VALENTINE BÁLVÁNYOSSI AND TIHAMÉR RENGETEGI
When the beech-mast began to fall from the trees in the beginning of
October, unexpected guests came to us at Tordona--two country gentlemen
from the beechwood district. They were kinsmen keeping house together,
whose whole estate consisted of forest, and whose whole economy was an
enormous herd of swine. They were both jolly thick-set men, with fur
pelisses of nicely embroidered sheepskins, and boots of red Russian
leather. They had come to rent the beech-mast district in the Tordona
forests. Pig just then was an article not quoted in the market.
Hungarian money there was none. It had all been destroyed. German money
had not yet been introduced. Pig-rearers were therefore obliged to let
their herds go into winter quarters. The pigs in question were really
fine fellows of the good old Szalonta breed, with legs as long as
stags', red bristles and pointed ears; they were half-savage beasts,
too, who faced the wolf instead of fleeing from him. They develop but
slowly, however; only after two years' time do they become as large as
the Mangalicza swine. But they more than atone for this fault by the
good quality of wanting neither stall nor sty; winter and summer alike
they camp out in the woods and seek their own food, thus costing their
masters no more than two florins a head, and three pints of
_palinka_,[65] which is the perquisite of the swine-herd. Each of these
kinsmen had a thousand of such pigs.
[Footnote 65: Hungarian brandy.]
And a thousand pigs give a man a lot to think about.
They were good, genial fellows. In fact, they knew not what melancholy
meant. It was now the season when the new wine was beginning to ferment.
The two kinsmen used to drink it in that state, and I joined them. It
went very well with well-peppered swine stew.
They brought a new song with them also, and I learnt it.
"The milk-pail stood behind the door,
The Gendarme came, flopped in and swore!
Dárum-madárum, dárum-madárum!"
From this song I gathered that there was now a being in the world called
Gendarme,[66] and also that the Magyars had no very great affection for
him.
[Footnote 66: _Zsandar._ The name as well as the thing was quite new to
Hungary.--TR.]
It was only after supper that the guests began to give me to understand
that they did not yet know "whom they had the honour of addressing."
My worthy host constrained his honest features, and introduced me under
the pseudonym by which I was known in the village, "Mr. Albert Benke."
"Surely not the actress Rosa Laborfalvy's younger brother, Bebus?"
"Yes, Bebus! the very same."
(That might pass very well. Poor Bebus! he had perished in some
out-of-the-way corner during the war.)
"Why, I knew him quite well! I have a lively recollection of his
features. Why, 'tis Bebus, of course! And how's your sister? Is it true
that she's married?"
"So I have heard."
"To a certain Maurus Jókai, eh? Do you know him?"
"I have never spoken to him."
(And this was quite true.)
"You were one of those theatre-fellows, too, I understand?"
"Yes, I was an actor, certainly."
"I saw you once at Miskolcz. What were you playing then?"
"Claude Frolló in the _Tower of Notre Dame_."
"And won't you join some other company now?"
"I don't know whether there is one to be found."
"What! There is a troupe all ready at Miskolcz at the present moment.
They mean to play at the new theatre during the coming winter, and then
they are going to Kassa. Bálványossi wants to put new blood into his
company. You know the director, Valentine Bálványossi, don't you?"
I was just on the point of blurting out that he was from the same
birthplace as myself. He was, in fact, the person who had coached Bessy
in the _rôle_ which she had to play with me in our second dramatic
entertainment. All I _did_ say, however, was that I knew him by report.
"Anyhow, he knows you very well. He asks frequently about you. If he
only knew that you were loafing about here he would certainly come and
see you."
It only needed that!
"I was not aware that he was able to collect together another troupe."
"Oh dear, yes! Why, he's got a prima donna now. She is his wife also.
Such a bonny little bride! She'll turn the heads of all the young
fellows, I know. But you're in hiding here, are you not?"
"In hiding?"
"Yes, and I tell you what--_entre nous_, of course--Bálványossi also has
reason to make himself scarce."
"Why?"
"Why, because he played such a great part in the Revolution."
"_I_ never heard anything about it."
"Ah! but he might have been a famous man without _your_ hearing anything
about it. You also were a comedian during the Revolution, weren't you?"
I allowed him to suppose so.
Then the second kinsman took up his parable. He was better informed than
the first one.
"Let me make things clear to you, _amice_! During the Revolution, the
theatre director, Valentine Bálványossi, acted under the name of Tihamér
Rengetegi."
"Ah! yes, of course, I remember the name."
"Many a nut has he cracked beneath the very noses of the Germans."
The other kinsman confirmed the statement.
"If they can only catch him they'll make the wind cool his heels for
him."
"But that theatre director is really a most knowing rogue," explained
the younger kinsman, with a laugh. "During the Revolution, he entered
the service of the Hungarian Government and rose to be major. They say
he performed prodigies. But at the same time he took the precaution to
completely alter his personal appearance. During the Revolution he dyed
his beautiful fair hair a deep black, and carefully fostered a gigantic
moustache with whiskers to correspond; in that guise he looked exactly
like Don Cæsar de Bazan. When, however, things began to go wrong, he
speedily had his hair shaved off and his beard also, and is now waiting
in retirement till his original fair hair has grown again. Then he will
once more come before the world as Valentine Bálványossi; and who will
dare to say that there was ever such a person as Tihamér Rengetegi?"
One really must admit that it was a stroke of genius to serve the
Revolution with a black-dyed head of hair!
"When he hears that you are strolling about here he will most certainly
come and engage you."
It was necessary to put a stop to this forthwith.
"I regret that I shall not remain here very long," I said; "I, too, have
to go up to Pest."
"And what is your business at Pest?"
"I want to look out for some appointment."
At this, both the pig-Croesuses pulled a very wry face. Whoever went to
Pest in those days to seek an appointment was looked upon with
suspicion. It was as well to have as little as possible to do with such
a person.[67]
[Footnote 67: It was a point of honour with every loyal Hungarian to
starve rather than to accept any appointment whatsoever from the
Austrian Government.--TR.]
Henceforth the pair of them treated me very superciliously.
I, however, continued to go about and paint landscapes in the vast beech
forests. I have those pictures by me still. What splendid _motives_ I
had; if only the hand of a true artist had been there to seize them! In
the midst of the gloomy virgin forest lay the ruin of a Paulinian
cloister--gigantic Gothic walls of grey granite; on the friezes of the
pillars winged angel-heads; the pointed arches terminated in flowers,
and these stone-flowers were supplemented by the living stone-rose,
which grew luxuriantly between the mouldings. Behind the vast
blue-shadowed ruin lay the dark beech forest; in front was a spring,
which, in wondrous wise, bubbled forth from the roots of a huge
prostrate linden. From the summit of the ruin depended a large and ample
hazel-nut tree, the foliage of which was now a reddish-brown from the
autumn frost, while from the windows the dark-green chaplets of the
wild-rose tree hung down in the midst of cornel-shrubs and
spindle-plants variegated with scarlet, pink, and vermilion berries. And
the floor of the ruin is covered with a tangled carpet of brownish-green
angelica. And there is but one single living figure in this vast and
silent tableau. From the gloom of the ancient church porch a timidly
glancing stag peeps forth like the mythical guiding-star of the
Hunnic-Magyar pagan legends. Alas! thou white-antlered hind of our
ancient leader Almos, whither hast thou led us? Would that thou hadst
left us in Asia! There, at any rate, we should not have been obliged to
learn German!
And then that other picture, the mighty stone of the Holy Ghost. This
was a rock as large as a tower, which rose from the edge of the
table-land. Close beside it were two gigantic beech-trees, whose summits
just reached up to the middle of this rock, and Autumn, that great
decorative artist, had touched the leaves of one with reddish-brown, and
the other with golden-yellow. On the very top of this rock are three
trees rich with verdure: how did they ever get up there?
It is possible to scramble up at the risk of one's neck, and from thence
one can see fresh pictures to paint. From the dizzy height of the rock
a view into a deep valley opens out. The two lines of hill opposite are
closed up by a curved and undulating range of other hills. The setting
sun lights up the hillside, and bathes the whole scene in transparent
lilac mist, while the forest fringe of the summits projects in sharply
defined golden lines. Down below, the valley winds along like a
dark-green ribbon, and on the spot where it is lost in the evening mist
is to be seen a little hut whose kitchen fire twinkles from the depths
like a blood-red star. Can any human creature be living there?
But the most magnificent landscape-motive (in which I was happily
immersed) was the panorama which presented itself from the "Precipice
Stone." This "Precipice Stone" was the highest point of the beech
mountain-district. Viewed from Tordona, it was like a projecting
mountain-spar, but one could get to the top of it by making a long
circuit. This rock was generally the goal of my wanderings. It took half
a day to get there and half a day to get back, and at midday I used to
kindle a fire of twigs and make a princely banquet of toasted bread and
bacon; and then, sitting down on the dizzy edge of the rock, I would
tackle the impossible artistic problem--at least it was impossible to
me. Beneath my feet, in the foreground, was a dark spot formed by a
crown of beech-trees, and where this ended there was a smiling little
nook, and in the midst of it tiny, smoky, stony Tordona, with its
scattered cottages, surrounded by their yellow dice-like vineyards, and
their hills striped with green corn, above which the still darker green
beech hills show their heads. Above these crowds the group of the Gömöri
Hills, whose shadows are now deepening into lilac; but these again are
dominated by the chain of the Trencséni and Turoczi Hills. These hills
are of a clouded blue, and above them rises, like a _fata Morgana_, the
princely range of the fair Carpathians, as blue as heaven itself, and
only to be distinguished from it by the dividing line of their
diamond-like snowy peaks. My skill was, naturally, not equal to such a
task. If I succumbed when I struggled with it, that was not my fault.
With a mighty lead-loaded oaken staff in my hand, and a sharp
kitchen-knife in my roomy jack-boots, I deemed myself sufficient to cope
with any wolf I might meet on the way. As for a musket, those who had
them took good care to keep them well hidden. Rumour said that to be
found with a musket was as much as a man's life was worth.
The middle of October had come.
Another guest now arrived at Tordona. This time it was a heartily
welcome guest, the merry-minded Telepi. He had come to fetch his little
Charlie that he might take him abroad for his education. He was the
favourite comic actor of the National Theatre.... He had a round face, a
round figure, and was all vivacity, with sparkling eyes, pointed
eyebrows, and tiny pointed moustache; it was just as if he had four
eyebrows and four moustaches: he was Hungarian humour personified.
'Twas he who brought me my first news from the outside world: the
horrible events of the October days, the inconceivable deeds of horror
done by a madman,[68] who was not even sufficiently punished by being
burned alive twice.
[Footnote 68: Haynau.--An allusion to the massacre of Hungarian
prisoners and the brutalities inflicted on their wives.--TR.]
Fortunately, I heard these things from a joking, smiling,
devil-may-care, comic mouth! For Telepi knew how to season the tidings
with so many happy anecdotes and comforting assurances that he quite
turned the edge off the murderous knife. And then he was so full of
optimism. "Our time is coming," he would say. "England and France are
hastening to our assistance. The Turks are arming, the Americans are
showing their fists." And when I shook my head at all this, he comforted
me with the assurance that an amnesty was at hand.
But when we were quite alone, and nobody else was listening, then he
told me everything frankly, and without embellishment.
My wife would have come herself, but she had been ailing; in fact she
had been very ill. She was better now. As soon as she could leave her
bed she would hasten to me at Tordona. I might expect her this very
month. My wife had a plan whereby she hoped to free me completely, so
that I should not be exposed to persecution any more. What it was,
however, she could not tell me. She only begged _one_ thing of me, but
_that_ she begged most earnestly, and it was this: until she came to me
I was to show myself nowhere, hold no communication with anybody, let
nothing be known of my whereabouts. I was not even to write a letter,
for they might recognise my handwriting, and then all would be over. So
I had to solemnly promise that I would go nowhere, and speak to nobody
whatever but the good and honest men of Tordona. I gave my word upon it.
My wife sent me at the same time a warm winter overcoat, a large fur
cap, and a pair of double-soled Russia-leather boots. Winter was
approaching, and I should have to spend it here among the forests.
Telepi also brought me a little silver money from my wife, for
bank-notes were of no use here. She also sent me some coffee. That, too,
was not to be had here, and I am fond of it in the morning. In the
course of the conversation, Telepi inadvertently let out that my wife
had sold her emeralds, had gone into pokey lodgings, and was living very
sparingly. "But what's the good of fretting?" he added. "The God of the
Magyars is still alive!" I shall never forget that jocose, smiling face,
when, in the midst of his magnanimous assurances, a tear suddenly rolled
down his round, red countenance!
Then I gave all the pictures I had painted hitherto to Telepi, that he
might take them home to my wife.