THE WOMAN WHO WENT ALONG WITH ME
And now we'll go back to the day which forms so remarkable a
turning-point in the life of the Hungarian nation, the 15th March, 1848.
It did not come without due preparation. The emancipation of the people,
a free press and a free soil, equality of taxation and equality before
the law--all these splendid ideas had been fought for during the last
ten years by those great minds which towered above their fellows. The
time had now arrived, the process had been decided, the judgment lived
in the heart of every honest patriot. The great sacrifices which the
metamorphosis required were not demanded, but volunteered. We debated
about them in the Diet, party against party, with all the fervour of
conviction.
A melancholy example was before us, which, like that _fata Morgana_ of
the ocean, the phantom galley overturned, warns the seaman of the danger
that is hovering over his head. I allude to the events in Galicia the
year before.
The Polish gentry of Galicia demanded their liberties, and emphasized
their demands by force of arms. There was no need on the part of the
authorities to set in motion an army corps against this new confederacy,
the peasantry did the work for them instead. The Galician peasants[45]
crushed the Polish gentry. The censorship had prevented the Hungarian
newspapers from making known the details of this rebellion, but when the
Diet met, it was impossible to prevent the fiery deputy for Comorn, the
youthful Denis Pazmandy, from raising his mighty voice on behalf of the
Poles, and making known the shocking particulars of the bloody massacre
to the Hungarian nation. There are many sad pages in the history of the
Polish nation, but none so sad as this. And the hand which wrote that
page could easily glide over to the next page also, and that next page
was the history of the Hungarian nation. Here half a million of gentry
stand face to face with fifteen millions of serfs which serve, suffer,
pay, carry arms, and are silent. Then the Paris Revolution broke out.
The French nation overthrew the throne. (By the way, a tatter from the
canopy over the French throne was brought home by one of our young
writers, Louis Dóbsa, as a present for Petöfi. Dóbsa fought on the
February barricades.) Serious debates were held in the Hungarian Diet.
But Pressburg[46] was much too cold a field for such things. They wanted
assistance from Pest. We didn't say Buda-Pest then, Buda[47] was not
ours.... Meanwhile the Vienna Revolution broke out. The streets of
Vienna resounded with the watchword "Freedom," and were painted with the
blood of the heroes that had fallen for it.
[Footnote 45: They were mostly Ruthenians, and racial and religious
differences had much to do with their antagonism. This inveigling of the
peasantry against the gentry, generally attributed to Metternich, is one
of the darkest blots in Austrian history.--TR.]
[Footnote 46: The old coronation city of Hungary, but more of a German
than a Magyar city then.--TR.]
[Footnote 47: It was an Austrian fortress.--TR.]
"_So these Vienna people whom we blackguard so much show that they know
how to shed their blood for freedom while we glorious Magyars sit at our
firesides!_" cried Petöfi bitterly. "Let us send no more petitions to
the Diet," he added, "it is deaf! Let us appeal to the nation: it will
hear!"
Then he wrote his "Talpra Magyar!"[48]
[Footnote 48: "Up! Magyar, up!"]
Early in the morning we assembled in my room by lamplight. There were
four of us--Petöfi, Paul Vasváry, Julius Bulyovszky, and myself. My
companions entrusted me with the drawing up of the Pest Articles in a
short popular form intelligible to everybody. While I was thus occupied,
they were disputing about what should happen next. The most violent of
them was Paul Vasváry, who had the figure of a mighty young athlete. In
his hand was a sword-stick with a horn handle, which he was flourishing
about in a martial manner, when, all at once, the jolted stiletto flew
from its case, and turning a somersault, flew through the air over my
head and struck the wall.
"A lucky omen!" cried Petöfi.
The proclamation was ready. We hastened into the street. We said nothing
to Madame Petöfi. Every one of us had arms of some sort. I pocketed the
famous duplex pistol already mentioned.
Every one knows _ad nauseam_ what followed--how the human avalanche
began to move, how it grew, and what speeches we made in the great
square. But speech-making was not sufficient, we wanted to _do_
something. The first thing to be done was to give practical application
to the doctrine of a free press. We resolved to print the Twelve
Articles of Pest, the Proclamation, and the "Talpra Magyar" without the
consent of the censor.
The printing press of Landerer and Heckenast was honoured with this
compulsory distinction. The printers were naturally not justified in
printing anything without permission from the authorities, so we turned
up our sleeves and worked away at the hand-presses ourselves. The name
of the typesetter who set up the first word of freedom was _Potemkin_.
While Irinyi and other young authors were working away at the press, it
was my duty to harangue the mob that thronged the whole length of
Hatváni Street. I had no idea how to set about it, but it came of its
own accord.
My worthy and loyal contemporary, Paul Szontagh, occasionally quotes to
me, even now, some of the heaven-storming phrases which he heard me say
on that occasion; _e.g._, "... No! fellow-citizens; he is not the true
hero who can _die_ for his country; he who can _slay_ for his country,
he is the true hero!"
That was the sort of oratory I used to practise in those days!
Meanwhile the rain began to fall, and rain is the most reactionary
opponent of every revolution. But my people were not to be dispersed by
the rain, and all at once the whole street was filled with expanded
umbrellas.
"What! gentlemen," thundered I from the corner of the street, "if you
stick up your umbrellas now against mere rain-drops, what will you stick
up against the bullets which will presently begin to fall?"
It was only then that I noticed that there were not only gentlemen
around me but ladies also. A pair of them had insinuated themselves
close to my side. In one of them I recognised "Queen Gertrude."[49] On
her head she wore a plumed cap, and was wrapped up in a Persian shawl
embroidered with palm-tree flowers. Both cap and shawl were dripping
with rain. I had met the lady once or twice at the Szigligetis'. I
exhorted the ladies to go home; here they would get dripping-wet, I
said, and some other accident might befall them.
[Footnote 49: _i.e._, the actress who took that part.]
"We are no worse off here than you are," was the reply.
They were determined to wait till the printed broad-sides were ready.
Not very long afterwards Irinyi appeared at the window of the
printing-office, for to get out of the door was a sheer impossibility.
He held in his hands the first printed sheets from the free press.
Ah, that scene! when the very first free sheets were distributed from
hand to hand! I cannot describe it. "Freedom, freedom!" It was the first
ray of a new and better era!... A free press! the first-fruit of the
universal tree of knowledge of Paradise. What a tumult arose when they
actually clutched that forbidden fruit in their hands.... Hail to thee,
O Freedom of the Press! Thou seven-headed dragon, how many times hast
thou not bitten me since then! Yet I bless the hour when I first saw
thee creep out of thy egg and gave thee what little help I could!
Young authors, clerks, advocates, all hot-headed young people, crowded
around the invisible banner.
A young county official was now seen forcing his way through the dense
crowd right to the very door of the printing-office, and from thence he
addressed me. The influential Vice-Lieutenant of the County, Paul Nyáry,
sent word to me that I was to go to him to the town hall.
"Why _should_ I go?" cried I from my point of vantage. "I'll be shot
down with cannon-balls rather! If the Vice-Lieutenant of the County
wants to speak to us, let him come here. We are the 'mountain' now."
And Mohammed really did come to the "mountain," and with him came a
group of grave-faced men, the veteran leaders of the camp of freedom.
Amongst them was a dwarfish little oddity of a man, the assistant editor
of the _Eletképek_, the gallant little Sükey, who, despite a chronic
asthma, fought through the whole campaign, musket in hand. Besides being
a cripple, he was a really extraordinary stammerer. When he saw the
grave-visaged men making their way to us through the crowd, he scrambled
along beside them, and with all the force of his lungs bellowed out this
notable declaration: "D-d-d-don't li-li-li-listen to those
wi-wi-wi-wiseacres!"
But the wiseacres hadn't come to convert us to wisdom. On the contrary,
Nyáry had come to approve of what we had done hitherto, and then to go
together with us to the town hall, that they might there, together with
the town councillors, ratify the Articles of the liberal programme.
It was a fine scene. The town hall was crammed to suffocation. Those who
were called upon to speak stood upon the green table, and remained there
afterwards, so that at last the whole magistracy of the county, and I
and all my colleagues were standing on the top of the table. The flames
spread! The burgomaster, the worthy Rotterbiller, announced from the
balcony of the town hall, that the town of Pest had adopted the Twelve
Articles as its own; and with that the avalanche carried the whole of
the burgesses along with it. But the matter did not end even there. In
the evening crowds of workmen inundated the streets. They had got from
somewhere or other a banner, inscribed with the three sacred words,
"Liberty, Equality, Fraternity!"
... Such a great day must needs have a brilliant close, so the town was
illuminated in the evening, and a free performance was given at the
theatre, _Bánk-bán_[50] being the piece selected. But the mob, which by
this time was in a state of ecstasy, had no longer the patience to
listen to the pious declamations of Ban Peter. It called for "Talpra
Magyar."
[Footnote 50: Joseph Katona's celebrated tragedy.]
What was to be done? The brilliant court of King Andrew II., with the
Queen and Bánk-bán to boot, had to stand aside and form a group round
Gabriel Egressy, who, in a simple attila, with a sword by his side,
stood in the middle of the stage and declaimed with magnificent emphasis
Petöfi's inspiring poem.
That was all very well, but it was not enough.
Then the whole company sang the "Szózato," and the people in the pit and
the galleries joined in.
That also was soon over.
What shall we give next?
The band struck up the Rákóczy[51] march. That kindled the excitement,
instead of extinguishing it. And it was high time that something should
be done to quench it, for the excited populace was drunk with triumph.
[Footnote 51: Prohibited in Hungary at this time as being of
revolutionary tendency.]
Then a voice from the gallery cried: "Long live Táncsis!"[52]
[Footnote 52: Michal Táncsis, a prisoner who had been released from the
citadel of Buda the same morning by the mob.]
And with that the whole populace suddenly roared with one voice: "Let us
see Táncsis!"
A frightful tumult arose. Táncsis was not at hand. He lived some way out
in the suburb of Ferenczváros. But even had he been near, it would have
been a cruel thing to have dragged on the stage a worn-out invalid, that
he might merely bow to the public like a celebrated musician.
But what was to be done?
"Well, my sons," said Nyáry, with whom I was standing in the same box,
"you have awakened this great monster, now see if you can put him to
sleep again!"
My young friends attempted to address the people one after the other,
Petöfi from the Academy box, Irinyi from the balcony of the Casino club,
but their voices were drowned in the howling of the mob. The curtain was
let down, but then the tumult was worse than ever; the gallery stamped
like mad; it was a perfect pandemonium.
Then a thought occurred to me. I could get on to the stage from Nyáry's
box; I rushed in through the side wings.
I cut a pretty figure I must say. I was splashed up to the knees with
mud from scouring the streets all day. I wore huge, dirty overshoes, my
tall hat was drenched, so that I could easily have made a crush-hat of
it and carried it under my arm.
I looked around me and perceived Egressy. I told him to draw up the
curtain, I wanted to harangue the people from the stage.
Then "Queen Gertrude" came towards me. She smiled upon me with truly
majestic grace, greeted me and pressed my hand. No sign of fear was to
be seen in her face. She was wearing the tricoloured cockade[53] on her
bosom, and, of her own accord, she took it off and pinned it on my
breast. Then the curtain was raised.
[Footnote 53: Red, white, and green, the Hungarian colours.]
When the mob beheld my drenched and muddy figure, it began to shout
afresh, and the uproar gradually became a call for every one to hear me.
When at last I was able to make my voice heard, I came out with the
following oratorical masterpiece: "Brother citizens! our friend Táncsis
is not here. He is at home in the bosom of his family. Allow the poor
blind man to taste the joy of _seeing_ his family once more!"
It was only then that I felt I was talking nonsense. How could a
"_blind_ man" _see_ his family? If the mob began to laugh I should be
done for!
It was the tricoloured ribbon that saved me.
"Do you see," I cried, "this tricoloured cockade on my breast? Let it be
the badge of this glorious day! Let every man who is Freedom's warrior
wear it; it will distinguish us from the hireling host of slavery! These
three colours represent the three sacred words: Liberty, Equality,
Fraternity! Let every one in whom Hungarian blood and a free spirit
burns wear them on his breast."
And so the thing was done.
The tricoloured cockade preserved order. Whoever wished to pin on the
tricoloured cockade had to hurry home first. Ten minutes later the
theatre was empty, and next day the tricoloured cockade was to be seen
on every breast, from the paletots of the members of the Casino[54] to
the buckram of the populace, and those who went about with mantles on
wore the cockade in their hats.
[Footnote 54: The Nobles' club.]
In the intoxication of my triumph I hastened after Rosa Laborfalvy as
soon as this scene was over, and pressed her hand.
With that pressure of our hands our engagement began.
I have recorded the whole of this episode in order to explain how it was
that _that_ portrait found its way to my table, which was able to
convert in an instant the smiling face of the lady with the eyes like
the sea into the hideous features of Iblis. Four months had passed away
since then.
And the honeymoon was in keeping with the engagement. The roar of cannon
and the clash of swords was the music that played at my wedding.
Oh what a marriage night was that!
At the very moment when the happy bridegroom asks his bride, "Dost thou
love me as I love thee?" at that very moment there is the roll of drums
in the streets, and the cry goes forth, "To arms, citizens!" An Italian
regiment had revolted against the Hungarian Government. Without waiting
for a kiss or an embrace, I had to snatch up my musket and hurry off to
the place of meeting, and thence to go straight into fire among the
flying bullets. We had to storm the Károly Barracks. By dawn the
mutinous regiment had to lay down its weapons, and the bridegroom, with
his face sooty with smoke, returned home, and again put the question to
his bride, "Dost thou love me as I love thee?"
And the answer? Ah! the heart alone can feel it, the lips cannot express
it.
That was our honeymoon. With the shame of lost battles in our hearts,
and despairing even of divine justice, those who can love under such
circumstances must love dearly indeed!
And then out into the desolate world, in the midst of a Siberian winter,
with everything crackling with cold in a night lit only by the blaze of
artillery, forcing one's way along through the snowy deserts of the
Alföld[55] with the retreating Honved[56] army! Passing the night in an
inhospitable hut where the closed door had frozen to the ground by
morning, and the roll of drums and the blare of trumpets aroused us to
toil on still farther! Those who can love under such circumstances must
love indeed!
[Footnote 55: The low-land. The name given to the great Hungarian
plain.]
[Footnote 56: Defending the country. The title of the Hungarian national
forces.]
My wife went everywhere with me.
She quitted a comfortable home, sacrificed a fortune, a brilliant
career, to endure hunger, cold, and hardship with me. And I never heard
her utter one word of complaint. When I was downhearted, she comforted
me. And when all _my_ hopes were stifled, she shared _her_ hopes with
me. At the new seat of the Hungarian Government, Debreczin, we were
huddled together in a tiny little room, compared with which the hut of
Peter Gyuricza was a palace from the _Thousand-and-one Nights_. And my
queen worked like a slave, like the wife of a Siberian convict. She
worked not for a joke, not in sheer defiance; she did not _play the
part_ of a peasant girl, she was a serving-woman in grim earnest.
The hazard of the die of war changed. We advanced. We marched in triumph
from one battle-field to another. I was present at the storming of the
citadel of Buda. Even in those awful days she never left me, when every
night the sky seemed about to plunge down upon our heads.
The brilliant days of triumph were again succeeded by misfortune. The
Northern ogre[57] threw all his legions upon us. Again we had to fly, to
leave our happy hut, and continue our marriage tour through desolate
wildernesses, where savage hordes had devastated whole villages. Our
night's lodging was four bare sooty walls, our couch a bundle of charred
straw. Hated by strangers, feared by acquaintances, we were a terror to
the people from whom we begged a shelter.
[Footnote 57: Pastliewich, by command of the Tzar, invaded Hungary in
1849, with 100,000 men.]
The chaos of war finally parted us. I insisted that she should remain
away from me. I could not endure to see her suffering any longer. It was
not right that I should accept such sacrifices. I bade her leave me to
meet my fate alone.
After the catastrophe of Vilagós[58] my life was ended. That mighty
giant, the famous Hungary of our dreams, collapsed into atoms: her great
men became grains of dust.
[Footnote 58: When the Hungarian Commander-in-chief finally capitulated
to the Russians.]
I also became a nameless, weightless, aimless grain of dust.
The end of all things had arrived. The prophecy of the lady with the
eyes like the sea lay literally fulfilled before me. Either the gibbet
or suicide was to be my fate. I was twenty-four years of age, and a dead
man. My former chief, the brave Catonian, Joseph Molnar, the president
of the national court martial, had set me the example. He lay before me
on the sward of Vilagós, slain by his own hand. The last hussar breaking
his sword was a spectacle he could not bear to survive. Then it was that
a burning hand seized my hand. It was hers, the hand of the woman who
loved me. When all was lost, her love was not lost. She came after me.
She took me with her. She set me free. When all Hungary was already
subdued, there was still one corner in our native land where the hand of
authority never came. She discovered that corner, and led me thither
with her through every hostile camp.
That was "the woman who went along with me."