master jailer, Death.
When the baroness saw that her husband was dead, she fell upon her
knees by the table and, folding her hands upon the written page before
her, stammered forth: "Hear me, Lord God, and be merciful to his
forsaken soul, as I now vow to be merciful and to execute the very
opposite of all the wicked commands he has with his last breath
enjoined upon me. This is my fixed resolve, O God, and I pray Thee in
Thine infinite power to help me."
A cry, unearthly and terrible, rang out on the sepulchral stillness of
the room. The startled woman threw a look of horror at the dead form
stretched out upon the bed. And see! his closed lips had parted, his
eyes had opened, and his right hand, which had been folded in his left
upon his breast, was raised toward his head.
Perhaps the departing soul had been overtaken in its flight by the
kneeling woman's vow, and had turned back to reA"nter its mortal
tenement and protest with that one fearful cry against the violation
of its commands.