It happened once, that on a bright December day he and another
shepherd boy had gone out to the plains with their flocks. It was a
remarkably fine winter; there had been no frost as yet, and the whole
plain was as green, and the sun as warm, as on a day in spring.
The two boys had driven their sheep to a great distance, when all at
once, towards evening, a sharp and biting wind arose from the north.
In an hour the weather had changed, and the horizon was overcast with
heavy dark-blue clouds, which seemed angrily contending with the north
wind. The ravens, those avant-couriers of the snowstorm, assembled in
vast flocks, mingling their cries with the howling of the wind.
The shepherd boys hastily assembled their sheep, and began to drive
them home. Scarcely had they proceeded a few hundred yards, however,
when the horizon had completely darkened, the snow fell thickly,
driven about by the wind, and in a few moments the path which guided
them was covered. Meanwhile, the cold had sensibly increased, the
ground was soon frozen quite hard, and the boys had lost all traces
of their homeward way--they ran hither and thither, listening, and
looking around them. No glimmering light was to be seen, nor the
barking of a dog to be heard. Night had come on, and they had strayed
into the puszta!
What was to be done? It was impossible to drive the sheep farther, for
they crowded all in a heap, with their heads together.
"We will do like the sheep," said the herd-boys; and spreading their
Izurok[38] upon the ground, they lay down close to one another,
endeavouring by the heat of their bodies to keep out the frost: and
thus, with their arms clasped tightly round each other, they awaited
the long stormy night, during which the snow never ceased an instant,
and soon covered them both.
[Footnote 38: The peasant's mantle of coarse white flannel.]
Pista--so one of them was called--could not close his eyes all night:
he heard the cries of the ravens incessantly above his head, and the
roaring of the storm, which seemed hushed at intervals only to burst
out more furiously, like the wrath of some huge monster, while the
chill blast seemed to pierce him through, and turn his blood to ice.
But his comrade Gyuri slept soundly, although he continually called in
his ear in order to awake him; for he feared to listen to his heavy
snoring, and to be alone awake. At length the sleeper ceased to snore,
and breathed quietly for a time, till by degrees the breathing too
became fainter and fainter.
When at last the fearful night had passed, and the clouds of snow had
cleared away, and day began to break upon the hoary world, Pista tried
to rise and wake his companion, who was still sound asleep, and kept
his arms clasped tightly round his neck; but all his exertions could
not wake him.
"Gyuri, awake!" he cried, shaking the sleeper; but Gyuri did not
wake.
"Gyuri, awake!" he repeated in terror; but Gyuri's sleep was an
eternal one--the boy was frozen.
When Pista saw that his comrade was dead, he tried in vain to release
himself from his grasp; but the stiff dead arms were clasped so
tightly round his neck, it was impossible to extricate them.
The terrified boy, finding himself face to face with the dead, who
held him with such irresistible power in his fearful embrace, while
the glazed and motionless eyes looked straight into his own, struggled
fearfully through the snow, and dashed into the rushes, where the
villagers who had come out to search for them most providentially
found him, still crying out--"Gyuri, awake! Gyuri, let me go!"
They freed him with great difficulty from his companion's arms, but
terror had deprived him of reason from that hour.
He never does any harm, or quarrels with anybody; and he speaks
sensibly and quietly, unless his comrade's name is mentioned, when he
will take to his heels and run as long as he has breath in his body.
* * * * *
Mental derangement does not always assume a melancholy form: here and
there we meet with most grotesque examples, whose peculiar slyness and
original ideas are most amusing. Outwardly they are always gay: who
may know what passes within?
We had an instance of the latter species of madness in Transylvania.
_Boho Boris_ (silly Barbara) was known through the whole district.
She was never seen for one week in the same place, but wandered
continually about; her whole travelling apparatus consisting of a
guitar, which she slung around her neck, and went singing away to the
next neighbour or the nearest town.
She found her table always covered; for she was quite at home in
every gentleman's house, never waiting to be invited, and ordered all
the servants about whether they would or not. Her apparel seemed to
grow like the flowers of the meadow, without the assistance of tailors
or _marchandes de modes_,--not that petticoats and ruffles actually
sprang out of the earth on her account, but whenever she was tired of
any article of apparel, or did not fancy wearing it longer, she would
doff it at the first gentleman's house she came to, and put on a dress
belonging to the lady of the mansion, declaring with the utmost
gravity that it suited her very well; and the Transylvanian ladies
were too generous not to leave her in her confidence, and in
undisturbed possession of the new dress.
Once a great lady, Countess N----, pitying poor Boris's uncertain mode
of life, invited her to her castle, promising to keep her as long as
she lived.
Now this good lady had one or two little peculiarities. In the first
place, she was very sentimental, and always dreaming of some hero of
romance; secondly, she was extremely sensitive, and if any person
unmercifully wounded her tender heart, she was always sure to swoon
away; and thirdly, having swooned away, she always waited till the
whole household had assembled round her, and could not be brought to
herself as long as one member of it failed.
Boho Biri being constantly with the Countess, had the full benefit of
her eccentricities. This, however, did not seem to annoy her in the
least: when the lady spoke of her love affairs, Boris spoke of her
own; when the Countess sighed deeply, Boho Biri sighed still deeper;
if the Countess described her injuries or her bitter fate in prose,
Biri illustrated hers in verse; and when the Countess, overcome by her
emotions, fainted away on a sofa, Boho Biri fainted on another, and
always remained full half an hour longer in her swoon than the lady
herself. If it were necessary to take cramp, when the Countess had
only commenced, Boho Biri was already roaring so as to bring the whole
household to the rescue.
Finally, however, it became too much for Boris. One day, taking up her
guitar, and putting a roll in her pocket, she announced her intention
to depart.
The good lady in astonishment asked why.
Boho Biri struck an accord on her guitar, and raising herself on the
tips of her toes, she answered, with dignified composure: "Two fools
are one too many in one house!"