THE EXTRAVAGANCES OF LOVE
After that melancholy scene, when the ladies of Transylvania vainly drew
tears and blushes from the faces of their husbands, a ray of hope still
remained in one heart alone. It was pretty Aranka Beldi, who, when
everyone else's eyes were full of tears, could whisper words of
encouragement to her unhappy friend, and who, when everyone else
abandoned her, embraced her last of all, and said to her with firm
conviction: "Fear not, we will save you!"
The youths of Transylvania also said: "Fear not, we will save you!" but
Fate flung the dice blindly, the marked men in ambush captured only the
escort, not the captive, and had all their fine trouble for nothing.
Aranka Beldi, however, begged her father to let her go to Gernyeszeg to
visit her friend Flora Teleki, and there the two noble young damsels
agreed together to write two letters to acquaintances in Hungary. One of
them wrote to Toekoely, the other to Feriz Beg, and when the letters were
ready, they read to each other what they had written. Flora's letter to
Toekoely was as follows:
"SIR,
"The fact that _I_ write these lines to you shows the
desperate position I am in, when I have to hide my
blushes and apply to him whom of all men I ought to
avoid. But it is a question of life and death. Do you
recollect the moment when, in the castle of Rumnik,
you saw three maids embrace each other, of whom I was
one? We then swore friendship and good fellowship to
each other. One of the three at the present moment
stands at the brink of death; I mean Mariska Sturdza,
whose misfortunes cannot be unknown to you, and this
is not the first mode of deliverance which we have
attempted--but the last. Your Excellency is a powerful
and magnanimous man, who has great influence with the
Sultan, and where one expedient fails, you can employ
another. I have always pictured your Excellency to
myself as a valiant and chivalrous cavalier, and from
what I know of the respect which all honourable
persons of my acquaintance have for your Excellency, I
have the utmost confidence that the unfortunate
Princess of Moldavia will not wait in vain for
deliverance. Do what you can, and may I add to the
esteem in which you are held the fervent blessings of
a heart which sincerely prays for your Excellency's
welfare.
"FLORA TELEKI."
Flora's calculations were most just. Toekoely, in those days, stood high
in the favour of the Sultan, was on terms of intimacy with all the
pashas and viziers, and very frequently a casual word from him had more
effect than other people's supplications. And Flora showed a fine
knowledge of character when she appealed to the magnanimity of the very
man who had so grievously offended her, feeling certain that just for
that very reason, although Toekoely might not recognise the force of his
former obligations, he would be magnanimous enough instantly to grant a
favour to the lady who asked him for it, especially as the woman to be
liberated had been the original cause of their separation.
Aranka kissed her friend over and over again when she had read this
letter, and then she suddenly grew sad.
"Oh, _my_ letter is not nearly so pretty, I am ashamed to show it to
you."
Flora looked at her friend with gentle bashfulness as Aranka handed over
her letter, and blushed like a red rose all the time she was perusing
it.
"NOBLE-HEARTED FERIZ!
"When we were both children you maintained that you
loved me (here she inserted within brackets: 'like a
sister,' and a good thing for her that she did put
these three words in brackets). If you still recollect
what you said, now is the time to prove it. My dearest
friend, Mariska Sturdza, is at Buda, a prisoner in the
hands of Hassan Pasha. My only hope of her deliverance
depends on you. I have heard such splendid things of
you. If you see her, for whom I now implore you, with
a sad face and tearful eyes, think how I should look
if I were there, and if you give her back to me, and I
can embrace her again, and look into her smiling eyes,
then I will think of you, too.
"ARANKA BELDI."
The girls entrusted these letters to faithful servants, sending the
first letter to Temesvar, where Toekoely was then residing, and the second
to Feriz Beg, who, as we know, lay ill at Buda.
The news first reached Toekoely at supper-time. On receiving the letter
and reading it through, he at once put down his glass, girded on his
sword, and telling his comrades that he was about to take a little
stroll, he mounted his horse and vanished from the town.
Feriz was lying half-delirious on his carpet. His health mended but
slowly, as is often the case with men of strong constitutions, and the
tidings of the smallest disaster which befell the Turks threw him into
such a state of excitement that a relapse was incessantly to be feared,
so that at last they would not allow any messages at all to be brought
to him, for even when they brought good news to him he always managed
to look at them from the worst side, so that news of any kind was
absolute poison to him. At last his Greek physician made it a rule to
read every letter addressed to his patient beforehand; and if it
contained the least disturbing element, he let Feriz know nothing at all
about it. What especially annoyed Feriz were any letters from women, and
these were simply sent back.
Thus Aranka's letter might very easily have had the fate of being
suppressed altogether had it not been entrusted to Master Gregory Biro,
a shrewd and famous Szekler courier, whose honourable peculiarity it was
to go wherever he was sent, and do whatsoever he was told, be the
obstacles in the way what they might. If he had been told to give
something to the Sultan of Turkey, he would have wormed his way to him
somehow--all inquiries, all threats would have been in vain; he would
have insisted on seeing and speaking to him if his head had to be cut
off the next moment.
One day, then, worthy Gregory Biro appeared before the kiosk of Feriz
Beg and asked to be admitted.
At these words a Moor popped out, and, seizing him by the collar,
conducted him to a room where a half-dressed man was standing before a
fire cooking black potions in all sorts of queer-shaped crooked glasses.
The Moor presented Gregory to the doctor as another messenger.
"What is your name?" he asked, venomously regarding him from over his
shoulder, and treating him to the most terrifying grimace he could think
of.
"Gregory Biro," replied the Szekler, nodding his head twice as was his
custom.
"Gregory, Gregory, what do you want here?"
"I want to see Feriz Beg."
"I am he; what have you brought?"
Gregory twisted his mug derisively at these words, and immediately
reflected that the business was beginning badly, for the person before
him did not in the least resemble Feriz Beg as described to him.
"I have brought a letter--from a pretty girl."
"Give it to me quickly, and be off."
Gregory twisted round his short jacket that he might get at his
knapsack; but while he was fumbling inside it he was cute enough to
extract the contents of the letter from its cover, and only handed the
empty envelope to the doctor.
"'Tis well, Gregory, now you may go," said he gently, and without so
much as opening the envelope he thrust it into the fire and held the
blazing paper under a retort which he wanted to warm.
"Is that the way they read letters here?" asked Gregory, scratching his
head, and he crept to the door; but there he stopped, and while half his
body remained outside he thrust his arm up to the elbow into the long
pocket of his _szuere_,[17] drew from thence a diamond-clasp, and holding
it between two fingers cried: "Look! I found this ring on the road not
far from here, perchance Feriz Beg has lost it."
[Footnote 17: Sheepskin mantle.]
The doctor took the splendid jewel, and feeling convinced that only a
nobleman could have lost such a thing, he said he would show it to Feriz
Beg immediately.
"Ho! then you are not Feriz Beg after all!" cried the humorist.
The doctor burst out laughing.
"Gregory! Gregory! don't jest with me. I am the cook, and if I like you
I will let you stay to dinner."
Gregory pulled a wry face at the sight of the doctor's stews.
The doctor thereupon took in the diamond-clasp to Feriz Beg, after
bidding the Moor, whom he left behind him, not to drink anything out of
the glasses standing there, or it would make him ill.
Shortly afterwards the doctor returned in great astonishment, planted
himself in front of Gregory with frowning eyebrows and roared at him in
a voice which alarmed even the Szekler:
"Where did you get that jewel from?"
"Where did I get it from?" said Gregory, shrugging his shoulders; he was
very pleased they wanted to frighten him.
"Come, speak!--quick!"
"Not now."
"Why not?" snapped the doctor firmly.
"Not to you, if you were to break me on the wheel."
"I'll bastinado you."
"Not if you impaled me, I say."
"Gregory! If you anger me, I'll make you drink three pints of physic."
"They are here, eh!" exclaimed Gregory, approaching the hearth, skipping
among the flasks of the doctor, and seizing one of them, but he had the
sense to choose alcohol, and dragging it from its case, sipped away at
it till there was not a drop of it left.
"Leave a little in it, you dog!" yelled the doctor, snatching the flask
away from him, "don't drink it all!"
"I'll drink up the whole shop, but speak I won't unless I like."
The doctor perceived that he had met his match.
"Then will you speak before Feriz Beg?" he asked.
"I'll speak the whole truth then."
So there was nothing for it but to open Feriz Beg's door before Gregory
and shove him inside.
Feriz Beg was sitting there on a couch, a feverish flush was burning
upon his pale face; he still held the jewel in his hand, and his eyes
were fastened upon it; just such a similar clasp he had given to Aranka
Beldi when they were both children together.
"How did you come by this jewel?" inquired Feriz in a soft, mournful
voice.
"She to whom you gave it gave it to me that you might believe she sent
me to you."
At these words Feriz Beg arose with flashing eyes.
"She sent you to me! She! So she remembers me! She thinks of me
sometimes, then."
"She sent you a letter through me."
Feriz Beg stretched out a tremulous hand.
"Where is the letter?"
"I flung it into the fire," interjected the doctor.
"How dared you do that?" exclaimed Feriz angrily.
But the doctor was not afraid.
"I am your doctor, and every letter injures your health."
"Panajot! you are an impertinent fellow!" thundered Feriz, with a face
of inflamed purple; and he smote the table such a blow with his fist
that all the medicine bottles tumbled off it.
"Don't be angry, sir!" said Gregory, twisting his moustache at both
ends, while Panajot coolly swept together the fragments of the broken
bottles and boxes on the floor; "the worthy man did not burn the letter
but only the envelope. I had gumption enough not to entrust the inside
of it to him."
And with these words he drew from his pouch a letter written on all four
sides of the sheet and handed it to Feriz, who before reading it covered
with kisses the lines traced by that dear hand, while Master Panajot
looked at Gregory in amazement.
"Go along, you old fox, Gregory," said he; "next time you come, I'll
throw _you_ into the fire to boot."
But Gregory, highly delighted, feasted his eyes on the youth's face all
the time he was reading the letter.
As if his soul had changed within him, as if he had passed from the
troubles of this world to the joys of Paradise, every feature of the
youth's face became smiling and joyful. The farther he read the brighter
grew his eyes; and when he came to the last word he pressed the leaf to
his heart with an expression of the keenest rapture, and held it there
a long time, closing his eyes as if in a happy dream, as if he had shut
them to see no other object when he conjured up her image before his
mind.
Master Panajot was alarmed, fancying some mischief had happened to the
invalid, and turned upon Gregory with gnashing teeth:
"What infernal document have you brought along with you, Gregory?"
Feriz meanwhile smilingly nodded his head as if he would thank some
invisible shape, and whispered softly:
"So it shall be, so it shall be."
"I'm afraid you feel bad, my master," said the doctor.
Feriz looked up, and his face had grown quite round.
"I?--I feel very well. Take your drugs from my table, and bring me wine
and costly meats dear to the eyes and mouth. I would rejoice my soul and
my palate. Call hither musicians, and open wide my gate. Pile flowers
upon my windows, I would be drunk with the fragrance of the flowers that
the breeze brings to me."
Panajot fancied that the invalid had gone out of his mind, and yet full
of the joy of life he rose from his couch, laid aside his warm woollen
garment, put on instead a light silk robe, wound round his head a turban
of the finest linen instead of the warm shaggy shawl, and he who had
hitherto been brooding and fretting apathetically, had suddenly become
as light as a bird, paced the room with rapid steps, with proudly
erected face, from which the livid yellow of sickness had suddenly
disappeared, and his eyes sparkled like fire.
Panajot could not account for the change, and really believed that the
patient had fallen into some dangerous paroxysm and in this persuasion
bawled for all the members of the negro family. The old Egyptian
door-keeper, a young Nubian huntsman, a Chinese cook, trampling upon
each other in their haste, all rushed into the room at his cry.
Feriz Beg, with boyish mirth, stopped them all before the doctor could
say a word.
"Thou, Ali," he said to the old door-keeper, "go to the mosque and cast
this silver among the poor that they may give thanks to Allah for my
recovery. And thou, O cook! prepare a dinner for twelve persons, looking
to it that there is wine and flowers and music; and thou, my huntsman,
bring forth the fieriest steed and put upon him the most costly
wrappings; and ye others, take this worthy doctor and lock him up among
his drugs that he may not get away, and call hither all my friends and
acquaintances, and tell them we will celebrate the festival of my
recovery."
The servants with shouts of joy fulfilled the commands of Feriz. First
of all they shoved good Panajot into his drug-brewing kitchen, and then
they dispersed to do their master's bidding.
Feriz then took the hand of the Szekler who had brought the message and
shook it violently, saying to him in a loud firm voice:
"Thou must remain with me till I have accomplished thy mistress's
commands. For she has laid a command upon me which I must needs obey."
Meanwhile, the ostlers had brought forward the good charger. It was a
fiery white Arab, ten times as restless as usual because of its long
rest; not an instant were its feet still. Two men caught it by the head
and were scarce able to hold it, its pink, wide open nostrils blew forth
jets of steam, and through its smooth white mane could be seen the ruddy
hue of the full blood.
The unfortunate Panajot poked his head through the round window of his
laboratory, and from thence regarded with stupefaction his whilom
invalid bestride the back of the wild charger, that same invalid who, if
anyone knocked at his door an hour or two before, complained that his
head was bursting.
The charger pranced and caracolled and the doctor with tears in his eyes
besought the bystanders if they had any sense of feeling at all not to
let the Beg ride on such a winged griffin. They only laughed at him.
Feriz flung himself into the saddle as lightly as a grasshopper. The two
stablemen let go the reins, the steed rose up erect on his hind legs and
bucked along as a biped for several yards. Then the Beg struck the sharp
stirrups into its flank, and the steed, snorting loudly, bowed its head
over its fore-quarters and galloped off like lightning.
The doctor followed him with a lachrymose eye, every moment expecting
that Feriz would fall dead from his horse; but he sat in the saddle as
if grown to it, as he had always been wont to do. When the road
meandered off towards the fortress he turned into it and disappeared
from the astonished gaze of those who were looking after him.
A few moments later the horseman was in the courtyard of the fortress.
He demanded an interview with the general, and was told that he was
receiving nobody. He applied therefore to his favourite eunuch instead.
He arrived at the fortress with a full purse, he quitted it with an
empty one; but he now knew everything he wanted to know, viz., that
Hassan had entrusted the captive Princess to Azrael; that the two girls
were tied by the hands to one chain; that he greatly feared someone
would come and filch the Princess from him; that he got up ten times
every night to see whether anyone had stolen into the palace; and that
since Mariska had been placed in his hands he had drunk no wine and
smoked no opium, and would eat of no dish save from the hands of his
favourite damsel.
Feriz Beg knew quite enough. Again he mounted his horse and galloped
back to his kiosk, taking the neighbouring mosque on his way, on
reaching which he called from his horse to the old dervish, who
immediately appeared in answer to his summons.
"Tell her who was wont to visit me in thy stead that I want to see and
speak to her early to-morrow morning."
And with that he threw some gold ducats to the dervish and galloped off.
The dervish looked after him in astonishment, and picking up the ducats,
instantly toddled off to the fortress, prowled about the gate all night,
met Hajat at early dawn, and gave her the message for Azrael.
This was the joyful tidings which the odalisk had received in response
to her first prayer, and which had made her so happy.
* * * * *
Next morning she ordered her servants to admit none but the old dervish,
and to close every door as soon as he had entered.
Shortly afterwards, Azrael with her retinue of servants arrived at the
mosque, and a few moments after she had disappeared behind the trellised
railings the form of the old dervish appeared in the street, hobbling
along with his crutch till he reached the kiosk. Feriz Beg perceived him
through the window, and sent everyone from the room that he might remain
alone with him.
The dervish entered, closed the door behind him, let down the
tapestries, took off his false beard and false raiment, and there before
Feriz--tremulous, blushing, and shamefaced--stood the odalisk.
"Thou hast sent for me," she stammered softly, "and behold--here I am!"
"I would beg something of thee," said Feriz, half leaning on his elbow.
"Demand my life!" cried the odalisk impetuously, "and I will lay it at
thy feet!" and at these words she flung herself at the foot of the divan
on which the youth was sitting.
"I ask thee for nothing less than thy life. Once thou saidst that thou
didst love me. Is that true now also?"
"Is it not possible to love thee, and yet live?"
"Say then that I might love thee if I knew thee better. Good! I wish to
know thee."
The damsel regarded the youth tremblingly, waiting to hear what he would
say to her.
The youth rose and said in a solemn, lofty voice:
"In my eyes not the roses of the cheeks, or the fire of the eyes, or
bodily charms make a woman beautiful, but the beauty of the soul, for I
recognise a soul in woman, and she is no mere plaything for the pastime
of men. What enchants me is noble feeling, self-sacrifice, loyalty,
resignation. Canst thou die for him whom thou lovest?"
"It would be rapture to me."
"Canst thou die for her whom thou hatest in order to prove how thou dost
love?"
"I do not understand," said Azrael hesitating.
"Thou wilt understand immediately. There is a captive woman in Hassan's
castle who is entrusted to thy charge. This captive woman must be
liberated. Wilt _thou_ liberate her?"
At these words Azrael's heart began to throb feverishly. All the blood
vanished from her face. She looked at the youth in despair, and said
with a gasp:
"Dost _thou_ love this woman?"
"Suppose that I love her and thou dost free her all the same."
The woman collapsed at the feet of Feriz Beg, and embracing his knees,
said, sobbing loudly:
"Oh, say that thou dost not love her, say that thou dost not know her,
and I will release her--I will release her for thee at the risk of my
own life."
The reply of Feriz was unmercifully cold.
"Believe that I love her, and in that belief sacrifice thyself for her.
This night I will wait for her wherever thou desirest, and will take her
away if thou wilt fetch her. It was thy desire to know me, and I would
know thee also. Thou art free to come or go as thou choosest."
The odalisk hid her tearful face in the carpets on the floor, and
writhed convulsively to the feet of Feriz, moaning piteously.
"Oh, Feriz, thou art merciless to me."
"Thou wouldst not be the first who had sacrificed her life for love."
"But none so painfully as I."
"And art thou not proud to do so, then?"
At these words the woman raised a pale face, her large eyes had a
moonlight gleam like the eyes of a sleep-walker. She seized the hand of
Feriz in order to help herself to rise.
"Yes, I am proud to die for thee. I will show that here--within
me--there is a heart which can feel nobly--which can break for that
which it loves, for that which kills it--that pride shall be mine. I
will do it."
And then, as if she wished to clear away the gathering clouds from her
thoughts, she passed her hand across her forehead and continued in a
lower, softer voice:
"This night, when the muezzin calls the hour of midnight, be in front of
the fortress-garden on thy fleetest horse. Thou wilt not have to wait
long; there is a tiny door there which conceals a hidden staircase which
leads from the fortress to the trenches. I will come thither and bring
her with me."
Feriz involuntarily pressed the hand of the girl kneeling before him,
and felt a burning pressure in his hand, and when he looked at the young
face before him he saw the smile of a sublime rapture break forth upon
her radiantly joyful features.
Azrael parted from Feriz an altogether transformed being, another heart
was throbbing in her breast, another blood was flowing to her heart,
earth and heaven had a different colour to her eyes. She believed that
the youth would love her if she died for him, and that thought made her
happy.
But Feriz summoned Gregory Biro, and having recompensed him, sent him
back to his mistress with the message:
"Thy wish hath been accomplished."
So sure was he that Azrael would keep her word--if only she were alive
to do so.
* * * * *
Hassan Pasha waited and waited for Azrael. If the odalisk was not with
him he felt as helpless as a child who has strayed away from its nurse.
In the days immediately following the lost battle, the shame attaching
to him and his agonized fear for his life had quite confused his mind;
and the drugs employed at that time, combined with restless nights, the
prayers of the dervishes, the joys of the harem and opium, had completed
the ruin of his nervous system. If he were left alone for an hour he
immediately fainted, and when he awoke it was in panic terror--he gazed
around him like one in the grip of a hideous nightmare. For some days he
would leave off his opium, but as is generally the case when one too
suddenly abandons one's favourite drug, the whole organism threatened to
collapse, and the renunciation of the opium did even more mischief than
its enjoyment.
When Azrael rejoined him he was asleep, the chain by which he held the
Princess had fallen from his hand and when he awoke there was a good
opportunity of persuading him that Mariska had escaped from him while he
slept.
Hassan looked long and blankly at her, it seemed as if he would need
some time wherein to rally his scattered senses sufficiently to
recognise anyone. But Azrael was able to exercise a strange magnetic
influence over him, and he would awake from the deepest sleep whenever
she approached him.
Azrael sat down beside the couch and embraced the Vizier, while Mariska,
with tender bashfulness, turned her head away from them; and Hassan,
observing it, drew Azrael's head to his lips and whispered in her ear:
"I have had evil dreams again. Hamaliel, the angel of dreams, appeared
before me, and gave me to understand that if I did not kill this woman,
he would kill me. My life is poisoned because she is here. My mind is
not in proper order. I often forget who I am. I fancy I am living at
Stambul, and looking out of the window am amazed that I do not see the
Bosphorus. This woman must die. This will cure me. I will kill her this
very day."
Mariska did not hear these words, all her attention was fixed upon the
babbling of her child; and Azrael, with an enchanting smile, flung
herself on the breast of the Vizier, embracing his waggling head and
covering his face with kisses, and the smile of her large dark eyes
illuminated his gloomy soul.
Poor Hassan! He fancies that that enchanting smile, that embrace, those
kisses are meant for him, but the shape of a handsome youth hovers
before the mind of the odalisk, and that is why she kisses Hassan so
tenderly, embraces him so ardently, and smiles so enchantingly. She
fancies 'tis her ideal whom she sees and embraces.
Ah, the extravagances of love!