an excellent soul, with whom he lived sixteen years of peaceful life,
without however being blessed by children. At last, when least
expected, the blessing arrived in the form of a little girl.
The happy pair were now twice as happy as they had been before; the
little Linka was the joy and light of their eyes, and the hope and
glory of both. They lavished upon her all the affection and tenderness
of their nature, hastening to gratify her slightest fancies--for every
thought seemed concentrated in their only child; and, strange
providence! this indulgence not only did not spoil her, but rendered
her from day to day more amiable and more loving. The slightest hint
from her mother's eyes was sufficient to direct her, and she knew no
greater happiness than that of pleasing her parents; all their care
and tenderness found a kindly grateful soil within her gentle heart,
and was richly repaid. How unlike to most indulged natures, which are
generally like vinegar--the more sugar you put in, the stronger will
the acid be.
Lina was scarcely ten years old when she lost her mother--the greatest
loss a little girl can experience. All a father's attention can never
make up for the want of a mother's care; much will remain unobserved
by him which could not escape the ever-watchful spirit of a tender
mother.
Although this misfortune did not change Lina, she was more thoughtful
afterwards; but the cares of a household devolving upon her, left her
no time to indulge in melancholy. A great safeguard for a young girl
are her household cares: they teach her to respect herself, they
banish sadness, keep down the passions and false feeling, and give
true life to the young mind.
The little girl was the greatest comfort in her father's bereavement:
and as she grew up, her sweetness and amiability, and excellent
management, were the surprise and admiration of all the families
around; and no less than three suitors, as we have already seen, were
on their way to Uncle Berkessy on matrimonial speculation. Our sweet
little heroine's exterior, though pleasing in the extreme, was not
such as is called in the language of poets, beautiful. And here I
cannot help observing, that the manner in which these poetical
gentlemen dictate to the world in general is certainly most unfair.
According to their ideas, it is only a perfect beauty who dare lay any
claim to happiness; while all the others, whose faces cannot be
compared to lilies and roses, are born only to be deceived, and but
for their wealth would never appear in a romance at all. Real life,
however, gives them the lie; for we see family happiness bloom even in
households where the ladies are not painted for annuals. And how many
a mild and unpretending being do we find gifted with that delicacy and
true poetry of mind, which give to features not created for a
painter's model an attraction and loveliness that it would be
impossible to describe, for we can scarcely say what it is we find so
agreeable; and although we might turn with cold indifference from a
mere sketch of the features, no sooner do we see them lighted up by a
smile, or hear an accent of sympathy cross the lips, than a sweet
fascination rises within us--the eyes, the lips, the whole
countenance, wins new attractions; the soul assumes its power over
the clay, and charms into beauty what in itself is not so.
Fortunately, nature seldom bestows on any one the consciousness of
being less handsome than her neighbour; for that woman could scarcely
be good-humoured, who, when she looked in the glass, could not
discover something which rendered her countenance agreeable, and which
others also will no doubt remark after some observation. These ideas
may, I fear, hurt the classic understanding, and the lovers of art
will be shocked to hear that the not beautiful can also be subjects of
poetry; but if mankind has so increased upon earth as to mottle the
Olympic regularity with many variations, who can help it? The negro
and the Laplander have their beauties; and some are even bold enough
to affirm that the mind of itself may render beautiful.
All these deviations must not weary you, gentle reader, for you know
it is now a question of matrimony, and therefore you must read
patiently and not in vain.
Day was just dawning; the sound of bells broke the silence of the
village, and, one by one, the green blinds opened as the sun shed his
first rays on the windows of Uncle Berkessy's house. Two windows alone
remained closed--those of the room in which the old gentleman slept;
the others were all open, and the rooms filled with the fresh morning
air. The valuable old furniture was already dusted, and the polished
floors were shining like mirrors. In the first room, a great glass
chiffonnière stood opposite the windows, ornamented by pillars
supported by gilded angels. Among the china and cut crystal arranged
within, was that which Uncle Gabor's grandmother had received as a
bridal gift, and which she used until she was eighty-two years old,
and left in the same admirable order to her children. At the other
side of the room, stood two large beds, on whose heavy curtains a
stag-hunt was portrayed. Although nobody slept in those two beds,
they were turned down every sunny day, and the great feather pillows
placed within the double windows to air. Opposite the beds stood an
antique cabinet, ornamented by various carvings and pillars, of which
it would be difficult to discover all the quaint recesses and the
secret drawers. Between the windows stood an ancestral mirror, with
its frame of ornamental cut glass, the centre of which was decorated
by a garland of everlasting flowers, which might have hung there at
least half a century. In one corner stood a large cabinet clock, and
in the other a high spinning-wheel, used by grandmamma in ancient
times; and which was always kept in the same corner from a feeling of
respect, although nobody ever used it. And, as we are come on
matrimonial speculations, I may inform you, gracious reader, that the
lower part of the chiffonnière contains real old silver-plate for
forty-eight persons; and that the large cabinet is filled with the
finest table-linen, among which is still preserved that which
grandmamma had spun with her own hands. And now we shall proceed into
the next room. This had been fitted up with the newest furniture by
Uncle Gabor as a surprise on one of his daughter's birthdays, and was
filled with comfortable arm-chairs, spring sofas, and elegant
work-tables. There was a grand pianoforte too, and a glass
chiffonnière, in which all her little birthday and holiday gifts were
arranged. The rich worsted-work carpet was an example of the young
lady's personal industry, for, besides keeping the house in perfect
order, she found time for various other female employments. A pretty
bookcase was filled with choice books, selected by her father, while
on her little embroidery table lay the Athenæum and the Regelo,[9]
with extracts from the latest Hungarian works.
[Footnote 9: _Regelo_--title of a literary magazine.]
Lina's sleeping apartment opened from this room; surprising neatness
and order reigned in every part of the little sanctuary; and the
snow-white curtains of the bed and windows pleasantly contrasted with
the dark, polished floor. The airy windows opened on the garden, from
whence the large harvest roses peeped in. A pretty brass cage, with a
canary bird, hung on the wall; and whenever its mistress appeared, the
little tenant would sing as if its small heart were going to burst.
Beyond this room was an ante-chamber which opened into the old
gentleman's apartment, which we will not disturb, as he is still
asleep.
In the opposite wing of the building were the guests' chambers, the
kitchen, servants' rooms, and store-rooms; and beyond these was a
pavilion, provided with comfortable seats, in the centre of which a
fountain played; and here the host was wont to sit and smoke with his
guests, sheltered equally from sun or rain.
The court-yard was already full of business and activity; the reapers
preparing to set out, the old gray-headed labourer leading his oxen
with their decorated horns to the well; the footman was standing at
the door of the out-house polishing his master's silver-spurred boots,
so that he might have shaved in them. A comfortable odour of soup
proceeded from the open kitchen-door, and in a few minutes, our little
lady herself stepped across the corridor, and appeared in the court to
distribute bread and brandy to the reapers. Her cheeks were flushed,
for she had just come from the fire, and a neat white handkerchief was
arranged round her head. For the young girls, who were as yet innocent
of the virtues of brandy, she had prepared a good warm soup, that they
might not go hungry to their work. It was not with any idea of
parsimony, but rather to see that each person had sufficient, that she
came out herself; and she was never contented till every person had
partaken of her gifts. Having wished their young mistress a hearty
_Aldja Isten_ (God bless you), the reapers then set out in the
greatest good humour, the young lads and lasses singing and jesting,
and the elders walking soberly together.
Lina still lingered a few minutes to enjoy the fresh air, and listen
to the tinkling bells of the oxen as they disappeared, and then she
called her flock of poultry, which had collected round the millstone
where the labourers had breakfasted, and distributed their portions
also; after which, she returned to the kitchen to superintend the
roasting of the coffee for her father's breakfast; for when she left
it to the servants, they were sure either to roast it unmercifully, or
burn it, or do something else which gave it an unpleasant taste.
Covered fireplaces were not yet known in those days--everything was
cooked on the flames or hot embers, and consequently the proper
management of the fire was then a source of much greater trouble to
cooks, who had to guard against smoking, burning, or singeing their
dishes; and cooking was at that period a far more difficult business
than in these more enlightened times.
Meanwhile, the footman had covered the table, and the old gentleman,
being awakened by the rattling of cups and spoons, soon made his
appearance in complete attire, with his polished silver-spurred boots,
and his fur dolmany thrown across his shoulders; his thick gray hair
was uncovered, and a pipe, quite full, in his mouth. The footman
wished him "a happy good morning," while three huge greyhounds sprang
from under the table to meet him. Having patted and caressed them all,
Uncle Gabor walked into the kitchen to light his pipe, well knowing
that he should find his daughter there. Linka's hands were full, and,
as her father entered, she exclaimed, in the sweetest voice
imaginable, "Good morning, dearest father; just hold out your hand
here one instant, dear papa."
"For what?" exclaimed the old gentleman, holding out his hand at the
same time.
It was just that Lina might stoop down and kiss it, for both her hands
were occupied.
The old gentleman patted his daughter's face, and then, taking a
bride's eye (a bright-burning ember) between his fingers from the
fire, he lit his pipe and stood watching Lina's operations. When
breakfast was ready, Lina prepared her father's coffee; she knew
exactly how black and how sweet to make it, and the old gentleman was
so spoilt in this respect, that he could never drink coffee except at
home.
We have now seen the little lady at her various occupations, but we
have still to see her when she scolds, for this is infallibly
requisite in good housekeeping, and to overlook faults is in itself
the greatest fault; but the question is, how to scold that your
servants may neither fear nor laugh at you; and Lina could scold both
gracefully and agreeably--indeed the manner in which it was done was
generally the means of establishing good humour.
While she was sipping her coffee, out of a cup not much larger than a
nut-shell, all at once she heard a noise of barking and running in the
kitchen, as if some person was hunting her little greyhound.
She immediately jumped up, and ran into the kitchen. "Who is teasing
my little dog?" she asked, in a voice of dove-like anger.
The servants all laughed, and the footman, trying to compose his
features, replied, "It was Feeske, who was leaping up on the
fireplace."
"Well, and must you strike the poor dog for that!--he feels it just as
much as you would."
"Nobody beat him, Miss; only he put his head into the milk-ewer, and
could not get it out again."
"Yes, because you are all so disorderly.--Come here, little Feeske!
You should not have left the milk-ewer on the fireplace--come here, my
poor little dog; did these bad people hurt you?"
She was obliged to break the ewer to free the little dog's head.
"Sure it's the pretty ewer that's to be pitied," said one of the
servants, laughing.
"Well, I would not let the dog suffer for the sake of a ewer;" and
then she returned to her father with a beaming countenance. "Have I
not scolded them all well!"
Towards the end of breakfast, the footman entered with the letters and
newspapers, which the messenger brought weekly from town.
Uncle Gabor opened the Jelenkor newspaper, and followed Espartero and
Zummalacarreguy with great attention, while Linka glanced over the
peaceful columns of the Regelo--for it was only in the evening that
she had time to read it through. As she opened the last page, her eyes
fell on a sonnet, entitled, "To Lina B----ssy." She started as if she
had looked into a book of incantations, and closed the paper so
suddenly, that the old gentleman, who was just standing before the
cannons of a naval engagement, cried out, "What's the matter, my
child?"
"Nothing at all, papa," replied Linka, changing colour, "only the
paper nearly fell out of my hand."
So far was true. Uncle Gabor hastened back to the engagement, lest
anything should have taken place in the mean time.
Lina folded the paper quite small, and thrust it into the pocket of
her apron; then, taking up her watering-pot, she glided noiselessly
out of the room, and ran into the garden. She was determined not to
read the paper. She would either burn it, or put it away where nobody
should find it. With this firm intention, she began to water her
carnations and violets, all the time turning in her mind where she
could most conveniently hide the sonnet--for, after all, it would be
very hard-hearted to burn it.
At last she remembered the glass-house, and hastened thither with the
intention of putting the paper under one of the great cactus pots. She
looked round on entering, to see that she was quite alone. Loneliness
is the godmother of every weakness, and when she took the paper out of
her pocket she could not withstand the temptation of looking once more
into it--nobody would see if she blushed--and, with trembling hands,
as if she were committing something very scandalous, she unfolded the
paper, and read with a beating heart the lines addressed to her.
The verses were of that kind which our young literature produced about
twenty years ago--for we have always had a _young_ literature, which
never attained maturity--whose constrained inspirations, insipid
taste, and high-sounding problems, had at least this one advantage,
that, possessing no feeling at all, they were incapable of exciting
any. Lina, blushing deeply, was forced to recognise herself in "the
rosebud whose perfume is intoxicating bliss;" as "Heaven's loveliest
angel, the night of whose glossy ringlets might form a pall beneath
which it were ecstasy to expire, while the sunny radiance of her dark
eyes would wake to life again." The sonnet was signed, "Kalman S--s."
Lina knew the youth. She had frequently met him in Sz----, at the
county meetings, and having read the lines, she did not think them so
very dreadful after all, except of course in a poetical point of
view.
As she was still holding the open paper in her hand, a voice called
from the garden door, "Miss Lina!"
Starting up, she once more thrust the paper into the pocket of her
apron, and, turning very pale, ran to the door.
"Guests have arrived, Miss Lina! make haste home," said the servant,
who had been sent for her.
* * * * *
An ancestral conveyance, with three unhappy horses, was standing at
the door!
Our readers will guess to whom it belonged.
Lina took the handkerchief from her head, smoothed her hair with her
hands, and hastened into the room, where numerous voices were to be
heard all talking together with exclamations of joy.
It was just themselves, dear reader; the good-natured country
gentleman, the dictatorial lady, our nephew Sandor, and his amiable
little brother, Peterke.
They had passed the night in the neighbouring village, for a variety
of excellent reasons; of which the principal were, first, that the
horses might rest, so as to be able to gallop into Uncle Gabor's court
next morning; and, secondly, that the family might equip _en gala_ for
the occasion.
The worthy dame wore a large cap decorated with rainbow-coloured
ribbons, the border of which encompassed her face, like the portrait
of the sun in an almanac. Her dress, of bright-green silk, was short
enough to show the embroidered petticoat beneath; a large bronze
buckle secured her waist-band almost under her arms, and the _tout
ensemble_ was relieved by a silver-coloured shawl with crimson
flowers, thrown negligently over her shoulders.
Uncle Menyhert was shaved, and his hair brushed up smartly; his
shirt-collar would fain have stood upright, but not having quite
enough of starch for that, was obliged to be satisfied with the good
intention; his waistcoat had been white piquet, but was now somewhat
yellow. A huge watch betrayed itself in his side-pocket, partly by its
size, partly by its ticking, which seemed to take part in every
conversation, and was worn round his neck by a thick silk cord
resembling a sword-belt. Instead of the green attila, he now wore a
chocolate-coloured coat, whose long narrow tails nearly reached the
ground, and his light Hungarian hose were exchanged for pantaloons of
yellow angine, very wide above and narrow below. All this was crowned
by a long cylinder hat, which was now placed on the table for
universal admiration.
Our nephew Sandor wore his Juratus attila, with a vest of
cherry-coloured velvet. It was clear he felt himself a different man
in the attila to what he had been in his bonjour. The latter
completely cast him down, humiliated, and put him to shame; the attila
inspired him with confidence and courage.
He now neither stood behind the stove nor kissed the footman's hand;
in short, he had become quite superior to himself, and jested with
everybody. This is characteristic of his age: when a youth of that
time of life has an inferior coat, he will be sure to get out of your
way, to avoid saluting you; whereas if he happens to be satisfied with
his appearance, he will cross you on every occasion, and expect you to
salute him.
Even the cadet had undergone a change. He had been washed and combed,
and boxed into submission. Indeed, at the last station he had
undergone a severe chastisement, to prevent any misbehaviour at Uncle
Berkessy's; and having cried the whole way thither, he was now
tolerably quiet and subdued.
As Lina entered, Aunt Zsuzsi rose, and, running across the room, threw
her arms round her neck, to the utter derangement of cap and frill,
and, with a face beaming with triumph, she led forward the blushing
girl, and introduced her to the other members of her family. "Well,
you rascal!" she exclaimed, turning to Sandor with motherly pride,
"have we not chosen a fine girl for you, eh? You do not deserve her, I
can tell you!"
Our nephew looked at Lina with a rueful smile, as if he had expected
something far prettier; but it may have been the extreme tightness of
his boots which made it an unpleasant gymnastic exercise to rise from
his seat.
This cordial introduction at first surprised Linka, and, with a modest
blush, she took refuge beside her father, as if soliciting his
protection against such an unexpected attack. The old gentleman,
observing her embarrassment, put his arm playfully round her. "No! you
shall not carry off my little Linka so easily, my dear niece!" he
exclaimed.
"Ah, but we shall indeed," replied Aunt Zsuzsi, "or else we shall
leave Sandor with you."
"That's right! with all my heart, I shall be delighted if you will
leave both the boys with me. They shall be my sons."
At these words, little Peterke, in great alarm, stationed himself
between his father's knees, and began crying out, "I will not be that
bacsi's son--take me home, I will stay with tate (daddy)."
Uncle Gabor burst into one of his fearful laughs, while papa lifted up
the little urchin, and placed him beside his mother. "Hang on there,
my brave boy."
"Never mind," said Aunt Zsuzsi, "when we take him to be married, I
daresay he will not cry at being left with a pretty girl. If my uncle
had but one little girl more for him!"
"Hush, wife!" interrupted Menyhert, feeling himself called upon to say
something wise; "don't you see who you are speaking before? Here is a
young innocent girl, who blushes at the very name of marriage; we
must not mention these things before the girls, till it comes to their
turn. I must say, I think it is a most excellent custom of the Turks
not allowing the bride to see her bridegroom"--
But at that instant Menyhert, happening to glance towards his wife's
nose, perceived in its evolutions such marked symptoms of displeasure,
that he began to stammer, forgot what he had been saying, and finally
broke down entirely.
"Shall we go and look at the stud?" said Uncle Gabor.
"With all my heart," replied Menyhert, glad to change the subject, and
speculating on the handsome curricle and four which Uncle Gabor would
give his daughter on her marriage.
"Meanwhile, I shall go and take a look at the garden," said Aunt
Zsuzsi.
"And gather pretty flowers," exclaimed Peterke, springing up.
"No, no, you little fool," said dear mamma, "you must not touch the
flowers; but you may catch as many butterflies and beetles as you
like."
Sandor seemed undecided whether he should go and look at the horses,
or undertake to gather butterflies and beetles too; and Lina waited to
see what her father would say, when the prudential Aunt Zsuzsi
interposed: "We will leave the young people together; let them amuse
themselves speaking, and get acquainted: such innocent intercourse
should never be hindered. Come away, fathers."
It was useless to oppose Aunt Zsuzsi's plans, and so the parental
society went out together, leaving the young people to get acquainted;
and the latter, seeing there was nothing else to be done, resigned
themselves to the innocent intercourse.
Linka, having recovered her presence of mind, sat quietly down to her
embroidery-table in the window; while Sandor drew himself up, and
began admiring a large oil-painting of a pretty shepherdess on the
wall opposite, the frame of which seemed to attract his particular
notice.
"You are thinking," said Lina, to begin the conversation, "that that
portrait is very like me, are you not?"
"Like you?" said Sandor; "ohoho! what an idea!"
"It has much more colour than I have."
"Oh! much more."
"And is much taller than I am."
"Oh! much taller."
Linka began to think that she had at last met some person who was
perfectly sincere. "I do not know," she continued, "why that painter
should have made me prettier than I am."
Sandor perceived that he had been giving very stupid answers, and
hastened to repair his fault. "That is to say, Miss Lina, the portrait
is not prettier than you are; on the contrary, it is uglier, for one
side of the face is larger than the other."
Lina, perceiving that the young gentleman did not understand painting
or perspective, tried another theme.
"You have lived in Pesth, and are no doubt acquainted with some of the
poets there?"
"O yes; indeed, there were several students among us who were terrible
spendthrifts,[10] but I never spent much myself; six florins a month
were sufficient for me."
[Footnote 10: "Spendthrift," In Hungarian _kolto_, means also "a
poet," as the verb _kolteni_ signifies "to poetise," or "to expend."]
Linka laughed heartily at what she supposed to be a pun of Sandor's.
"Oh! I did not mean that kind of _kolto_," she exclaimed, "but verse
writers."
"Ah, indeed!" replied Sandor, looking vacantly out of the window; "I
did not see any such in Pesth."
"But you have read their works? for instance, Vorosmarty."
"O yes, certainly; that was what Kisfaludy wrote, was it not?"
"Ah no! Vorosmarty himself was the author."
"Aha! I know now: it was he who wrote Kisfaludy."
"How you are quizzing me! You cannot make me believe that you do not
know the Magyar poets."
"Umph! singular! Well, if I do not know one, I know another; I am very
fond of poetry, and I can repeat some verses by heart."
"Pretty ones? Perhaps you will write a few in my album; who are they
by?"
"Well, the prettiest are by Vad Janos."
"Vad Janos! and who is Vad Janos?"
"Ah, now! you see you do not know him, although he was poetical
præceptora."
"And has he published many works?"
"Why, I believe so. That beautiful poem called 'Spring;' then his 'Ode
to a Sausage'--that's a capital thing; and then the 'Maize King's
complaint against the Trailing Bean'--ah, that is superb!"
"And where are they all published?" asked Linka humbly.
"Why, in the _Hippocrene_," replied Sandor confidently.
"And what is that?" asked Lina again, with pious awe.
"It is the name of a newspaper."
"I have never heard of it," sighed the poor girl. "And where does it
appear?"
"Why, in Koros."
"And who is the editor?"
"The students write it themselves,[11] whoever has the best hand; and
then we take it about to all the pretty girls to read--that is, I
never brought it to anybody," said Sandor, hastening to justify
himself, lest he might be suspected of visiting pretty girls.
[Footnote 11: This is really done in the smaller towns.]
How many are there who never learn anything after they leave school,
and grow old with the same ideas they brought from their classes! I
had a schoolfellow about fourteen years ago, who could tell a pleasant
anecdote pretty well. I met him again this year; we had only exchanged
a few words, when he began the old anecdote.
While the two old gentlemen were looking at the stud, Aunt Zsuzsi had
stepped into the garden--not exactly to look at the flowers, but to
find out what sort of things Lina kept for the kitchen use; while
Peterke ran up and down the beds, looking for butterflies and beetles.
In the midst of his career, he happened to upset one of the bee-hives;
and the bees consequently stung him so furiously, that his whole face
was swelled like a bladder, and the eyes almost entirely disappeared.
On hearing his cries, mamma ran up, and taking him by the hand, led
him into the house. On any other occasion, he would have been severely
punished, besides having been stung; but here everybody endeavoured to
be sweet-tempered, as if the whole family were made of milk and
butter.
This misfortune put an end to the innocent intercourse, and Linka ran
away to get something for the dear boy's face. Each person proposed a
different remedy--cold and hot applications, oil, brandy, &c. &c. In
vain; the swelling still continued, and there was nothing for it but
to go to bed.
Linka then went to superintend her kitchen duties, glad to have a few
minutes to herself. She had not been long away, however, when sounds
of wheels were heard again driving up to the door; but Linka paid no
attention to the noise--she was too much occupied with the arrangement
of her dishes. This did not prevent the inquisitive servants from
running to the window to see who had arrived.
"Oh, Miss Lina," cried one, "what a beautiful calèche! and such a
smart coachman!--not like that Matyi. See what beautiful linen
sleeves!"[12]
[Footnote 12: In summer, the coachman's dress is a coloured vest over
a white linen garment with wide sleeves embroidered round the neck and
shoulders; also wide linen drawers with fringes, and a broad hat
decorated with feathers.]
"Oh, Miss Linka!" cried another, "see what a handsome young cavalier
has just got down off the box! and now he is helping out a fine lady
and a little rosy girl. That is a youth for a bridegroom, Miss Lina."
But Miss Lina was very angry. "What are you all chattering about?" she
exclaimed; "you had far better attend to your dishes."
They had scarcely turned from the window, when another sound excited
their curiosity. The galloping of a horse was heard in the court; and
presently afterwards, a voice, talking in an affected tone through the
nose, addressed the old gentleman, who had come to the door to receive
his guests.
"Permit me to introduce myself as Kalman Sos," said the horseman,
"come to pay my respects"--
As Linka heard these words, she threw the egg-shells into the dish
instead of the yolk, and snatching the Regelo from her pocket, without
further reflection, she threw it into the fire.
"What have you done, Miss Linka?" exclaimed the portly cook; "all your
burnt paper has got into my dishes."
And to put the _comble_ to her distress, the old gentleman entered,
his face beaming with pleasure, and, going maliciously up to his
daughter, he looked in her face, and smiled knowingly without saying a
word, while the poor girl only wished that the floor might open by
some miracle and permit her to sink into the cellar.
"Do you want anything, dearest papa?" she ventured at last to ask.
"I do not want you to stay in the kitchen!"
"And why not, dear father?"
"Because you will be sure to salt everything to-day."[13]
[Footnote 13: Sos, salt salted.]
Poor Linka! if she could have blushed still more deeply she would have
done so, for she understood her father's meaning too well; and,
moreover, the cook increased her embarrassment, by adding, "Indeed,
sir, you will do well to carry off the young lady, for she is not at
all like herself, poor thing! and giving us much unnecessary trouble;
only a few minutes ago, she put the egg-shells into the pudding
instead of the yolk; and then she burnt"--
Lina tried to silence the cook, who, however, only talked the
louder--so she was compelled at last to yield; and, taking her
father's arm, she made up her mind with a sigh to the great sacrifice
of leaving the kitchen and going to her guests. And what a place of
refuge the poor girl had often found there on such occasions!
Meanwhile the guests were assembled in the sitting-room. On one side
of the sofa sat Aunt Zsuzsi, endeavouring with great vehemence, and
frequent application of her finger to the side of her nose, to explain
something in an under tone to a mild lady, in whom we recognise Mrs.
Tallyai, who was sitting beside her listening patiently to her tales.
Our nephew Sandor sat at the table, evidently a good deal put out by
seeing so many strangers; although it never crossed his imagination
that he had two rivals among them.
His father sat beside him, administering wise counsel about various
matters, such as how to behave when he was addressed, how to sit at
table and use his knife and fork, not to put his nail into the
salt-cellar instead of the point of his knife, or to wipe his mouth
with the table-cloth, or drink the water out of the finger-glass. With
these and such-like salutary precepts did good Mr. Menyhert Gulyasi
endeavour to enlighten his son, till the poor youth lost all the
little courage with which his attila had inspired him.
Opposite Sandor sat Karely Tallyai--a handsome, manly youth, in whose
gay countenance and easy manners no holiday restraint was to be seen.
He was carrying on a jesting conversation with his sister, the little
mischievous Siza, whose roguish eyes were ever and anon glancing at
the opposite side of the table, while she constantly discovered
something to arrange in her brother's neckerchief or ruffles, or an
atom of down to pick off his coat, all of which she did with an air of
mysterious prudery, as if "nobody but ourselves" was to remark it.
Last, though not least in his own opinion, stood Kalman the poet,
apart from the rest, with his arms folded and his back against an
arm-chair, his countenance vainly endeavouring to express unutterable
sadness. Such expressions have great effect on young girls--the pale,
moonlight face; the secret sigh; the sad smile when others laugh
heartily; the retirement to a corner where he can be seen by
everybody, when others are amusing and enjoying themselves; the gentle
cough now and then--and if asked why, the laying of the hand with
pensive calmness on the breast, the speaking of approaching autumn, of
falling leaves, and of sweet sleep among those leaves; remarking that
the sound of coughing is like knocking at the gate of another world,
and such-like poetic similes. All this is certain of success if
directed skilfully against a young and inexperienced heart.
Thus the three rival parties were arranged to begin the attack. The
family of Gulyasi were no doubt the strongest; they claimed the old
gentleman's earlier friendship and former promise, besides which, his
own speculations too allotted them the first place.
Kalman considered himself quite dangerous enough to enter the lists in
single combat, and without a second, having already opened the attack
by pouring forth his secret vows in verse; while the least favourable
place fell certainly to Karely. With an honourable heart, and lips
that despised flattery, he had also the misfortune to possess a
simple-hearted mother, who, instead of clothing her son in every
virtue, even exposed his faults, declaring that he was a sad, wild
youth, who spent a great deal of money, besides various other
misdemeanours which she spoke of in the sincerity of her heart, so
that poor Karely might have hung the basket on his arm[14] beforehand,
as there was every chance of his receiving it.
[Footnote 14: It was an old custom to present a basket as a mark of
refusal to the rejected suitor.]
* * * * *
Uncle Gabor entered the room with Lina on his arm, and led her up to
Mrs. Tallyai. The young girl kissed her hand, and gracefully saluted
the rest of the party. Then the two ladies placed her between them on
the sofa, and it was really amusing to see how Aunt Zsuzsi contrived
to occupy her whole attention, overwhelming her with praises,
flattery, and ill-timed questions, while Mrs. Tallyai had not an
opportunity of putting in a single word.
"What a pretty, dear girl! quite a child still, and yet such a good
housewife. I saw your garden, quite an example--such cauliflowers! you
must know they are my favourite vegetable. I have looked at your
preserves, and they do the greatest credit to these pretty little
white hands; but I must teach you by and bye to make medlar and grape
jelly--when we are at Makkifalva, you know. You never tasted anything
better--Sandor is so fond of it! indeed he is fond of all sweets,
quite his father's son; but he had not hitherto seen the sweetest of
all sweets!--Come, you must not blush so, you naughty girl, though I
must confess it is most becoming."
The poor girl was actually sitting on thorns during the whole of this
conversation, till, fortunately, Sizike interrupted it by running over
and throwing her arms round her neck, which gave Lina an opportunity
of withdrawing with her young companion into an adjoining room.
The two girls did not return till they were summoned to dinner, and
then they were already _per tu_. Friendship is very quickly formed
between girls, and, notwithstanding the difference of age--for Siza
was yet a child--a "holy alliance" had been concluded in a few
minutes, and it was evident that Lina looked more favourably on Karely
than on Sandor, although Kalman still remained the most dangerous in
her regard, and she never ventured to look except by stealth at the
hero of the lines, conscious that his eyes were always fixed upon her.
At dinner, the two matrons sat at the head of the table, and Uncle
Gabor at the foot, with the two girls at each side of him; Karely sat
beside Linka, and Sandor opposite him, beside Siza. The poet sat
beside Aunt Zsuzsi, and Menyhert beside Mrs. Tallyai. Soup was served,
and the spoon being an innocent weapon, nothing particular took place
during its requisition, except that Sandor, observing Kalman hold his
spoon between his first finger and thumb, tried to imitate him, and at
the first experiment emptied the soup over his coat. Afterwards, when
the knives and forks came into requisition, and the first glass of
wine began to inspire courage, Menyhert related his own heroic deeds
of 1809--a period which Berkessy, on the other hand, did not exactly
wish to recall. Kalman began eating with his left hand, and Sandor,
desirous of following his example, pitched the meat off his fork into
his neighbour's lap. Aunt Zsuzsi then talked of the want of principle
in the young men of the capital, on which Kalman asked her if she had
seen _Janesi Parlagi_;[15] and then again incurred her wrath by
pouring out a glass of water backwards, on which the good lady
declared that the next time he did so, she would not drink it.
[Footnote 15: _Janesi Parlagi_, a popular play. The question was asked
in derision of the "country bumpkin."]
Sandor having been desired by his mother not to refuse anything, lest
it might offend the young lady of the house, ate and drank of
everything that came in his way. The good Eger wine seemed only to
renew his vigour in attacking the dishes, inspiring him at the same
time with as much confidence as if he were sitting among his Juratus
colleagues, opposite the golden flask. He laughed and jested, stumbled
into everybody's conversation, played on the bottles and glasses, and
threw about balls of bread. At last, in the height of his merriment,
he stretched his limbs under the table, and, having reached a little
foot opposite, which he took for Lina's, began to press it gently with
his own. The foot happened, however, to be Karely's, who, being deeply
engaged in conversation with his neighbour, allowed this tender
_quiproquo_ to go on unnoticed.
Towards the end of dinner, when hearts and mouths were ever opening
wider, that amiable confusion began in which everybody speaks at once,
and nobody can hear himself, though he understands his neighbour. As
one anecdote gave rise to another, the company laughed till the tears
ran down their cheeks; and the ladies entreated the gentlemen not to
make them laugh more, as they were already quite fatigued; while the
young people laughed too, pretending to join in the joke, although it
was something quite different they were laughing about. Reader, would
you understand their mirth? You must be young, and in love.
Kalman the poet alone maintained a Parnassus repose of feature. His
countenance was never discomposed by a smile, while his eyes were
constantly fixed on the young lady of the house, or straight before
him--not on Uncle Menyhert, but beyond him on the opposite wall, on
which a large mirror was suspended. This mirror seemed to divide his
attention with Lina; and to judge by his countenance, he was perfectly
satisfied with the appearance reflected within--watching every motion
of his hands as he ate his dinner, or picked his teeth.
Nobody seemed to observe him excepting little Sizike, whose
mischievous eyes nothing escaped. Her _naïve_ ideas kept the old
gentleman in constant mirth; and once or twice he was very nearly
breaking out into one of his terrible explosions, when, pointing to
Sandor, who was stretching his foot under the table, she whispered:
"See, bacsi, the student is disappearing!" in allusion to one of his
own stories of a student who disappeared under the table.
The general gaiety had reached its climax, when Kalman rose from his
seat, and, drawing his fingers through his hair, filled his glass, and
coughed slightly, to signify to the company that he was about to
speak.
The noise ceased; each person hushed his neighbour, and endeavoured to
assume a befitting length of countenance. The poet gazed around him
for a few moments, and then, raising his glass, began:--
"There is a sea, beneath which a lovely pearl lies concealed." . . .
"See, bacsi," whispered Sizike in Uncle Gabor's ear, "how Kalman looks
at himself in the glass!"
Uncle Gabor glanced at the poet, whose eyes were fixed intently on
the mirror with the most extraordinary self-complacency, totally
unconscious of the mirth he excited.
"This pearl," he continued, with great pathos, "is dearer than
Cleopatra's far-famed pearl, purer than those in the Brazilian
emperor's diadem! To win this gem, it were small sacrifice to descend
into the depths of the ocean: to die for it were bliss!" . . . .
"See, bacsi, how he offers himself the glass in the mirror," whispered
Sizike again.
Uncle Gabor seemed ready to burst, like an over-heated steam-boiler.
His vast chest rose and fell, his face grew purple, he clenched his
fists.
Karely, meanwhile, observing that Sandor was pressing his foot very
affectionately, and not wishing to leave the kindly intention
unresponded to, felt for Sandor's corn, and trod upon it with all his
strength.
"Yai!" roared Sandor in the midst of the pearly simile, giving the
bottle before him such a push, that the red wine flowed to the
opposite end of the table.
This was all that was wanting for Uncle Gabor. The restrained laughter
now broke out in all its fury; he threw himself back in his chair, and
struck the table till all the bottles danced. The young people laughed
too; and the ladies were so startled at the wine which was running
towards them, that they retreated from the table. Kalman alone
maintained a profound gravity, waiting with dignified mien till the
noise had subsided, to continue his speech; but in vain. Three times
he made an attempt to recommence; but no sooner did Uncle Gabor look
at him, or hear his voice, than the explosion was renewed, which he
was utterly incapable of restraining.
Kalman was obliged to sit down at last without finishing his speech.
The old gentleman was evidently annoyed, but it could not be helped;
if Kalman had spoken from the pulpit, he could not have kept his
gravity. To relieve the general embarrassment, Karely took up a glass
and added gaily:
"May the pretty pearl of which our friend Kalman speaks long be an
ornament amongst us, more especially as it does not grow on a cold
shell, but adorns the bosom of a true-hearted son of Hungary, who,
instead of salt sea-water, offers all explorers plenty of good Turkish
blood!"[16]
[Footnote 16: The Eger wine is so called, from the many battles fought
there.]
"Eljen! eljen!" cried the whole party: even Uncle Gabor heartily
clapped his hands in approval. Kalman alone could not forgive Karely,
for having followed up the effusion of his brilliant genius with such
commonplace wit. But it is vain attempting to say wise things after
dinner, and still more vain to expect people to listen to them.
As soon as the company rose from table, Uncle Berkessy invited his
guests to drive out in his grounds with him; and all having readily
accepted, orders were given to the coachmen from each party.
Menyhert went into the stables, to consult with Matyi as to the
possibility of his horses undertaking the drive; and the result being
unfavourable, it was agreed, on the promise of a pint of wine Matyi
should receive on their return, that the latter was to pretend to be
unfit to drive.
Meanwhile the other carriages had driven out, and the ladies were
preparing to step in. Kalman brought forward his steed, with its tail
cropped _à l'Anglaise_, and all were ready, when Menyhert appeared
coming out of the stables in great wrath.
"What the tartar are we to do? my coachman is so drunk that it is
impossible he can drive us. I am shocked to think that this should
have taken place here, but I shall turn him off as soon as ever we go
home."
"Don't annoy yourself, my good friend," exclaimed Berkessy, "there's
plenty of room, and we can arrange so as to take you all in. Your lady
will sit beside Mrs. Tallyai; Karely likes driving at all events, and
the girls will not object to having a cavalier with them."
Kalman had just got one foot in the stirrup, when hearing that there
was a place in the carriage beside Lina, he turned suddenly to Sandor,
who was standing beside him admiring the horse, and asked, with
amiable condescension, if he liked riding.
"That I do," replied Sandor grinning; "but I have no horse."
"Would you like to ride mine?"
"Really! may I indeed?"
"Most welcome; my back is already tired with riding all the morning,
and I can get a place beside one of the coachmen."
It was not necessary to repeat the offer; Sandor put one foot into the
stirrup, and, after dancing about a considerable time on the point of
the other, succeeded in placing himself in the saddle. The rest of the
party had arranged themselves according to Uncle Gabor's directions,
and Kalman was fortunate enough to obtain a place in Berkessy's
carriage opposite the two girls.
It was only now the company perceived that Sandor had mounted Kalman's
horse, on which he made rather a remarkable appearance--his legs being
very long, and the stirrups drawn up very short, consequently obliging
his knees almost to meet round the horse's neck.
Unfortunately, this horse had the bad habit of rearing whenever he
felt a stranger on his back; and he now began by throwing up his head
with a strange, drawn-out neigh, backing by degrees, and finally
rearing.
Aunt Zsuzsi now started from her seat. "Sandor!" she cried, "you fool!
get off that horse directly; you will break your neck."
It would appear unnecessary telling a man to get off a horse whose
intention it is to give his rider all possible assistance in
dismounting. But Sandor neither heard nor saw; and if we apply the
term of "all ear" to an attentive listener, we may perhaps affirm of
Sandor that he was "all horse."
The steed, finding that Sandor did not fall off as he intended,
neighed once more, and pricking up his ears, made a start for the
gate, and then set off full gallop across the garden and over the
meadow, bearing his unhappy rider with him, who in despair let go the
bridle, and with both hands held fast by the saddle before and behind.
"My son, my son! he will be killed!" shrieked Aunt Zsuzsi, wringing
her hands; "will nobody save him?"
"Oh, never fear," said her worthy husband; "he is safe enough, depend
upon it, and a throw or two won't break his neck. Did you not see that
he spurred the horse purposely? Let us go on, he will soon overtake
us."
Whereupon the whips cracked, and the carriages proceeded at a quick
pace along the road; Aunt Zsuzsi calling to every person she met, to
ask if they had seen her son--nobody hearing her, of course, owing to
the noise of the carriages.
Having arrived at Uncle Berkessy's farm, where the harvest was going
on, they turned into a beautiful avenue planted on each side with
trees; here and there the wheat and barley were in stacks, the maize
was still ripening luxuriously, and the golden melon and citronil
peeping out among the stubble. But neither corn nor melons had any
charms for Aunt Zsuzsi--she could only think of her lost son; till
Mrs. Tallyai having suggested the probability of Sandor's having
returned home, the good lady became tolerably calm, and was able to
estimate the value of each plot of melons, and bushel of corn.
Having amused themselves some time watching the reapers, the party
drove home again. Aunt Zsuzsi's first word was to inquire for Sandor;
but nobody knew anything about him.
The good lady then gave vent to her lamentations. "I am undone!" she
exclaimed, "my son Sandor is lost for ever! One has been nearly stung
to death by bees, and now the other is killed by a mad horse. Oh! why
did we ever come here at all?--But it is all your fault, you old
fool," she continued, turning to her husband; "why did you want to
marry your son so young? Now he is gone for ever, and you may go after
him yourself, with your ass of a coachman. And you, sir," she added,
turning her wrath on Kalman, "how dared you let him mount your
confounded horse? where is he now, I ask you?--where is my son
Sandor?"
"And where is my horse?" exclaimed the poet, not less alarmed at the
idea of Sandor's having carried off his horse, than the good lady at
the horse's having carried off her son Sandor.
"Oh, heavens! how am I to go home without my son?" said Aunt Zsuzsi,
bursting into tears.
"And how the tartar am I to get home without my horse?" said the
sentimental poet, forgetting himself.
Not content with blaming her husband and Kalman, Aunt Zsuzsi included
the whole family in her wrath: the girls because they had not taken
Sandor with them, and Uncle Berkessy for having allowed him to drink
so much wine, as otherwise he never would have dared to mount the
horse; and finally, she broke out in invectives against the whole
party for standing with their mouths open, instead of running to look
for her lost son.
At last Menyhert's patience was exhausted: "What are you yammering
about?" he exclaimed; "nobody made this fuss about me when I went to
the elections at Raab, when several gentleman were shot there! Never
fear! bad money is not so easily lost; depend upon it, he will come
back again. They don't steal people in this country, and they won't
begin with Sandor; and if the rascal does not return soon, we shall
have him advertised."
These cruel words fell with indescribable bitterness on Aunt Zsuzsi's
sensitive heart. That a father should speak thus of his lost son! She
had no words to reply; but, rushing into the room where Peterke was
lying eating cake, she threw herself on her only remaining son, and
began sobbing bitterly, on which Peterke turned the cake out of his
mouth and began roaring too.
Uncle Berkessy, much annoyed at the good lady's distress, sent
messengers in every direction, on foot and on horseback, to search for
the lost youth.
Meantime our readers may have no objection to follow too, and see what
has become of him.
Having crossed the garden, the steed went full speed across the
fields, and out into the highroad, where he continued in full gallop,
Sandor having surrendered himself to his fate, wondering whether he
should be carried off to Ukrania, as Mazeppa had been before him.
Now and then he ventured to look hastily round, and saw the place they
had left always at a greater distance, till at last it disappeared
entirely, and only the tower of the village church was to be seen;
finally, that too disappeared, and he began to see the towers of some
unknown town rising out of the horizon before him.
Now and then he called to the people he met on the road to catch the
horse, but they all understood that they were to keep out of the way,
taking it for granted that he was riding for a bet, or else that he
was a messenger sent for a doctor or fire-engines.
* * * * *
It was six days since the pretty widow had sent Uncle Nanasy abroad to
make preparations for her wedding and to assemble her relations. All
her orders had been scrupulously attended to. And the _estafette_ whom
Julia had sent to recall him having arrived half an hour too late at
each place, Uncle Nanasy returned to S---- without having seen him,
and entered his niece's apartment with a huge bandbox under his arm.
"Here I am, darling!--I have executed all your orders," he exclaimed;
"and here are your bridal dresses--this Varga made, and is it not
splendid? And this is from Keresztessy, worthy of an empress! And here
is the dispensation in my pocket--and the confections are in that
great case outside--and all our relations will be here: went about
myself, darling, and invited them all--But what's the matter? You are
not pleased with the dresses?"
Julia, trembling with vexation and rage, had pushed away the box
violently, and it rolled on the floor, crushing all the finery.
"Take these dresses out of my sight!" she exclaimed, in a voice choked
with passion. "I don't want to see them--nor the dispensation, nor
confections, nor relations, nor yourself either, you facetious,
meddling, old fool!"
Uncle Nanasi's eyes and mouth opened wide at this unexpected
reception; his jaws moved, as if endeavouring to articulate, though he
was utterly incapable of pronouncing a syllable.
When a man discharges all the business confided to him in the most
punctual way possible, just as he expects to receive at least a kiss
in return, and instead of it, has a box thrown at his head amid a
storm of abuse, what is he to suppose?
Nanasy bacsi was beyond supposition; and, to add to his amazement, his
fair niece had thrown herself down on the sofa, and was sobbing
bitterly.
At that instant the sound of horses' hoofs was heard in the court, and
Julia's maid burst into the room with a look of astonishment,
"Miss!--Madam!--gracious lady! Master Kalman's horse!"
"Don't dare to admit him," cried the lady, starting passionately from
her seat.
"But it is not Master Kalman, only his horse, with a strange young
gentleman."
"Who?"
Who, indeed, but the unfortunate Sandor, who had been carried across
the district to the principal town of the neighbouring county, and set
down before a strange house half dead with terror and fatigue!
Kalman had been accustomed to visit Julia every day on horseback, and
on these occasions the fair lady used to feed the horse with sugar
from her own delicate hands, so that when he passed up that street the
animal would frequently carry his master perforce into the court of
Julia's house, and now, having been six days absent, he had
consequently been six days without sugar, and, naturally enough,
finding himself unchecked, set off, and never stopped till he arrived
in the court of Julia's house, where he stood still, and began
neighing for the sugar.
This is the most natural way of explaining the psychology of the
circumstance, at least as far as we are capable of comprehending the
ideas of a horse.
Sandor tumbled off the horse's back as soon as it stopped, and
tottered towards the wall with aching and distorted limbs: presently,
he crept up to the door with great difficulty, just as Julia with her
maid had appeared on the staircase to see who was there.
"Who are you?--what do you want?--how did you come here?" were the
first questions put to the unhappy stranger.
"Don't ask me anything," groaned the horseman. "I am lost--I am
dying--my back is broken--put me to bed and call a surgeon. I am just
going to die!"
Julia saw with real sympathy that the youth was in great suffering,
and, sending her servant immediately in search of medical and surgical
aid, she put the tortured adventurer to bed, and bestowed every
possible attention which female tenderness could suggest. At last the
arrival of the doctors relieved her as to the state of the
invalid--assuring her that the young man was only saddle-sick, and
that a few hours of rest would put all to rights.
* * * * *
At Gabor Berkessy's, matters became more serious every hour. Mrs.
Gulyasi would let nobody draw breath till she had turned out the whole
household in search of her son, while she herself wandered about
distracted, asking every new comer what they had done with her son! At
last she was seized with violent cramps, and was obliged to go to bed
to tea and warming-pans.
Poor Lina and Mrs. Tallyai kept watch by her bedside, and never closed
their eyes all night; while Menyhert slumbered with a calm conscience
in the next room, snoring so loudly that they were obliged to rouse
him once in each five minutes for fear of disturbing the invalid.
At last, towards morning, she fell asleep, overcome by fatigue and
groaning, and Mrs. Tallyai also sank down on the sofa to get a few
minutes' rest, when all at once the footman was heard beating the
gentlemen's coats in the corridor.
The two girls ran out eagerly and desired him not to make such a
noise, as the ladies had only just fallen asleep.
As the footman retreated with the coats, Sizike observed something
lying on the floor, and running over, picked up an open pocket-book,
on the outside of which was printed in large golden letters,
"Journal," and the initials "K. S."
Who could blame severely two young girls, when the journal of a young
man--not entirely without interest in their eyes--had fallen into
their hands, that they should be unable to withstand the temptation of
peeping just a very little into it? At all events it was very natural.
The two girls ran whispering and tittering behind a pillar, and
hurriedly turned over the leaves of the mysterious book. It was full
of verses; here and there dried flowers, or a forget-me-not of plaited
hair peeped out between the leaves, which they carefully replaced, and
amused themselves with reading the verses, stifling their laughter as
they gaily snatched the book out of each other's hands. Suddenly
Lina's eyes fell on some well-known lines. She looked again; they were
indeed the very same which she had read the day before in the Regelo,
with this slight difference, that they were not addressed to herself,
but to Julia Cs----, and instead of dark hair and eyes, these spoke of
forget-me-not eyes and golden hair; otherwise it was quite the
same--every angel and charmer in its place, the same heartaches, the
same readiness to die, and promises to meet in a better world!
Lina felt herself precisely in the situation of a person who accepts a
compliment, and then perceives it was intended for another. She
hastily closed the Journal and retreated to her room, to hide the
blush of shame which covered her face, as if a hundred eyes were
turned upon her. For once in her life, a feeling of vanity had crossed
her heart; but now she was severely punished for it: all those
beautiful similes and sweet words had not been written for her at
all, but only translated from fair to dark! She was completely
disenchanted.
The sun had already risen, when one of the messengers who had been
despatched on Sandor's traces returned, with the consolatory news that
he had discovered the young gentleman, and that nothing was the matter
with him; on the contrary, he was in excellent hands, under the care
of a beautiful lady, who would not let him go until he had entirely
recovered from the fatigue occasioned by his ride--meanwhile, she
hoped that his worthy parents would come and be her guests until the
young gentleman was thoroughly restored.
At this news, Aunt Zsuzsi suddenly came to herself, rose from bed, and
ordered her carriage; and without even waiting for breakfast, thanked
her host for all his kindness, hurried her husband and little Peterke,
with tied-up jaws, into the conveyance, and desired the coachman to
drive for life and death to S----. The lad who had brought the message
was seated beside the coachman as a guide, having forgotten the lady's
name on his way back, but hoped to be able to find the house again.
Uncle Gabor shook hands cordially with Menyhert, who was already in
the coach, exclaiming gaily: "But for all this our process must not
fall to the ground--_liquidum est debitum_; and if it cannot be
arranged otherwise, we must enforce the execution."
Menyhert laughed heartily, understanding an allusion to the
long-promised marriage.
The whole household accompanied the carriage to the road, where they
once more parted, and the horses set off as fast as they were able.
Uncle Gabor then returned to the house with his guests; Linka was
evidently out of spirits that morning, while Siza could scarcely
contain her joy on seeing the Gulyasis set off.
"Miss Lina's sunny countenance is clouded to-day," said the poet in a
theatrical tone.
Lina, without condescending a reply, turned to Karely, with whom she
began to converse, and they entered the house together.
Kalman was thunderstruck. "Why is Miss Linka so ungracious to-day?" he
asked Sizike, who still remained out.
"Oh! did you not hear Mr. Menyhert Gulyasi threaten her father with an
execution?"
"Who? the old gentleman?" asked Kalman, much shocked.
Siza had spoken carelessly, without an idea of being believed; but
Kalman's look did not escape her quick eye--for at twelve years old
she had more sharpness than most people have at forty. Without
rectifying the mistake, she answered gravely: "Yes, certainly, old
Berkessy; but you must not speak of it to anybody."
"Impossible!" cried Kalman, in great agitation; "he is considered a
very rich man."
"Ah! there are many considered rich who are not really so," said
Sizike; and, carelessly humming a tune, she tripped into the house.
Kalman paced up and down with folded arms: he was quite confounded.
How could he imagine that a child of twelve years old should think of
making a fool of him? He might indeed have doubted had he heard it
from a grown-up person; but why should a child say such a thing,
unless she had heard it from those around her? In that case, it would
be better to return to Julia,--people said ill-natured things of her,
to be sure, and she was rather volatile and capricious; but at all
events she was rich, and very pretty. It might not be so difficult,
after all, to begin again: a few well got up scenes--an attempt at
suicide if necessary, and all would be right.
A horse was the only thing wanting--perhaps Berkessy would lend him
one; and with this hope the poet entered Uncle Gabor's apartment.
Berkessy was sitting on a large arm-chair, and Karely was standing
before him.
Kalman paused as he approached, to consider how he should arrange his
speech so that the old gentleman might suppose, and yet not suppose
that it was no longer his intention to propose for his daughter. And
here his evil genius again placed a looking-glass before him; and
again forgetting himself, he drew up his collar, brushed up his hair,
and the "Sir" with which he began his speech was apparently addressed
to himself.
Uncle Gabor, who had been observing his strange attitude in the
mirror, suddenly burst into one of his uncontrollable fits of
laughter, which Kalman was obliged this time to take to himself. He
grew red, then pale again, while his lips trembled with rage.
The old gentleman suddenly checked himself, and asked in the gravest
tone--"In what can I oblige you, nephew?"
"Sir," replied Kalman, scarcely able to articulate with fury, "I
thought--I expected to find in you a cultivated man, who despised the
superstition of the last century, which considered a poet as something
ridiculous."
"I do not consider poets ridiculous, sir," replied Berkessy gravely,
"as the walls of my room and my library will prove, where you may see
the portraits and the works of our best authors; but I despise that
bastard poetry which sucks the parent stem, and grows green without
ever producing fruit. I honour and revere those great minds, uniting
brilliant genius with vast study, who fulfil their glorious career to
the glory and honour of their country; but to mistake every reed
whistle for an Æolian harp, is what I cannot do. The real poet
elevates our mind by his ideas, while those who only call themselves
so because they invent rhymes can but excite a smile; and if nature
has given to my smile a somewhat louder tone than usual, it is not my
fault. Really, my dear nephew, the properties I first mentioned are
rather rare, while the latter certainly abound--and this you must not
take amiss from an old man."
No dictionary hitherto published contains words sufficiently
expressive of all that Kalman felt at this moment. To accuse a man of
stealing a silver fork, is nothing in comparison of telling him he is
a bad poet. At last, after a few moments' silence, he began in a
dignified tone: "Sir, if I did not consider that I am in your house"--
"That need not incommode you in the least: in my house the guests are
the masters."
"The insult you have offered me should be washed out with my blood,"
continued Kalman (he did not yet presume to say with anybody's else).
"I am not a surgeon," replied the old man, with quiet sarcasm.
Karely now stepped in between them, and taking Kalman's
arm--"Comrade," he whispered, "you are playing a very ridiculous part,
in disputing thus with an old gentleman."
"Why has he not a son, that I might demand satisfaction?"
"Take comfort, if that is all you want: I am his son, for I am going
to marry his daughter, and I am ready to give you all the satisfaction
you desire, but don't let us make a noise about it. I believe you are
going home at all events; so, if you will drive with me to S----, we
can settle this affair with our friends."
Uncle Gabor did not hear what the young men were saying; and as Karely
declared that he was obliged to go to S----, and would take Kalman
with him, he was quite satisfied, and ere long the two young men drove
away in the Tallyai carriage.
* * * * *
Meanwhile the Gulyasis arrived happily at S----, and were received by
the fair widow with the greatest amiability, and conducted to the
chamber of the sick youth, in whom Aunt Zsuzsi recognised her lost
son. He was reposing on a divan, arrayed in a rich silk dressing-gown,
embroidered slippers, and gold-tasselled cap, formerly the property of
the fair lady's husband.
Of course, Aunt Zsuzsi remarked nothing of all this at first, she
could only see her long-lost son; and falling on his neck, she sobbed
passionately for several minutes, after which she poured forth her
thanks and compliments to the pretty widow for her son's extraordinary
preservation, and the careful attendance bestowed upon him, repeating
at least ten times over--"Oh! if my son Sandor had such a wife, I
should be at rest as to his fate--I should then be sure of having
placed him in good hands!"
Julia smiled charmingly, and brought the worthy family through all her
fine apartments--showed them her porcelain, her silver services, and
finally her jewellery. Aunt Zsuzsi was beside herself; praised
everything to the skies, and scarcely knew what to look at first.
Meanwhile Uncle Nanasy took Menyhert up stairs into his smoking-room,
and spoke a great deal of Julia's fortune, of her various merits, and
of the brilliant alliance she would make for the first family in the
country, and of her late husband's admirable arrangement, allowing his
widow a handsome income in case of her marrying again--to all of which
Menyhert listened attentively, and the hours passed rapidly away
until dinner was announced.
During dinner, the surprise and admiration of the family reached its
highest climax. They did not know which to admire most--the meats, or
the dishes in which they were served. Little Peterke alone seemed
perfectly decided in his opinion as to the tarts, and had his own way
of proving it--what he could not eat he thrust into his pockets, and
Julia helped him to fill his cap with sweetmeats.
"Well, Peterke," said Aunt Zsuzsi after dinner, taking the dear boy in
her arms, "tell me which you like best, Aunt Julia or Aunt Lina?"
"I don't love Aunt Lina, because she would not give me chocolate when
I asked her."
"Well then, you love Aunt Julia best, don't you?"
"Uhum!"
Mamma smiled, and gently patted the dear boy's cheek.
It was now the seventh day, and the report had already spread through
the whole town, that the pretty widow was to be married on that day.
Her relations began to arrive, and one calèche followed another till
the house was quite full of gaily dressed people, among which the
indefatigable Uncle Nanasy was seen receiving everybody, and looking
more mysterious than ever.
"Where is the bride?" and "Where is the bridegroom?" was in every
mouth; but, for once in his life, Nanasy bacsi answered
discreetly--that Julia was at her toilet.
Meanwhile Julia had arrayed herself in her bridal attire, in which she
really looked like a fairy queen, and was in the act of placing the
wreath on her head when the door opened, and who should enter
but--Kalman Sos!
Julia, who was standing before the mirror and saw him enter, had just
time to check the start of astonishment which his appearance caused,
and, turning calmly round, "O you bad man!" she exclaimed in a voice
of gentle reproach, "to have put me to such an unmerciful trial. If I
had not known you so well, I might have been quite desperate on your
account."
"Then you never doubted me?"
"Doubted you! how could I imagine that you would forsake me, when
everybody knew we were going to be married! I must have had a very low
opinion of you indeed, had I thought for an instant that you could
have so basely betrayed a woman who loved you. Oh, no! I knew it was
only a poetical caprice on your part to prove the strength of my
confidence. I knew you would return, and so I did not even put off my
guests, but made all the preparations for the day appointed, so well
did I read your character."
"Yes, Julia! you read truly," murmured Kalman, enchanted; "it was only
a trial, which you have overcome, and my love will now be a thousand
times stronger than ever."
Julia turned from her mirror, and, courtesying low, with a smile of
bewitching coquetry, asked, "Am I pretty?"
"Oh, lovely!--Oh, angelic!" murmured the poet, throwing himself at
Julia's feet.
At that instant Uncle Nanasy entered to announce that the reverend
gentleman had arrived for the ceremony.
Julia poured some _Ess bouquet_ on her handkerchief, and, taking
Nanasy's arm, who stepped forward _à pas de menuet_, she descended to
the apartment where the guests were assembled.
The company hastened to greet the lovely bride, each according to his
own mode, and one and all seemed lost in admiration of her beauty.
At last the reverend gentleman stepped forward, and, rubbing his hands
with a business-like countenance, asked the name of the "happy
bridegroom."
Julia looked round with one of her sweetest smiles, while Kalman
hastened across all the corns in the company in his haste to join the
beautiful bride; but Julia's hand had already been placed in that of
nephew Sandor, whom she presented to the clergyman as her future
husband!
Kalman tottered towards the wall, and so completely lost his presence
of mind, that he tripped successively over three chairs into the lap
of a fat dowager lady; and then, starting up, rushed to the nearest
door, but finding it was a cupboard had to return across the room; and
when at last he found the door and got down stairs, the first person
he happened to meet being a little kitchen-maid, he addressed her as
"My lady aunt!" and begged her to get him a glass of water, for he was
_very cold_!
There was only one other person in a greater perplexity than himself,
and this was the bridegroom. When Julia led him towards the clergyman,
he stared as if he had heard sentence of death passed upon him. The
affair had been already made up between the elders, who considered it
superfluous to mention the subject to Sandor beforehand, and Julia was
too secure in the power of her charms to doubt of their success in
this undertaking.
Sandor allowed himself to be led before the table arranged for the
ceremony, and when the clergyman asked him, "Do you love this
honourable lady whose hand you hold?" he only stared at the worthy
man, till his father cried out, "Well, do you love her? Of course you
love her--how should you not love her?" on which Sandor recovering his
senses, went through the rest of the marriage formula pretty well,
though it cannot be denied that his teeth chattered not a little.
After this all went on well. The _fêtes_ which succeeded the ceremony
removed every constraint; and I must not omit, for the satisfaction of
our readers, that the happy bridegroom even danced after supper, and
thereby managed to trip up and tumble over several of the guests.
* * * * *
Early next morning three young men were walking in the gardens outside
the town. One was Karely, and the other two his comrades, who were to
act as seconds in his encounter with Kalman.
The latter had quitted Julia's house with a greater desire of fighting
than ever, and declared in several coffeehouses that he was determined
to shed either his own blood or that of another, and that he would not
be content with sending a ball through Karely's brain alone. In vain
his friends hinted that it was imprudent to publish his sanguinary
intentions beforehand, as he might be taken up. He cared not; they
might imprison him or take his life, but they should not touch his
honour!
Karely and his friends had waited full half an hour after the time
appointed. At last Kalman's seconds arrived--alone! and, with
countenances expressive of anger and disgust, handed a letter to their
opponents. Karely opened it impatiently, and read as follows:--
"GENTLEMEN,--Reflecting more coolly on this affair, I have come to the
conclusion that greater obligations than those at present incurred
forbid my risking a life not my own. The genius which fate has
intrusted to me is not mine alone. It belongs to my country--to
humanity in general.
"There is another thing we must not lose sight of; a duel should only
take place between individuals of equal rank, and I need not explain
to you that the mind has its aristocracy as well as society. When you
have selected one of my own grade, I will gladly measure arms with
him; meanwhile I quit this ungrateful town, probably for ever, to seek
elsewhere a circle more suited to my tastes," &c. &c.
The seconds stared at one another; some laughed, others cursed, and
Karely seeing there was nothing more to be done, took leave of his
comrades, and, stepping into the carriage which was waiting for him,
drove back to Berkessy's.
About half way he met their calèche, with his mother and sister, and
old Berkessy and his daughter, who all uttered exclamations of joy on
seeing him.
Some friend who had heard Kalman's threats in the _café_ hastened that
very evening to inform them of it, and they were now driving for life
and death to S----, and were infinitely relieved and rejoiced to meet
Karely returning, especially when he assured them that the affair had
gone off without any bad consequence.
Berkessy proposed going home with Karely, to give the ladies more
room, and they all drove back together.
Uncle Gabor then questioned Karely as to the cause of the duel, and
having heard it was on _his_ account, he opened his eyes in
astonishment.
"And what right had you to demand satisfaction in my name?"
"That right which a son has in his father's name."