MY FIRST DISTINCTION--MY FIRST GRIEVANCE--THE DAMENWALZER--THE FRIGHTFUL
MONSTER--THE READJUSTED SCARF--THE SECOND NEEDLE-PRICK
I am really most grateful to Monsieur Galifard. I have to thank him for
the first distinction I ever enjoyed in my life. This was the
never-to-be-forgotten circumstance that when my colleagues, the young
hopefuls of the Academy of Jurisprudence at Kecskemet, gave a lawyers'
ball, they unanimously chose me to be the _elötánczos_.[6] To this day I
am proud of that distinction; what must I have been then? On the heels
of this honour speedily came a second. The very same year, the Hungarian
Academy of Sciences, on the occasion of the competition for the Teleki
prize, honourably mentioned my tragedy, "The Jew Boy," and there were
even two competent judges, Vörösmarty and Bajza,[7] who considered it
worthy of the prize.... When, therefore, I returned to my native town,
after an absence of three years, I found that a certain _renommée_ had
preceded me. I had also very good reasons for returning home. The legal
curriculum in my time embraced four years. The third year was given to
the _patveria_, the fourth year to the _jurateria_.[8] Every respectable
man goes through the patveria in his own country, but the _jurateria_ at
Buda-Pest.
[Footnote 6: The dancer who leads off the ball.]
[Footnote 7: Two of the most eminent Hungarian poets.]
[Footnote 8: Different branches of Hungarian law.]
And I had something else to boast of, too. In my leisure hours I painted
portraits, miniatures in oil. So well did I hit off the Judge of Osziny
(and he did not give me a sitting either) that every one recognised him;
but a still greater sensation was caused by my portrait of the wife of
the Procurator Fiscal, who passed for one of the prettiest women in the
town.
And yet, despite all this, when in the following Shrovetide the Lord
Lieutenant gave a ball to the county (they were something like Lord
Lieutenants in those days), I was _not_ called upon to open the ball!
Ungrateful fatherland!
And who was it, pray, who caused me this bitter slight? A dandy, who did
not belong to our town at all; a certain Muki Bagotay, of whom the world
only knew that he had been to Paris, and was a good match. In my rage I
had resolved not to dance at the Lord Lieutenant's ball, although I had
received an invitation. Moreover, my indignation was increased by the
circumstance that rumour had already designated Bessy as the
semi-official partner of the opener of the ball.
However, Nemesis overtook the pair of them.
At this ball Bessy wore a frisure _à l'Anglaise_, which did not suit her
face at all; and I rejoiced beforehand at the misadventure I clearly
foresaw, for I was certain that her flying dishevelled hair would catch
in the buttons of her partner's dress-coat.
As for Muki Bagotay himself, the first time we cast eyes upon him, my
young brother and I immediately agreed that it was an absolute
impertinence to be so handsome. Only a romance-writer has the right to
produce such perfect figures; they have no business to exist in reality.
I comforted myself with the reflection that such a handsome fellow
_must_ be a blockhead. I didn't know then that dulness was fashionable.
Why, even _gold_ has a dull ring!
But I was a very inexperienced youngster in those days. I had no down on
my face, I did not know how to smoke, I would not have drunk wine for
worlds, and had never even looked a lady in the face.
But, as I said before, Nemesis overtook them.
The dance opened with a waltz. If _I_ had been master of the ceremonies,
I should have started with a _körmagyar_.[9] Ah! that _körmagyar_. That
is something like a dance. It requires enthusiasm to dance _that_, and
you want eight or sixteen couples to dance it properly, and all
thirty-two dancers must dance it with histrionic precision, and that was
not an easy thing to do, I can tell you. But, then, Bagotay was all for
waltzes. The "Pecsovics"![10]
[Footnote 9: An old Hungarian round dance.]
[Footnote 10: One who preferred foreign and especially Austrian customs
to Hungarian.]
But there's a Nemesis!
It was the regular custom then for the band to play ten or twelve bars
of each dance before it began, and then stop for a few moments so that
the public might know whether the next dance was to be a polka,
quadrille, or waltz. Muki Bagotay did not know this (what did he know,
forsooth?), so when the band gave the usual signal, he took his partner
on his arm and started off with her in a fine whirl, till the band
suddenly stopped, and they found themselves high and dry at the other
end of the room with no music for their feet to dance to; so they had to
sneak back shamefacedly to the place from whence they had started. Bessy
was furious, and Muki was full of excuses; you would have taken them for
a married couple of six months' standing. Serve them right!
I did not watch them dance any more, but sat down in a corner and
sketched caricatures on the back of my invitation card. Then I made my
way to the buffet to drink almond-tea, and gathered round me two or
three _blasé_ young men, like myself weary of existence. Let the gay
company inside there try and amuse themselves without our assistance if
they could!
Suddenly some one tapped me on the shoulder with a fan, then I
recognised a voice; it was Bessy. "What," she said, "not content with
flying from the dancing-room yourself, must you keep away other dancers
also! Come back, sir! A _Damenwalzer_ is beginning."
For the privilege of a _Damenwalzer_ I capitulated unconditionally of
course. Having completed the turn round the room with my partner, I led
Bessy back to her mother, and thanked her for the never-to-be-forgotten
distinction. She had to be off again almost immediately, for the voice
of the master of the ceremonies announced a cotillon. The couples flew
round with the velocity of will-o'-the-wisp. But her mother remained
where she was, and there was an empty chair beside her.
"You are quite forgetting your old acquaintances," said she, breathing
heavily (she was stout and suffered from asthma). "You don't trouble
your head about us now you have become a famous man."
A famous man! What! then does _she_ also know that the Academy of
Sciences honourably mentioned my tragedy? No, no! My other fame it was
that had reached her--my pictorial successes.
"We have seen the lovely portrait that you painted. Yes, it was Madame
Müller to the life--just as she looked fifteen years ago. Why did you
not rather paint her daughter, she is much prettier? But you don't like
painting girls, do you--you are afraid it is a losing game, eh?"
The lady had certainly very peculiar expressions.
Of course I could only reply that I was not a bit afraid, and that if
they would let me, I should have the greatest pleasure in painting Miss
Bessy.
She was gracious enough to give her consent. The only thing was to fix
when it should be. It could not be at once, as for some days after a
ball young ladies do not look their best. Then they had to get ready for
another dancing party, or were busy, and on Sundays they went to church.
At last, however, after much calculation, a day was hunted up on which
Bessy was free to sit to me.
Then there was another question for consideration: was the portrait to
be painted on ivory with water-colours, or on linen with oils? "Ivory is
better," I insinuated, "because one can always wipe off a portrait in
water-colours with a wet sponge whenever one likes."
The lady remarked the self-reproach, and was gracious enough to
neutralize it by a contradiction.
"Then I declare for oils, for we wish to keep the picture for ever."
I felt that I could have done anything for her.
Meanwhile the cotillon had come to an end. Bessy returned to her mother,
and the companion also resumed her place. The chair which I had
appropriated belonged to her, and resigning it to its lawful possessor,
I would have withdrawn, but the lady considered it her duty to present
me to the ruling planet of the day, Muki Bagotay, who was escorting back
his partner. She immediately acquainted him with my artistic
qualifications, and made it generally known that I was going in a few
days to paint her daughter's portrait.
On the afternoon of the day appointed I appeared at Bessy's house. I had
sent on beforehand my easel and my canvas by our servant. I found not a
single soul of a lackey either in the passage or the ante-chamber. I was
obliged to stand there and wait till some one came to announce me, and
in the meantime I could not help overhearing the conversation in the
adjoining room.
"You are a good-for-nothing rascal yourself--a shameful, impertinent
fellow!"
I recognised the voice of the mistress of the house.
In reply came a protesting shriek.
"Where is there a stick?" cried the lady.
And at the same instant a hoarse voice replied: "Madame, vous êtes une
friponne!"
A pretty conversation truly. I had certainly arrived at the wrong time.
Meanwhile the door opened, and the flunkey came in rubbing one of his
hands with the other; he was evidently in pain.
"Have you been beaten?" cried I, in amazement; to which he angrily
replied: "No! I have been _bitten_."
What, actually bitten the footman!
"Would you kindly walk in, sir; they are waiting for you."
The moment I entered the room this enigmatical state of things was
immediately plain to me. The personage to whom her ladyship was meting
out these offensive epithets, and who was returning her such
contemptuous replies, was a grey parrot who had just bitten the lackey
in the finger and been chastised for this misdeed. The whole company was
in the utmost excitement. There was a large assembly both of ladies and
gentlemen; amongst the latter my eye immediately caught sight of Muki
Bagotay. But the chief personage was the parrot. He was a grey-liveried,
red-tailed, big-billed monster, and he stood in the middle of the
tea-table in a threatening attitude. Somehow or other he had contrived
to open the door of his bronze cage, and in a twinkling he stood in the
midst of the tea-things on the covered table. "Oh, I only hope he won't
get on my head!" cried a somewhat elderly lady, holding on to her
chignon with both hands. Nobody dared to assume the offensive. The
footman who had attempted to seize the fugitive had already been laid
_hors de combat_ by the winged rebel, while the parlour-maid declared
that she would not go near him if they gave her the whole house. The
lady of the house meanwhile was making little dabs at the bird with a
small Spanish cane, and calling it all sorts of abusive names; but the
warlike pet always grasped the end of the cane with its strong beak,
while he repaid with interest the injurious epithets bestowed upon him.
When I joined the company I was scarcely noticed and the lady of the
house, in reply to my salutation, "I kiss your hand," said, "You
infamous scoundrel!" though she immediately added, "I did not mean
you."--"You're one yourself," retorted the bird.
"Come now, find a rhyme to that, Mr. Rhymster!" said Mr. Muki Bagotay.
The wretch was apostrophizing me.--Rhymster, indeed!
"Don't go near it!" cried Bessy; "he might bite your hand, and then you
would not be able to paint me."
They'd terrify me, eh? It only needed that. I instantly went straight
for the bird. I would have done so had it been the double-headed Russian
eagle itself. Was it divination which made me hit upon the proper word
to say to such a human-voiced monster? "Give me your head!" said I. And
at that word the terrible wretch bobbed down his head till he was
actually standing on his curved beak, while I scratched his head with my
index finger, which gratified him so much that he began to flutter his
wings.
Then I hazarded a second command.
"Give me your foot!"
And then, to the general amazement, the parrot raised its formidable
three-pronged foot and clasped me tightly round the index finger with
its claws; then it seized my thumb with its other foot, and allowed me
to lift it from the table. Nor was that all. While I held it on my hand,
just as the mediæval huntsmen held their falcons, the parrot bent its
head over my hand and began to distribute kisses; but finally he went
through every variation of the kiss till it was a perfect scandal. The
ladies laughed. "Who ever could have taught him?"
"I got the bird during the lifetime of my late lamented husband,"
explained the lady of the house, with some confusion.
Finally, the conquered sphinx affectionately confided to me his name:
"Little Koko! Darling Koko!" But I transferred Koko from my fist to his
cage, and put him on to the swinging ring, which he seized, and began to
climb upwards with his beak. He was a veritable triped! On settling
comfortably in his ring, he made me a low bow, and cried with a naïve
inflexion of voice--"Your humble servant!"
"Positively marvellous!" gasped the lady-mother; "you ought really to be
a tamer of animals!"
"I mean to be."
"Indeed! And what sort of beasts will you tame?"
"Men!"
Not one of them understood me.
"Well, Mr. Poet," joked Muki Bagotay, "the ballad was a success; now let
us see whether the picture also will be superlative."
"How do you want to see it?"
"So!" and with that he stuck his eye-glass into the corner of his nose.
"Then you're just mistaken!" said I, "for when I paint a portrait nobody
is allowed in the room except myself and the sitter."
The whole company was amazed. Every one fancied that it would have been
a public exhibition, and so they had all congregated together to see how
a person's eye, mouth and ear came out. A large round table had been
prepared for me, in order that a whole lot of them might sit around it
with their hands on their elbows, and give me general directions as I
went along: That eye a bit higher! that ringlet a little lower! A little
more red here, and a little more white there! However, I declared
plainly that I would not paint before a crowd; it was the rule in
painting, I said. When portraits were being painted, nobody must be in
the atelier but the painter and his model. Barabás,[11] too, always made
that a rule.
[Footnote 11: Michael Barabás, a famous Hungarian painter, born at
Markosfalu in 1810.]
My resolution produced an imposing effect on the company. It's a very
nice thing when a man can do something which nobody else can! They had
to agree that Bessy and I should sit alone in a little side room, which
had only one window, and the lower part of even this window had to be
covered by a Spanish screen so as to get a proper light. And nobody was
to disturb us so long as the sitting lasted.
The first sitting did not last long. In oil painting, the image should
first of all be painted _under_, that is to say, with dull neutral
colours. In those days I had never heard of such a thing as a first
coating; while it is in this stage the picture is not fit to be looked
at. It is absolutely hideous, and the better the likeness, the worse it
looks. I allowed nobody to look at it, not even Bessy. I locked up the
first essay in my painter's knapsack; it was a miniature. At this stage
it was quite sufficient if the _insetting_ had succeeded, with the
figure in profile, but the countenance quite _en face_; the shadows
piled up, but the background merely thrown out tentatively, and the
fundamental colours of the dress just insinuated. Every one will see
that this last part is the hardest of all.
The company was very much deceived in its expectations when it was
informed that I had nothing to show it. Every one had expected that in
an hour and a half I should have finished the eye or the mouth at any
rate; they now thought to themselves that nothing at all would come of
it.
"Well, but will Bessy look pretty in this dress?" asked her mother.
What could I do at such a question as this but look silly? As if I knew
whether Bessy had had a pretty dress on or not! All I knew was that I
had had to use for it a little "English lake," some "Neapolitan yellow,"
"Venetian white," and just a scrinch of "burnt ochre."
"I can tell you that it was a very tiresome amusement," said Bessy. "The
face a little more that way--Not so serious--Not so smiling--Don't sit
so stiffly--Raise your finger--Don't move about so much.--And you've
laid so much licorice-juice on my portrait that they'll fancy I'm a
gipsy girl."
I hastened to assure her that this was only laying the ground work, and
that on the morrow it would be a much merrier business.
The next day I was there again after an early dinner. In the forenoon I
was with my chief at the office. Thus before dinner I was a lawyer, and
after dinner I was artist, poet, and reciter.
This time there was no company. The picture proceeded briskly, and the
members of the family were allowed to come in from time to time, one by
one, and have a peep at it.
I had now begun to study the face more in detail. It was an interesting
head. The face was almost heart-shaped, terminating below in a little
chin which was delicately divided by a single dimple. There were
spiral-like lips of dazzling red enamel; a slightly _retroussé_ nose,
with vibrating nostrils; round, rosy-red cheeks, with little beauty
spots here and there, which I christened "black stars in the ruddy
dawning heavens!" Her densely thick hair curled naturally, and gleamed
like golden enamel, diminishing, after the manner of Phidias' ideal
Venus, the smoothest of foreheads, and fluttering the most roguish of
little ringlets over the blue-veined temples. (How could I help learning
by heart such minute details when every one of them passed beneath my
brush?) But what my brush could not possibly reproduce was her
marvellous pair of eyes. They drove me entirely to despair. I really
believe that even if I had been a true artist instead of a wretched
dilettante, I should never have been able to conjure forth their
secrets. Just when I was thinking I had fixed them, her eyes would
flash, and my whole work was thrown away. At last I had to be content
with a dreamy expression, which pleased _me_, at any rate, best. The
inspecting family trio said that they had never seen such an expression
on Bessy's face; nevertheless they acknowledged, with one voice, that it
was a speaking likeness.
The head was now ready, the dress was to remain till to-morrow.
On that day there was a _préférence_ party in town at the General's.
Bessy's mother was an enthusiastic _préférence_ player.... Consequently
she was not at home. The aunt alone remained as the guardian of maidens,
and she used generally to take a nap in the afternoon, or play patience.
I don't know who presided over Bessy's toilet on this occasion, perhaps
nobody. That clean-cut, pale pink bodice on other days had given full
scope to her charming figure; but on this particular day it was more
insinuating than ever. It seemed to me as if the frill of English tulle
had crept considerably lower down the shoulder, nay, lower still.
One cannot imagine a lovelier masterpiece of a creative hand than that
bust. And it is a painter's right, nay, his duty, not merely to look,
but to observe. A dangerous privilege. My hand trembled, I seemed to
freeze, and yet beads of sweat stood out upon my forehead.... She, too,
seemed to remark my agitation. A roguish flame sparkled in her eye. She
was now not a bit like her yesterday's portrait. She seemed to be
flouting me. And I was putting that treacherous frill of tulle to rights
in the picture, putting it where it _ought_ to have been. That is what I
really call "_corriger la fortune_."
At this sitting the face was completely finished, and the dress also was
painted. I thanked the fair self-sacrificing victim, and told her that
she might now look at the picture; it was ready. The girl rose from her
chair and peeped over my shoulder. She looked at the picture and laughed
in my face.
"Why, you've readjusted the frill of my dress, haven't you?" said she.
"So you wore it like that purposely, eh?"
"Then was there something you didn't want to see?"
"There was something I didn't want other people to see."
"Well, now, I've been looking at you for days and days, and I've
observed something _on you_ which is very nasty, and which I don't like
at all."
"I had no idea you gave me so much of your attention."
"It is only a mere speck, no bigger than the eye of a bean."
"What can it be?"
"The wart on your right hand."
And, indeed, on my right hand, just below the thumb, was a not very
ornamental excrescence, which everybody could see when I was writing or
painting.
"I cannot cut it out, because it is just above the artery. I showed it
to a doctor, and he said it would be a rather dangerous operation."
"What does the doctor know about it? I'll destroy it for you; it won't
hurt you. I learned it at school from my school-fellows. I'll destroy it
in a moment."
"By incantations, eh?"
"Oh, dear no! It will smart dreadfully. But if a girl can stand it, you
can."
I consented.
She lit a candle forthwith, and placed it on the table beside me. Then
she produced a darning-needle from somewhere (I thought of the other
darning-needle), took firm hold of it, shoved it right down to the very
roots of the wart, held up my hand, and placed the head of the needle in
the candle flame till it was heated to a white heat. And all the time
her wondrous eyes were opened round and wide, and looked straight into
my eyes with irises turned downwards. It is thus that the demons of hell
must look upon those whom they are roasting!
"Does it hurt?" she hissed between her teeth. She appeared to be in a
state of ecstatic delight.
"It hurts, but it is not the needle."
"Well, now you can take your wart away with you."
Two days after, the calcined wart fell from my hand, leaving behind it a
little speck no bigger than a lentil; and that speck is there still, and
is of a whiteness which contrasts strongly with the colour of the rest
of the hand. And every day I set to work writing, I must needs look at
this little white spot, and when I have looked at it long, it seems to
me as if _her_ face were appearing before me in the midst of this tiny
circle just as it looked then; and then that face runs through all its
variations down to that last shape of all, which still startles me from
my slumbers.