Next day the csikos went into the "karam," and said to the head
herdsman,
"I have some business on hand, godfather, may I take a half-holiday this
afternoon? By evening I will be back."
"Certainly you can have leave, my son," replied the old man, "but on one
condition. Your are not to enter the Hortobagy inn. Do you understand
me?"
"I give you my word of honour not to put a foot inside the Hortobagy
inn."
"Very well, I know you will keep your word."
But this, the csikos had omitted to add, "unless I am carried in on a
sheet."
It was a hot sultry afternoon when he started, the sky was the colour of
buttermilk, and the air charged with moisture. The play of the mirage
seemed specially fantastic. Not a bird sang overhead, but all sank
nestling in the grass. On the other hand the swarms of horse-flies,
gad-flies, and midges appeared more wickedly inclined than ever, and the
horse could only get along slowly, having to drive off the blood-thirsty
torments, now with its hind-foot, now with its head. Still it never
missed the path though the bridle lay slack between the csikos' fingers.
Man too feels the approach of a storm.
Suddenly, as they reached that substantial triumph of Scythian
architecture--the Hortobagy bridge--the csikos started.
"No, no!" he cried. "Here we can't go, old fellow. You know how I swore
by the starry heavens never to cross that bridge again."
But never to _ford_ the Hortobagy river was not included in his oath.
So he turned down below the mill, and where the water widens into the
shallows, waded easily across. The horse had to swim a little, but the
herdsman took no heed of that; his fringed linen trousers would soon dry
in the hot sunshine.
Then he trotted on to the Hortobagy inn. Here the horse tried to go at a
brisker pace, whinnying joyously the while. A glad neigh answered it,
for there, tied up to an acacia, stood its comrade--the white-faced bay.
Properly speaking, the Hortobagy inn has no courtyard, for the wide
grassy expanse fronting house, stable, and sheds is without fence of any
sort. Still it serves as such. A table is put there, and two long
benches where the customers sit tippling under the trees.
The csikos sprang from his horse, and tied it up to the other acacia,
not that same tree to which the white-faced bay was tethered.
A couple of long-eared steeds were also meditating in the shade of the
garden paling, stretching out their necks for the overhanging sprays of
barberry, just out of their reach. Their riders were seated at the
table, under the acacia, with their fur-lined "bundas" slung over their
shoulders, inside out, despite the sweltering weather. In fact, they
wore them for shade. As they tippled away, drinking cheap acid stuff out
of green glasses, they hummed an endless shepherd's song, monotonous
and wearisome. Both were shepherds, whose steed is the donkey.
Sandor Decsi sat down at the further end of the bench, placed his cudgel
on the table, and studied the glittering clouds looming heavy on the
horizon, and the dark rim of earth beneath. A great yellow pillar rose
swirling in one quarter--the whirlwind. Meanwhile the shepherds sang:
"When the shepherd takes his glass,
Sad and mournful grows his ass.
Cheer up, little donkey, grey!
Behind the flock we'll ride away."
This was too much for the csikos to stand.
"See, that's enough, Pista!" he snapped. "For goodness' sake stop that
doleful ditty, and get on your grey donkey and trundle after your flock
before you're too tipsy to move."
"Dear, dear! Sandor Decsi does seem upset to-day!"
"I'll upset you worse if you try aggravating me!" said the csikos, and
rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbows. Now he was "ready" for
anyone who crossed his path.
The shepherds whispered. Well they knew the puszta rule that when a
csikos sits at a table a shepherd may only squat down there with his
express permission. If he says, "Get out!" why then the shepherd has to
go.
One of them rapped on the table with the bottom of his glass.
"We had better pay, the storm is coming."
The innkeeper's daughter came out at the sound. She made as if she did
not see the csikos at all, but attended to the two shepherds, counted up
the wine, gave them back the change out of their "dog-tongues," and
wiped the table where wine had been spilled. They mounted their donkeys,
and being once more in full security, rattled on with their song
defiantly:
"Wolves all fear my dogs so strong.
Two lads lead the flock along.
I? Why I ride all the day
On my little donkey grey."
Only when they had quite taken themselves off did the girl address the
csikos.
"Well, haven't you even 'good-day' for me, my dearest treasure?"
"Sandor Decsi is my name," growled the herdsman savagely.
"I beg your honour's pardon! Won't you please step into the tap-room,
sir?"
"Thanks! I'm well enough out here."
"There you would find fitting society."
"So I see by the horse. He'll come out to me soon enough."
"Well, what can I bring you? Red wine? White wine?"
"No, I won't drink wine," said the csikos. "Bring me bottled beer."
Bottled beer cannot be poisoned. Once the cork is drawn it all froths
out.
The girl understood the insinuation. Crushing down the bitterness in her
heart she soon returned with a bottle, which she placed before the lad.
"What is this?" he cried. "Am I a cobbler's apprentice, to have _one_
bottle brought me?"
"Very well, sir. Please don't be angry. I'll bring more directly."
This time she came back with a whole bundle, and set all six in a row
before him.
"That is better," said he.
"Shall I draw the cork?"
"Thanks! I can do it myself."
He took the first bottle, broke off the neck against the edge of the
table, and poured the foaming beer into the tall glass beside him. It
costs more like this, because the broken bottle has to be paid for; but
then, "a gentleman is always the gentleman."
The girl moved off airily, shaking her sides flippantly as she went. Her
golden ear-rings tinkled. Her hair was down again, no longer twisted
round the comb, and the ribbon ends fluttered coquettishly behind her.
"As thou to me. So I to thee."
The csikos sat quietly drinking his beer, and the girl sang on the
verandah:
"Hadst thou known what I know,
Or whose sweetheart am I!
Not alone would I weep,
Thou wouldst cry."
At the fourth line the door was shut with a bang.
By the time she reappeared again, three empty broken-necked bottles
stood on the table. Klari took them, picking up the broken bits of glass
into her apron.
After the third bottle, the lad's humour had changed, and as the girl
fussed round him, he suddenly slipped his arm round her waist.
She made no demur on her part.
"Well, may one call you 'Sandor' again?" she asked.
"You always could. What did you want to say?"
"Did you ask anything?"
"Why are your eyes so red?"
"Because I am so happy. I have a suitor."
"Who?"
"The old innkeeper at Vervolgy. He is a widower with lots of money."
"Shall you accept him?"
"Why not, if they take me to him? Let me go!"
"_You lie, lie!_ You cover up your lying, and so lie worse than ever!"
cried the lad.
He removed his hand from the girl's waist.
"Will you drink more?" she asked.
"Why not?"
"But you'll get fuddled from so much beer."
"Much need of it too to quench the fire burning in me. See you give the
one in there plenty of strong wine. Heat him up with it, so that we may
match each other."
But she took good care not to tell "the one inside" "about the other"
out here.
The csikos took the matter into his own hands. He began to sing,
selecting the mocking air with which they are wont to tease the
cowherds:
"Oh I am the Petri cowboy bold,
I guard the herd on the Petri wold.
My comrades can go
Through the mire and snow;
I lie on my feather-bed safe from cold."
Well thought! Hardly was the verse at an end before out came his man. In
one hand he carried his bottle of red wine, with the tumbler turned over
the top, in the other his cudgel. Setting down his wine opposite the
csikos, he next laid his cudgel beside the other one, and then took his
seat at the table exactly facing the other lad.
They neither shook hands nor spoke a word of greeting. Each gave a
silent nod, like two between whom speech is unnecessary.
"So you are back from your journey, comrade?" asked the csikos.
"I'll be off again directly if I have the mind."
"To Moravia?"
"Yes, if I don't change my plans."
They both drank. After a pause the csikos began again.
"Are you taking a wife with you this time?"
"Where should I get a wife?"
"I'll tell you. ---- take your own mother!"
"She wouldn't give up being a Debreczin market-woman for the whole of
Moravia!"
They both drank again.
"Well, have you bidden your mother farewell?" asked the csikos.
"I have bidden her farewell."
"And squared all your accounts with the overseer?"
"Certainly."
"You owe _nobody_ anything?"
"What extraordinary questions you do ask to be sure!" exclaimed the
cowboy.
"No, I am not in debt, even to the priest. What does it matter to you?"
The csikos shook his head, and broke the neck of another bottle. He
wished to fill his friend's glass, but the cowboy placed his hand over
it.
"You won't drink my beer?"
"I'm keeping to the rule. Wine on beer--never fear. Beer on wine--no
time."
The csikos poured himself out the whole bottle, and then began to
moralise (the not unfrequent result of beer-drinking).
"See, comrade," he said, "there is no uglier sin in the world than
lying. I once lied myself, though not in my own defence, and it has
oppressed my soul ever since. Lying does well enough for shepherds, but
not for lads on horseback. The first shepherd of all was a liar. Jacob,
the patriarch, lied when he deceived his own father, making his hands
rough like Esau's. So little wonder if his followers, who keep flocks,
should live by lies. It may suit a shepherd, but it is not for a
cowboy."
The cowherd went into roars of laughter.
"I say, Sandor, what a good parson you would make! You can preach as
well as the Whit-Sunday probationer at Balmaz Ujvaros."
"Yes? Well, comrade, maybe you would not mind my turning out a good
preacher, but if I turned out a good lawyer, you might care more. So you
say you don't owe a crooked kreuzer to any human being?"
"Not to any human soul."
"Without lying?"
"No need for it."
"Then what is this? This long paper? Do you recognise it?"
The csikos pulled out the bill from his pocket, and held it before his
companion's nose.
The cowboy turned suddenly crimson with anger and shame.
"How did that come into your hands?" he demanded angrily, and springing
from his seat.
"Honestly enough. Sit down, comrade," said the csikos. "I am not asking
any questions, only preaching. The good man who got this bill instead of
money came to our place not long ago to buy horses. He paid with a bill
of exchange, and when I asked what it meant, explained, mentioned that
you knew the use of a bill, and then showed me your writing, complaining
bitterly that there was some omission, that it was only made payable on
the Hortobagy, and that the Hortobagy is a wide word. So now I have
brought you the bill for you to correct the mistake. Don't let a
horse-cooper say that a Hortobagy cowboy cheated him! Fill in the line,
'Payable on the Hortobagy, in the inn courtyard.'"
The csikos spoke so mildly that he entirely misled his companion. He
began to think that after all nothing was called into question here but
the honour of csikos and cowboys.
"All right, I will do as you wish," he said.
They rapped on the table, and Klarika came out (she had been lurking
near the door). Great was her surprise when, instead of witnessing a
bloody encounter, she beheld the two young men conferring peaceably
together.
"Fetch us pen and ink, Klari, dear," they said.
So she brought writing materials from the town commissioner's room. Then
she looked on to see what would be done.
The csikos showed the paper to the cowherd, pointing with his finger
where, and dictating what to write.
"'Payable on the Hortobagy,' so much is written already, now add, 'in
the inn courtyard.'"
"Why in the _courtyard_?" inquired the cowboy.
"Because--because it can't be otherwise."
Meanwhile the storm was nearing rapidly. A hot wind preceded the
tempest, covering earth and sky with yellowish clouds of dust. Birds of
prey hovered shrieking over the Hortobagy, while flocks of swallows and
sparrows hurried under the shelter of the eaves. A loud roar swept over
the puszta.
"Won't you come indoors?" urged the girl.
"No, no, we can't," answered the csikos, "our work is out here."
When the cowherd had finished writing, then the csikos took the pen from
his hand, and turning over the bill, inscribed his name on the back, in
big roundhand characters.
"Now, what is the sense of you writing your name there?" asked the
cowboy, inquisitively.
"The use is, that when the pay-day comes round, then _I_ and _not you_
will pay those ten florins."
"Why should you, instead of me?"
"Because it is _my debt_!" said the csikos, and clapped his cap to his
head. His eyes flashed.
The cowboy paled all at once. Now he knew what awaited him. The girl had
learnt nothing from the scribbling nor from the discourse. She shook her
head. "They were very foolish," she thought, and the gilded ear-rings
tinkled in her ears. "'This,' and 'that,' and 'Yellow Rose,' they must
be talking about her!"
But the csikos carefully folded the paper, and handed it to her. Very
gently he spoke,
"Dear Klari," he said, "please be so very kind and put this safely away
in your drawer. Then should Mr. Pelikan, the horse-dealer, come in here
to dine on his way back from Onod fair, give it him. Tell him that we
sent it, we two old comrades, Ferko Lacza, and Sanyi Decsi, with our
best respects. One of us will meet it, which, time will show."
The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Funny people! Not a thought of
quarrelling in their heads! Signing their names to the same paper."
She collected the writing materials and carried them back to the
commissioner's room, at the end of the long pillared verandah. The two
lads were left alone together.