MIRTH AND MOURNING.
Meanwhile preparations were going forward in Toroczko for the
approaching nuptials. All preliminaries had been duly attended to,
Blanka had joined the Unitarian Church, and nothing now stood in the way
of her marriage to Manasseh.
In the courtyard to the rear of the Adorjan family mansion stood a
little house, containing two rooms and a kitchen, which Aaron secretly
fitted up in genuine Toroczko style, with carved hard-wood furniture, a
row of pegs running around the wall and hung with a fine array of glazed
earthenware mugs, and an old-fashioned dresser filled with pottery and a
dazzling display of bright new tinware. In the sleeping-room bedclothes,
canopy, and curtain were embroidered by peasant maidens. This little
house was not to be shown to Blanka until her wedding day.
During these preparations Aaron climbed the Szekler Stone every evening
and surveyed the horizon in search of any beacons blazing on the
surrounding hills. "If only no mishap befalls, to spoil everything!" he
would murmur to himself as he came down again.
On the Sunday when the banns are published for the last time it is
customary for all the friends of the young couple--and there is sure to
be a whole army of them--to assemble at the bridegroom's house, which in
the present instance was also the bride's. The banquet on this occasion
is not furnished by the bridal pair: it is a farewell supper given by
the guests of the bride and groom, each of the company contributing a
roasted fowl and a cake. The groom merely supplies the wine, but not
gratis, as all pay for what they drink, and the sum thus collected goes
into the village school fund.
On Monday morning the wedding festivities begin in earnest. At an early
hour people are awakened by the firing of cannon, after which young men
mount their horses and gallop hither and thither, and two others,
accompanied by trumpeters, go forth to invite the village folk to the
wedding and to bear the bridal gifts through the street. Then the
nuptial procession moves, amid the glad ringing of bells, from the house
of the bride to the church. The old men head the line, the young men
come next, and the women follow, while the bridegroom with his escort,
and the bride with her bridesmaids, are given a place in the middle of
the procession. On coming out of the church, the newly married pair
receive a shower of flowers from the hands of the maidens gathered at
the door. But the ceremonies at the church by no means end the wedding
festival. What follows is peculiarly characteristic and important. First
the young men bearing the bridal cake run a race from the church to the
bridegroom's house, the victor winning a silk neckerchief embroidered by
the bride. Then comes the rhymed dialogue, in which the representatives
of the bride and of the groom chaffer with each other over the bride,
but always with the result that the bridegroom's deputy gets the better
of his opponent--yet only after the bridegroom himself has promised to
be father and brother to his young wife, and to cherish her as the apple
of his eye. Thereupon the maidens form a ring around the bride, sing
songs to her to conquer her bashfulness, and so induce her to yield her
hand to the bridegroom. After this the bridesmaids escort her to her new
home--which in this case was represented by the little house that Aaron
had secretly furnished for her. Neither Blanka nor Manasseh had even
suspected what he was about.
Blanka found herself in the paradise of her dreams, and when her
attendants had placed a gold-embroidered cap on her head, and she came
forth again into the courtyard,--which was now crowded with eager
friends,--her hand in that of the man whose wife and queen she was
thenceforth to be, it seemed to her that the happiness of heaven itself
was her portion.
Five hundred guests partook of the wedding feast. Food and drink were
provided in plenty, and every heart was filled to overflowing with the
joy of the occasion. And yet, to Blanka herself, something was still
lacking. "If Jonathan and Zenobia were only here!" she could not but say
to herself, and her happiness was not quite complete without them.
Toward evening Aaron himself began to feel uneasy at their
non-appearance. He had nearly exhausted his ingenuity in quieting
Blanka's anxiety. Finally he played his last card.
"Now, my angel," said he, "you remember I promised you I would dance the
Szekler dance at your wedding. Have the goodness to pay attention, and
you will see something that is not to be seen every day."
The Szekler dance resembles no other terpsichorean exercise, nor is it
by any means easy of execution. It calls for sinews of steel and great
suppleness of limb. To make it still more difficult, the performer is
obliged to provide his own music by singing a merry popular ballad while
he dances. He throws himself first on one leg, then on the other,
bending his knee and sinking nearly to the floor, while he extends the
other leg straight before him, raises one hand above his head, and rests
the other on his hip. His heels must never touch the floor, nor may he,
while bobbing thus comically up and down and trolling his lively ditty,
suffer his face to relax from that expression of sober and dignified
earnestness which marks the true Szekler. It is a dance and a display of
great physical strength and endurance at the same time.
While Aaron's performance was still in progress, his brother Alexander
broke through the circle of spectators and whispered something in his
ear, whereupon the dancer immediately ceased his exhibition with the
cry, "They have come!"
With an exclamation of joy Blanka sprang up from her seat. She wished to
be the first to welcome the long-awaited pair.
"Sister-in-law," cried Alexander, "don't go out! Don't let her go out!"
But it was too late. Two horses stood before the door, and on one of
them sat Zenobia. Blanka ran to her and took her hand.
"Have you come at last?" she exclaimed. "Oh, how long we've been looking
for you! Let me help you down."
Zenobia, however, sat silent and made no move to dismount.
"Where is Jonathan?" asked Blanka.
"There he is." Zenobia pointed to the other horse, on whose back was
bound a swathed form--a corpse.
"Jonathan!" cried Blanka, wildly.
"Your brother killed my father," Zenobia continued in a monotone, "and
my brothers killed your brother; and so it will go on now for nobody
knows how long."
Blanka was stricken speechless with horror, but Anna, who followed her,
broke out in lamentations, until a strong hand was laid on her from
behind and Aaron's voice was heard saying:
"Don't cry, don't make a noise! If the people inside hear you, they'll
come out and tear Ciprianu's daughter to pieces; and she is now our
guest."
Anna buried her face in Blanka's bosom.
"Alexander," said Aaron, softly, turning to his brother, "go in and tell
the gipsy band to play a lively reel. The company must be kept amused."
Meanwhile Manasseh had appeared.
"Manasseh," whispered Aaron, "come and help me lift our brother down
from the horse."
These words were to Manasseh like a dagger-thrust in his heart. His
knees trembled under him. But presently he manned himself and hastened
to untie the ropes that held the inanimate form on the horse's back.
Zenobia meanwhile went on talking in a low tone to Blanka. "In the
skirmish at Felvincz, the Hungarians had one man killed, and he was the
man. His horse carried him until I found him. You invited us to your
wedding, and here we are. Now you may, if you wish, take me in and say
to your guests, 'This is the daughter of that Ciprianu whose sons laid
waste Sasd and Felvincz and killed Jonathan Adorjan.'"
"Away, away!" stammered Blanka, waving her hand. She was terrified at
the thought of Zenobia's being found there by the people of Toroczko,
and perhaps suffering violence at their hands.
"Go in peace," said Aaron. "My people will not pursue you. Let bygones
be bygones between us. We owe each other nothing now."
"I owe you nothing, Aaron, but I owe something to your sister and your
sister-in-law for the very kind invitation they sent me; and that is a
debt which I will yet repay. To you, Manasseh, I have to say, remember
those parting words on Monastery Heights: 'We make peace with you and
swear to keep it; but if a traitor from your own number stirs up
dissension between us, then tremble!' Think of those words often. And
now farewell, and God bless you!"
With that she turned her horse about and rode away, breasting the wind,
which blew the snow into her face.
"Where shall we lay the body?" asked Aaron. "The house is full of
guests."
"Here, in our little cabin," said Blanka.
"What, in your bridal chamber?" gasped Aaron. "Oh, Father in heaven!"
But there was no other way. The two brothers bore Jonathan into the
little house, unswathed his cold limbs, and laid him in the bridal bed
until his coffin should be ready for him. So death entered the little
abode and was the first guest.
Blanka sat down on the edge of the bed and gazed at the dead face. The
resemblance between Jonathan and Manasseh was striking. This lifeless
image of her husband suddenly revealed to her all that had hitherto been
so carefully kept from her knowledge. When she met Jonathan in Kolozsvar
she had conceived of the war, to which so many stately cavaliers were
turning their horses' heads, as a kind of splendid tournament. She
remembered now the promise she had made to give the young soldier a kiss
on his return home, and recalled how he had begged her to keep her word
even though he came back dead. And he had come back dead, and now
claimed the fulfilment of her promise. She bent down over him, and as
she did so the illusion that it was Manasseh himself lying lifeless
before her, grew stronger still. She trembled as she touched her lips to
the dead man's marble brow, and with an outburst of sobs and tears she
called aloud, "Manasseh!"
He was at her side in a moment, bending over her and pressing her to his
heart. So he was not dead, after all. She recovered her self-control,
but she murmured in his ear:
"Oh, do not die! Never let me see you lying like that before me!"
Then she gave place to the three brothers, who likewise embraced the
dead man. One by one the other brothers came out of the house of
rejoicing and entered the chamber of mourning. Alexander had summoned
them. The guests, however, found nothing strange in their disappearance,
but merely gave themselves up the more unrestrainedly to the gaiety of
the occasion. That the bride and groom should have vanished so suddenly
was entirely in accord with established usage: the loving pair had, it
was taken for granted, sought the spot where all the delights of
paradise awaited them. How different was the reality from these
conjectures!
Blanka watched through the long hours by the dead man's couch. So passed
her wedding night.
At early dawn the tolling of bells announced to the people of Toroczko
that death had laid his cold hand on one of their number. Those who had
been wedding guests the day before now came as mourners to the house of
the Adorjans.
The brothers were out on the mountainside. Graves for the dead in
Toroczko are hewn out of the solid rock, and the side of some bare cliff
serves the people for a cemetery. Here each family has a vault, which,
as years pass, penetrates more and more deeply into the mountainside,
until in many cases it becomes a veritable tunnel. No name is carved
over these vaults, and only the memory of the survivors serves to
distinguish one tomb from another. When a man dies, his relatives take
it on themselves to hollow out his grave in the cliff. This is an old
and pious custom. If, however, there is no man in the family to render
this last service, the neighbours gladly offer their help. It would be a
grievous thing in Toroczko to have one's grave dug by a hired
grave-digger.
In the afternoon the catafalque was erected in the church, and the
entire population assembled to pay the last honours to the deceased. The
people sang, and the pastor delivered a funeral discourse. Then all
accompanied the remains to the rock-hewn cemetery. Men bore the coffin
on their shoulders, and on the coffin lay the dead man's sword, crowned
with garlands, and his shako pierced with a bullet-hole. Leading the
procession marched a student chorus singing a dirge, while weeping women
brought up the rear. When the family vault was reached, the seven
brothers of the deceased took the coffin and laid it in the niche
prepared to receive it; then they rolled a great stone before the
opening, came out of the vault, and kissed one another.
After that a plain villager, an old and gray-haired man, mounted a stone
pulpit and addressed the assembly, telling them who it was they were
burying, how he had lived, how he had been loved, and in what manner he
had come to his end. The speaker closed with the hope that the memory of
the departed might last as long as there were dwellers in the valley to
speak his name. The pastor then blessed the grave and pronounced a
benediction on the company before him. Finally the student choir
rendered a closing selection, while the women and children left the
place in groups, and only the men remained behind.
Aaron now ascended the stone pulpit and spoke. "Brothers and friends,"
he began, "we have done our duty to the dead; now let us discharge our
obligations to the living. Enough of funeral dirges for the present! Let
us now to arms!"
Three hundred men echoed his words. "To arms!" they cried, "to arms!"
They were ready and eager to go in quest of the foemen at whose hands
their fellow-townsman had met his death. "Come, let us go home and arm
ourselves!" said they, one to another.
"We will meet in the marketplace!" called out Aaron from the stone
pulpit, when suddenly he felt a strong hand on his belt behind, and he
was lifted down bodily from his place. He did not need to ask who dealt
thus summarily with him; he knew that only his brother Manasseh was
capable of such a feat of strength.
"What are you thinking of?" cried Manasseh, in a voice that all could
hear. "Have I not made peace with our neighbours and sworn in the name
of the one living God to maintain it, and would you put me to shame?"
"Have they not murdered our brother Jonathan?" demanded Aaron.
"No; our brother fell in battle like a brave soldier, with his sword in
his hand. And others of our land are fighting now for their country and
will die for her. We shall mourn them and honour their memory, but we
are not wild Indians to exact a bloody vengeance for those fallen on the
battle-field."
"Very well, brother Manasseh, but you need not charge us with being wild
Indians. I do not ask that we should fall upon our neighbours and burn
their houses over their heads, but that we should be on our guard and
defend ourselves and our families the best we know how. Believe me,
brother, I am as good a Christian as the next man; I go to church every
holy day, even when I am ill; but I feel easier, when I pray for my
soul's salvation, if I know my gun is loaded and primed."
"Then you are no true believer in God," returned Manasseh, in a tone of
reproof. "You worship that Jesus in whose name the massacre of St.
Bartholomew was perpetrated, the burning of heretics sanctioned, and the
crusades undertaken; but you are no true follower of that Jesus who came
with a message of peace and good-will to mankind, and who said to Peter,
'They that take the sword shall perish with the sword.'"
"I am not so sure that he really said that," rejoined Aaron, shrewdly.
"Matthew has it that he did, but Mark and Luke make no mention of it,
and, according to John, Jesus simply said to Peter, after the latter had
cut off the ear of Malchus, the high priest's servant, 'Put up thy sword
into the sheath.' At any rate, I am not clear what I should have done
had he said it to me; but I know one thing, if I had been there when the
Saviour handed the sop to Judas, I should have dealt Iscariot such a
blow on the head that he wouldn't have had wit enough left to betray his
master. And just so I will strike down the traitor who leads a foe
against Toroczko, if he once comes within my reach."
"What traitor do you mean?"
"The one that the girl spoke of yesterday when she said, 'If a traitor
rises up from amidst your own people, then tremble!' I know whom she
meant now: with the insurgents is a man, lately come into notice, who
surpasses all his fellows in cruelty. He is our Iscariot."
"What makes you think so?"
"Because he calls himself Diurbanu. No genuine Wallachian would have
taken the nickname of his king, Decebalus. It is as if one of us should
call himself Attila. Now, then, Manasseh, I love you and am ready to
follow your lead. I shall never forget how you went up to Monastery
Heights and came back with our two brothers. You knew how to serve them
better than I. I would have avenged their death merely, but you saved
their lives. So, as you made peace with Moga and his people, you have a
right to ask us to keep it. Therefore we will demand no atonement from
them for Jonathan's death. But when we hear that Diurbanu and his men,
who know nothing about that peace and are no parties to it, are
advancing on Toroczko, then will be the time for us to act."
"And I will take a hand with you," declared Manasseh.
Therewith the two brothers clasped hands and embraced each other, after
which the men all returned to their homes.