A COLD DOUCHE
How my heart beat when I set forth on my expedition!
On the way from my dwelling to Bessy's lodgings my ill fate brought me
face to face with all the veteran actresses of the National Theatre, and
they all stopped me and asked where I was going. They all remarked that
I was very stylishly got up, and they all shook their fingers at me, and
said: "Fie, fie! you straw-widower!"
The devil must really have been in me to make me take the trouble to
have my hair so prettily frizzled.
I was just about to dash hastily up the staircase of Bessy's dwelling,
when whom should I run into but Tóni Sági. It only needed that. He came
from the same town as I did, was a common friend of all my friends, and
was about as reticent of news as a town-crier.
"Your servant, friend! Why, you're quite a stranger. I've just come from
Bessy. The young lady is in a very bad humour. She as good as pitched me
out of doors. She must be expecting some one. Perhaps you are the very
man, eh?"
It was all up with me now! To-morrow every newspaper in the town will
report my visit here. For "quod licet _bovi_, non licet _Jovi_."
If I were to turn back now, it would only make matters worse.
I hastened up the steps. Bessy lived on the third floor.... To get to
her rooms I had to follow the open corridor which led down to the
courtyard. I passed on my way the lodgings of a milliner, a female
pawnbroker, and a lady who supplied families with servant-maids, and all
three poked their heads out of their windows and watched me disappear.
On reaching Bessy's number, I found, tugging at the bell-rope, a
red-peluched young coxcomb. The door was about a fourth part open, and
the face of the vicious looking cook was protruding out of it. She
dismissed the visitor with curt ceremony.
"My mistress is not at home!"
We nearly trod each other's spurs off as we cannoned against each other
in the narrow corridor.
A minute afterwards the countenance of the self-same cook, rounded into
complete amiability, again appeared, and she said to me:
"Would you do us the honour to walk in?"
And she held the door wide open for me.
You should have seen the face which my red furbelowed gentleman made at
this. It was not enough for him to open his eyes and mouth at me; he
stuck his _pince-nez_ on the bridge of his nose as well.
That will mean a duel for me to-morrow.
Meantime, however, I was master of the situation.
I had to go through the kitchen to get to Bessy's room. The kitchen was
also the ante-chamber; you hung up your overcoat there. Her cook was her
only servant, parlour-maid, chamber-maid, everything.
"Would you kindly walk into the saloon?" urged the servant.
"But announce me beforehand. Here's my card."
"Beg pardon, but I can't take it; both my hands are doughy." (She was in
the middle of kneading some dough cake or other with butter.) "Would you
kindly put your card between my teeth?"
Thus, like a retriever, she carried in my card between her teeth. A
moment afterwards she cried:
"Come in now, please!"
I entered the room which the servant had called a saloon.
Nobody was there. I looked around me. I found nothing there of the
luxurious splendour which had surrounded the young lady formerly in her
mother's house; but for all that everything was neat and pretty.
Embroideries, a music-stand with songs upon it, and a fiddle,
flower-pots, a cage with exotic birds, Wallachian _Katrinczas_,[107]
Szekler pottery, a few handsomely bound books--all these were so
disposed as to fill the mind with a sense of refined elegance combined
with the utmost simplicity.
[Footnote 107: Aprons.]
A curtained door led from the saloon into another room--possibly a
bed-chamber.
In a few minutes this door opened and the fair lady fluttered in.
It did not escape my attention that the moment she entered she turned
her head on one side, and contracted her eyebrows as if to bid some one
else remaining behind there to keep quiet. The momentary opening of the
door also permitted me to see that in the direction in which she had
looked was a tall tester bed with the curtains drawn close.
The moment, however, that she had shut the door behind her and turned
towards me, the face of the lovely lady became all amiability. She
hastened up to me and pressed my hand.
"It was very nice of you to come and see me. Don't be angry with me for
giving you the trouble."
The lady was now more amiable than ever.
She was in the simplest stay-at-home toilet. The only ornament on her
head was her own bright silky hair, twisted up into a knot and tied at
the top with a ribbon.
She looked just as she was ten years before, a little girl of sixteen.
Her whole being recalled to me her childish days. There was the same
candid, guileless look; those open eyes through which you could read
into her very soul; the same artless mouth.
She invited me to sit down. She took my hat and laid it on the table.
"I suppose you'll remain to dinner? I have told the cook to prepare your
favourite dish."
"Then you know what it is?"
"Why, of course! _Beans with pig's ear._ Why, all your admirers
throughout the kingdom know that."
I had now good reason to be proud! My nation, then, has some regard for
me, after all. To others it presents _bays_, to me--_beans_.[108]
[Footnote 108: In Hungarian the resemblance is closer still, _babo_
meaning bean, and _babér_, laurel.]
"In that case I'll remain," I said.
"In Kvatopil's time I was never permitted to cook beans, for he
maintained that they make a man stupid."
"On the contrary. Pythagoras assures us that the bean contains the same
component parts as the human brain."
Having thus rehabilitated the bean, I reverted to the real motive of my
visit there.
"I should have come to visit you to-day even without a special
invitation."
"Was there any special reason, then, why I should occupy a place in your
thoughts?"
"I have received a letter from Italy, the contents of which will greatly
interest you."
At these words she looked at me as coldly as if she had become an
alabaster statue.
"Interest _me_?"
"So I believe. On the 20th instant there was a battle on the Mincio, at
which your husband distinguished himself."
"Really?" said the lady mechanically.
("Really?"--In that tone? It was rather odd. However, I went on.)
"Nay, in the heat of the combat he was even wounded."
(I calculated surely on the dramatic effect of these words. I fancied
that the tender spouse would leap to her feet, pale, ready to faint,
wringing her hands, till at last, amidst sobs, the name of the adored
husband would burst forth from her lips: "Oh! my Wenceslaus! Oh! my
Kvatopil!" But she did not so much as turn her head round.)
"Indeed?" she said, with complete _sangfroid_.
Just as if it were an every-day occurrence for a beloved husband to be
wounded in battle.
I was offended. Such ungrateful indifference I had never met with
before. How was I to go on? I had calculated that when the despairing
consort had wept and sobbed her fill, I should hasten to console her.
"It is true," said I, "that his wound is not sufficiently dangerous to
prevent him from continuing in the field."
"I can easily believe it," replied the lady, with a shrug of the
shoulders.
Now this was a want of feeling worthy of an alligator! Surely she had
the nerves of a rhinoceros! I was not prepared for this reception. "I
can easily believe it!" Was that all?
Well, then, if our tender feelings are so hermetically sealed, we must
try what more drastic means will do. We must appeal to other sentiments.
Vanity, for instance, is a sentiment which never can be blunted.
So I moved forward my heavy artillery.
"Lieutenant Kvatopil," I said, "was called to the front and made a
captain straight off for heroic valour in the field."
But even at this the lovely lady did not fling herself on my neck. She
did not even utter a sound, but contracted the corners of her mouth.
What did that mean? When you tell a lieutenant's wife that from to-day
she has a right to the title Mrs. Captain; that every one who meets her
in the street and congratulates her will address her as, "Frau
Rittmeisterin," while the other lieutenants' wives naturally burn with
secret envy; that she may now print her corresponding rank on her
visiting cards--when you tell her all this, and even then no impression
is produced, and the cherry lips do _not_ expand with joy, revealing the
sparkling, pearly teeth and the dimples on the sunbright face; when,
instead of that, she purses up her mouth so nastily and gives herself a
double chin--what _are_ you to think? There is nothing so hideous as a
pretty woman with a double chin. A double chin makes a woman look
absolutely old.
I was quite confused. What am I to do to amuse her now? Should I talk
about the weather?
"May I congratulate you?" I said, seizing her hand.
But not only did she _not_ press my hand in return, as she ought to have
done; on the contrary, she irritably drew it back and turned aside her
head.
Suddenly a light flashed through my brain, a light kindled by my
immeasurable self-conceit. "Why go on praising the distant husband,"
said I to myself, "when you yourself are present? Do you think she
invited you to dinner to sing the praises of Wenceslaus Kvatopil?"
I drew my chair nearer to the sofa on which Bessy was sitting, and
airily passed my hand through my frizzled locks.
Bessy observed the movement, and quickly turned her face towards me. A
mocking smile suddenly lighted up her face, a smile from which a man can
read a whole chapter in a moment. That is something like stenography.
"Ha, ha, sir! then we have come thither with that thought, have we? We
have had our hair frizzled, eh? We have decked ourselves out to be
irresistible, I know?"
A thousand mocking fish-tailed nixies were wriggling about in those
sea-like eyes.
It was a murderous sort of smile.
I was conscious of having been taken down pretty considerably. Here was
I (quite contrary to my usual custom) tricked and furbished up like a
"_petit maître_," while she, the lady, received me in her simplest
barracan house-dress, without any finery, and with a smile she
discharged at me the saying of the great poet:
"O Vanity! thy name is woman!"
But why, then, had she sent for me?
Why had she driven away one visitor and denied herself to another if not
for my sake?
Perhaps for the sake of a third party who had already arrived? When she
came out of her boudoir she seemed to me to be signalling with her
eyebrows at some one.
I quickly pulled myself together. I fancy I must have been very red in
the face, and I certainly had good reason to be ashamed of myself.
I saw that I had not been able to reap laurels in the _rôle_ of Don
Juan, so I began to take up the part of Tartuffe. Let us play the
righteous judge!
"Perhaps I have not come at a very convenient time?"
"On the contrary, I _asked_ you to come at this time."
"On a serious business, eh?"
"A serious business for me."
"But isn't what I've just been saying to you serious?"
"Apparently."
"Yet you received it with a very queer face."
"I listened seriously enough."
"But the affair had its cheerful aspect also, surely?"
The fair dame made a contemptuous clicking with her tongue.
"Don't you feel any interest, then, in Kvatopil's heroism, wounds,
distinction, and promotion?"
"No!" she replied resolutely, almost snapping my sentence in two. Her
eyes sparkled like burning naphtha lakes.
"No?" I repeated, in my amazement. "You take no interest in your
husband's fate whether it be bad or good? You feel neither hot nor cold
on the subject?"
"No!"
("No!" again).
"But you parted in the greatest affection when he went to the wars?"
"True."
"And it is scarcely a month since then."
"Only twenty-nine days, I've counted them."
"And meanwhile winter has come?"
"It has."
After that she began to laugh maliciously. She leaped to her feet and
rumpled my frizzly hair with her fingers.
"Let's leave the matter till after dinner; then I'll tell you
everything. But don't let us spoil a good dinner in the meantime. You
are quite horrified at me now, and fancy that I've laid a trap for you.
You will see later on that this serious business of mine is not a joke.
Let us leave it till after the black coffee."
I revived again. The lady was capricious, and it suited her.
"I was determined to give you a good dinner. I owe you your revenge. It
is a long time since we dined together. Last time I was your guest.
Don't you remember? At the Pagan Altar. I never ate so heartily. What
splendid toast you had! And the bacon, too, broiled on a stick! Why,
I've got the taste of that good red pepper of yours in my mouth to this
day! And now I mean to give you hospitality that you will remember for a
long time!"
This again was delightfully reassuring! She was of the true cat
species--she purrs and fondles, but one must be continually on one's
guard against her claws.
"Come now, help me to lay the table! My cook has enough to do without
that."
So I had to help her lay the table, for the saloon was the dining-room
also. One had only to remove the books, porcelain vases, and china
knick-knacks from the table in front of the sofa, and then cover it with
the table-cloth.
I was curious to see how many she would lay for. Only for two. Two
plates, two knives, forks and spoons, and two glasses.
But how about that third person, that person in the bedroom yonder? Or
had I rightly interpreted that peculiar expression of hers? I was
beginning to think the whole thing was pure hallucination on my part.
Suddenly the scraping of a cautiously-moved chair sounded from the
boudoir.
I saw that the lady was considerably put out, and felt decidedly
uncomfortable. She wrathfully pressed her lips together.
"Have you any one in the next room?" I inquired, in a stern, judicial
voice.
"I have!" she replied defiantly.
"Madame!" I exclaimed, in virtuous high dudgeon.
"Would you like to know who _is_ inside?" she cried, in an offended
tone.
"Oh, dear, no! I'm not a bit curious," said I, and began looking about
for my hat and stick.
"But I _wish_ you to know," she cried indignantly, barring my way, and,
seizing my hand, she led me to the door of the bedroom, and hastily
flung it open. In the room a blonde young lady stood before me gazing at
me with wondering large blue eyes.
Bessy introduced this lady to me.
"Madame Wenceslaus Kvatopil, from Cracow."
Then she pulled aside the bed-curtains, and on the bed was lying a
little girl about eleven years of age.
"This is Wenceslaus Kvatopil's daughter. Poor things! let us leave them
alone!"
For at least a minute I felt as if some magic power were whirling me
round and round the globe with it from the North Pole to the Equator,
and back again.
How I got out of that room into the other I really cannot say. Before
me continually were the faces of that large-eyed, timid-looking woman
and the little girl.
I heard the sound of weeping behind me.
It was Bessy. She had hidden her face in her hands, and was sobbing.
"Oh, how I loved that man! How good, how perfect I thought him! I
fancied him a model man! Even now I cannot accuse him. It was not his
fault, but mine alone. His sin is my crime. Oh, what folly! Let us speak
of the situation seriously. You know now, I suppose, why I wanted to see
you. I wished to ask your advice."
I sat down beside her.
Bessy dried her eyes, and then began to speak quite soberly.
"The whole world judges me wrongly. They fancy I am full of levity. But
if anything pains me, the pain lasts a long, long time. Since _he_ went
away I have been nowhere, and seen nobody. If any of my old
acquaintances came to see me, I told them that the whole place was
topsy-turvy, and there was not even a chair to sit down upon. My servant
had orders to say to every one who called--_with one exception_--that I
was not visible. Who was this exception? Yourself! She could easily
guess whom I meant, and if she didn't guess it, it didn't much matter.
When _he_ had to go away so suddenly, he was in a very tender mood. He
wanted to make me swear that I would not be faithless while he was
away. He even brought me a crucifix for the purpose, and when he saw
that I laughed at him, he besought me, if I really must deceive him, at
least not to bestow my favours upon the first ragamuffin that turned up;
nay, he even took the trouble to indicate a worthy man to me, of whom he
could not be jealous; whereupon I told him, very seriously, that the man
he meant was capable of _killing_ anybody who stood in the way of _his_
love, but was altogether incapable of _filching_ love from anybody
else!"
(At this my face grew very red indeed.)
"Then he suddenly assumed a mystic mood, he knew my weak side. He said:
'If you deceive me for the sake of any other man, at that same moment I
shall die. Day and night I stand where death is meted out every instant,
and the moment a kiss from your lips touches the lips of another man, at
that self-same moment, I say, the bullet which is lying in wait for me
will fly straight to my heart!' A horrible saying! It would not let me
sleep, and rose up before me in my dreams. When one or other of my lady
friends came to visit me and we fell a-chatting and began to laugh and
joke, a sort of cold shiver would suddenly run all down my body. While I
am smiling, I thought, perhaps he is dying a death of torments beneath
the horses' hoofs. Every savoury morsel sticks in my throat when I
think--perhaps he is now suffering hunger and thirst; and when the blast
shakes my windows, I think--now he is standing defenceless amidst the
tempest and freezing. And I unable to protect him!
"In short, this threat of his made me quite a somnambulist. At last I
denied myself even to my lady friends. I became quite morbid. I fancied
I had no right to be gay. Ten times a day I went to the crucifix by
which he had wished me to swear and knelt down before it to pray. I made
all sorts of vows provided he were preserved and brought back safely to
me. And yet I am a Calvinist! But that crucifix was _his_. He remained
faithful to it through all his change of faith. In fact, I was in a fair
way of becoming a Pietist. I began to think a life of virtue very
beautiful. I should very much have liked to see you now and again, if
only to show you that I could be just as moral as you. I would have
praised your wife to you, and you would have returned the compliment by
praising my husband. This would have been my ambition."
It was the cook who interrupted this burst of feeling.
"Shall I bring in the stew, madame?"
"Yes, bring it in, if it is ready."
Then she turned to me to explain the circumstances of the case.
"I have to let these ladies have their food cooked separately, for
Magyar dishes would make them mortally ill. That is why I don't lay the
table for three. _Your_ favourite dishes would be death to these
Germans."
The cook now brought in the stewed chicken.
Bessy tasted it first with a little spoon to see if it were salted
enough, and also to see whether the cook had put parsley in it by
mistake, for the doctor who was attending the little girl had forbidden
every sort of seasoning ingredients in her food. Then she herself sliced
up a roll of the best white bread for the little girl, poured some water
for her into a glass, and warmed it a little by holding it tightly for a
while between the palms of her hands instead of popping a live coal into
it, as thoughtful mothers often do for their sick children. For the
mother of the child, however, she had a bottle of Pilsener beer
uncorked, and sent to her.
Only when they had dined was our dinner served.
Meanwhile, we did not resume our interrupted conversation; the servant
was constantly passing in and out, and we could not speak before her.
Then, after that, when we sat down to dinner (and a bitter meal it was
to me) the thread of our conversation was broken as often as the cook
came in with a new dish or to change a plate, and all that time she
played the part of the amiable hostess, inviting me to fall to in good
old Hungarian style.
"One morning," she said, "while I was doing my hair, my servant came and
told me that a shabby-looking woman was outside, with a biggish girl,
making inquiries about the lieutenant. I went out to them into the
kitchen. I saw before me a blonde, blue-eyed woman, of about the same
age as myself, and clinging to her arm was a lanky slip of a growing
girl about ten or eleven years of age. In the woman's hand was a
travelling-bag and an umbrella. She was in bourgeois costume, without
the fashionable crinoline, and on her head was a simple felt cap; her
girl was dressed in just the same way. They both wore their hair quite
smooth and combed back from the forehead.
"The woman wished me good-day in German.
"I asked her what she wanted.
"The woman replied that she wanted her husband, Mr. Wenceslaus Kvatopil.
"'The lieutenant?'
"'When he left me he was only a lieutenant.'
"I quickly caught her by the hand and led her out of the kitchen into
the saloon. My servant, fortunately, did not understand German.
"I led them right into my bedroom. I invited them both to be seated.
"'Ah, that will do us good,' said the woman, 'for we have come a long
way. We have come here from Cracow.'
"'Surely not on foot?'
"'On foot all the way. We couldn't afford to come by rail.'
"Just fancy! The very thought is terrible! To come on foot all those
hundred miles hither from Cracow with a growing girl! Can one's
imagination realize such a thing?
"'Are you the wife of Lieutenant Wenceslaus Kvatopil?' I inquired of the
woman.
"'I am, and this is his daughter, Marianna.'
"And by way of proving her assertion she drew from her travelling-bag
her marriage lines, extracted from the registers of the cathedral of
Cracow, to wit:--'Bridegroom: Wenceslaus Kvatopil, Sub-Lieutenant in the
*** Dragoons. Bride: Anna Dunkircher. Witnesses: Babolescky, Colonel,
and Kolmarscky, shopkeeper. Officiating clergyman: Stanislaus Lubousky.
Dated, Feb. 16th, 1846.'
"Then she showed me the baptismal certificate of the daughter.
'Marianna, born in lawful wedlock, June 19th, 1846. Father:
Sub-Lieutenant Wenceslaus Kvatopil. Mother: Anna Dunkircher. Officiating
clergyman: Stanislaus Lubousky. Godparents: the above-mentioned
marriage-witnesses.'
"A marriage contract, duly attested, was also among the documents."
All at once Bessy burst out laughing.
The cook came in and brought the soup.
"Ha! ha! ha! Do you know why, according to Ollendorf, the Captain
weeps?"
"Because the Englishman has no bread."
"Look, Susy, you've forgotten to give my guardian some bread! Give him a
crusty bit, he likes that!"
The servant apologised, but said that she didn't think the soup required
bread.
It was excellent soup, made of cream and eggs and rice and
finely-chopped chicken. Bessy filled my plate with it.
"Thank you, that will be enough."
When the servant went out we resumed our conversation. And here, I may
remark, by the way, that there is no more pleasant _tête-à-tête_ in the
world than that which is interrupted every ten minutes or so by the
incursions of the servants.
"Now we know," said I, "what was the cause of the extraordinary
phenomenon of a happy bridegroom beginning to sob bitterly immediately
after his marriage. It was his deserted wife and child that the poor
fellow was thinking about."
"True, but don't let your soup cool on that account. Would you like a
little Parmesan with it?"
"Thank you, but I like it much better without."
"Wenceslaus Kvatopil liked his _with_ Parmesan."
Then we settled down to our soup.
"Wenceslaus Kvatopil always had a second serving of rice soup."
"Thank you, but I never take a second serving of any dish."
"I know that, and I also know that it is your habit to leave the best
bit at the side of your plate."
"How did you come to know that?"
"I first observed it when I was a little girl and you sometimes came to
dine with us. They say that it is a species of superstition; the tit-bit
placed at the side of the plate signifies that our distant true love is
suffering from hunger."
"It is no superstition, but a simple rule of health to leave off eating
and drinking while your appetite is still at its best."
Thus we continued our dietetic discussions as if we had no other desire
in the world than to live a ripe old age and be free from gout.
I have already mentioned that there was chopped-up chicken in the soup,
and that portion of the chicken fell to Bessy's lot which is known as
the spur-bone.
Now, it is a well-known custom among young unmarried ladies in
confidential conclave, when one of them gets such a spur-bone, for her
to invite her fair colleague to crack the bone with her. One of them
then takes one end of the spur-bone and the other takes the other end,
and they pull away in different directions till the bone comes in two.
Whichever of them gets the spur portion will be married soonest. That is
a fantastic sort of superstition, if you like.
Bessy laughed and said:
"When we ate our first dinner together, a spur-bone of this sort fell
into my hands. I stretched it out towards Anna. 'Pull,' I said, 'and see
which of us is to have Kvatopil.'"
"Then you got to be good friends pretty quickly?"
"Why shouldn't we? Hadn't we both the same husband? I naturally kept
them here with me. I don't know what would have become of them if I
hadn't taken them in. At this moment they haven't got a farthing. They
travelled the whole distance on coffee only. They had no other upper
garments but what they were actually wearing on their bodies.... My
first duty was to get them properly dressed. My clothes fitted the woman
very well, and I bought some for the child in Kerepesi Street. But the
little one had to take to her bed immediately, for she had a bad
headache and was very feverish. I sent for a doctor, and he gave her
some medicine which sent her to sleep. She and her mother have slept in
my bed ever since, and I sleep on the sofa.--Won't you have a little
liver?"
"No, thank you. Pray, go on!"
"When the poor lady saw that I received her kindly, her heart melted;
she fell upon my neck, and our tears flowed like spring showers. We knew
that one of us would be the death of the other, but which was to be the
victim? Then we quickly told each other our experiences of our common
husband, and how we first met him. I could make a strange dramatic scene
out of it.
"I inquired: 'Come now, Anna, tell me, how did you first meet with
Kvatopil, and how could you remain absent from him for thirteen years?'
Anna replied: 'It is a strange story. Do you happen to know, Bessy, the
history of the Cracow Republic?'
"I: 'No, dear, I never heard of the poor thing.'
"Anna: 'Then you must know that it is a large Polish town where the
Polish kings were formerly crowned and buried when they died. I am a
native of that city. My father was a famous glove-maker in Cracow, whose
goods were sold far and wide. Our town was the last free Polish Republic
when Poland was finally partitioned. Its territory consisted of
twenty-two square miles.'"
("Less than Debreczin," I interrupted.)
Bessy went on with Anna's narrative:--
"'When I was a little girl ten years of age a fresh Polish insurrection
broke out. The united forces of the Austrians, Russians, and Prussians
again put it down, and the care of the Cracow Republic was entrusted to
Austria. The old Polish customs and assemblies remained in force, but
Austrian soldiers garrisoned the citadel continually. When I was sixteen
years old my mother died, and I had to take her place behind the
counter. Here I made the acquaintance of Kvatopil. He was a young
sub-lieutenant, and he generally came to our shop to buy his gloves.
Would that he had stopped short at gloves! Can any one justly give a bad
name to a young girl because she is confiding? I believed in him! And he
really had such a good heart. When he saw that I had only to choose
between shame and death, he went to my father and begged for my hand.
Naturally they gave us to each other. It was never the custom among the
Poles when a girl married a soldier for her to go and ask permission
first of all from the military authorities, and deposit a terribly big
sum by way of caution-money; the priest simply united us without any
questionings. We had not been man and wife a week when the Revolution
again broke out. Cracow was the centre of the Polish rising. At first
the Polish rebels fought with great success. I saw the Polish scythemen
drive my husband's cavalry regiment from one end of the street to the
other. My husband had not even time to say good-bye to me.'
"'Then you are a Pole?' said I.
"'Why shouldn't I be?' replied Anna. 'Surely I may be a Pole though I
have a German name? Dark days followed. My little girl was born. Twice a
day I felt bound to go to church--the first time to pray that my country
might triumph, and the second time to pray that my husband might return
to me. A mad idea, wasn't it? Surely it is impossible for Deity even to
grant two diametrically opposite prayers at the same time? My husband
returned indeed to Cracow, but the Polish cause was crushed. The
champions of freedom fled in all directions, and the garrison troops
returned. It was a sad meeting. After that catastrophe Cracow ceased to
be a republic, and was incorporated with the Austrian hereditary
possessions as a simple city. My father wept, but I rejoiced because I
had got my husband back. But very soon I was punished for my criminal
joy. My husband informed me that things were going badly with us.
Hitherto the Austrian officers in Cracow had not been wont to ask the
permission of their general to marry. Now, however, when Cracow had been
joined to Austria, the military regulations of the rest of the empire
had been extended to us, and a lieutenant's wife had to pay down
caution-money to the amount of 7,000 florins. My father was incapable of
raising such a sum. He had another daughter besides me, and could not
withdraw so large a sum from his business. Danger threatened us if my
husband's superiors discovered his marriage, for in such a case Kvatopil
would have been degraded to the ranks. My father suggested that Kvatopil
should quit the profession of arms and settle down to some sort of
profession. But it was an impossible idea. Who would give employment in
Cracow to an Austrian officer who had taken up arms against the Poles?
"'Just about this time, too, Kvatopil was promoted to the rank of senior
lieutenant. This at once inflamed our hearts with the joyous hope that
he would rapidly scale the ladder of promotion, and we knew that if once
he became a major he would not have to deposit his matrimonial
caution-money, and we might then fearlessly publish the fact that we
were man and wife. Nobody knew of it hitherto except our friends and
relations.
"'So we agreed to keep it quiet, and immediately afterwards Kvatopil and
his regiment were transferred to Hungary.
"'Since the revolution broke out in Hungary I have heard nothing more
of Kvatopil. I know not where he is, or what has become of him, or
whether he is alive or dead: no tidings of him whatever. In times of war
they make a mystery of the whereabouts of this or that regiment.
"'Once we read from a bulletin that my husband's regiment had taken part
in a battle in the Banat. My poor father then resolved to go personally
to the Banat and inquire of the colonel whether my husband was still
alive. Just as he got there, they were burying the colonel with great
pomp. He had died of typhus fever. He had been the witness of our
marriage, and was the only one of the officers who knew anything about
it. He had kept his secret well, for his officiating as a witness at an
irregular ceremony might have cost him his place also. All that the
lieutenant-colonel could tell us of Kvatopil was, that his company had
been detached on some expedition, and had not come back. Possibly the
Hungarian insurgents had eaten them all up.
"'I could thus very well put on and wear mourning, and till the end of
the war I heard not a word about my husband.'
"So far spoke Anna; but now I began to speak.
"'You didn't hear of him, because all through the campaign he was
closely invested in the besieged Temesvar with his company, and no news
could come out of that place till the end of the year.'
"'But why couldn't he let me hear from him when Temesvar was free again?
He could at least have written that he was still alive?'
"'The cause of that is easy to find. So far as he was concerned, the
whole campaign was sterile of glory. As a cavalry officer he was unable
to be of any service to the besieged city. At the end of the campaign he
still remained a senior lieutenant, whilst all the others had reached
the rank of captain. Bitter disappointment was all that remained to him.
An officer who is passed over is worse off than if he were dead. He
cannot even say, "Thank God, I am still alive!"'
"'But subsequently? In all these latter years? Why didn't he write to me
all these three or four years, if but a line to say that he was still
alive and thinking of me, and of the child whom he loved so much?'
"'I can tell you the reason of that also,' I said. 'To save a frivolous
comrade, he got into debt, and fell into the hands of unmerciful
usurers, who immediately dragged him deeper into the mire. An officer in
such a vexatious position is certainly not very much inclined to fetter
himself with a wife and child as well. It is now not only the want of
the caution-money which separates him from you, but also that nasty bog
called Debt. This bog he cannot wade through. If under such
circumstances he thinks of his wife and child, that only increases his
despair. If he wrote you a letter at all, it would only contain these
lines: "By the time you read these lines I shall have ceased to exist."'
"Anna was curious to know how far into debt Kvatopil had actually got. I
immediately mentioned the neat little sum it amounted to.
"You should have seen what a long face my friend pulled.
"She asked me in consternation whether this immense load of debt still
remained upon him.
"The situation was so droll that, despite all its bitterness, I couldn't
help laughing. I could read from the poor simple creature's face that if
I were to say to her, 'My dear, sweet friend, debt is the one thing in
this earth which the tooth of time never nibbles, Kvatopil's bills still
live' (this was quite true, but they were living in my strong box), she
would have been capable, poor, unhappy lady! of taking her little girl
by the hand and walking all the way back to Cracow. But I was sorry for
the poor thing. I told her the pure naked truth. Four years long her
husband had told her nothing of his goings on because of his creditors,
but after that time because of me. I made his acquaintance; I did not
know that he was married; I fell in love with him, and--offered him my
hand. I was bound to acknowledge that he had hesitated to accept it. He
made all sorts of excuses except the unexceptionable one that he had a
wife already. But as he was already up to his eyes in hot water he had
had no choice but to blow his brains out or commit bigamy. Apparently
he had regarded the latter alternative as the less unpleasant one.
"Anna herself admitted that it was very much wiser of Kvatopil to have
chosen the latter course. What a good, affectionate creature the woman
was!
"I then satisfied her that I had paid off all worthy Kvatopil's debts
before his marriage. I even showed her the bills preserved in my strong
box, explaining to her besides that they had now expired, but that I did
not mean to proceed against Kvatopil for the amount in spite of our
altered relations. At this the good soul fell down at my feet, shedding
tears of gratitude. She even kissed my knees, and assured me that she
would bless my memory to the very day of her death. Ever since this
comforting reassurance on my part, her tender inclination for the
beloved Kvatopil was perfectly re-established.
"I put the finishing touch to my kind-heartedness by describing to her
the scene when Kvatopil, as bridegroom, fell to weeping bitterly after
the wedding; there could be no doubt that those bitter tears were shed
on account of his forsaken wife and daughter.
"This quite overcame poor Anna. 'Look now, what a good heart poor
Kvatopil has!' said she.
"Then we began quoting to each other the various noble traits that we
had mutually discovered in Kvatopil's character...."
--"Well, did you find the pig's ears with beans to your liking, sir?"
inquired the cook of me at that moment, as she came in to change the
dishes.
"On my word of honour as a poet, I have never tasted such pig's ears and
beans," I replied.
An apricot pasty followed, of which--I confess it freely--I am also
fond.
Bessy then continued her story:--
"I went to my lawyer, put my case before him, and asked him what he
advised me to do in my situation. I applied to him first (a dry, prosaic
man, with his mental vision bounded by the law); after that, I wanted to
lay the matter before you, that you might judge between us."
"Between whom?"
"Between me and my lawyer, for we are of diametrically opposite views as
to what I ought to do next."
"Then you have a view on the subject, too?"
"Of course I have; but listen first to the view of the man learned in
the law, and before you do that, let us drink to the health of those we
love, and those who love us."
We drank the toast accordingly, but we mentioned no names.
"And now listen to the opinion of the lawyer:--
"'It is a great misfortune, certainly,' he said, 'but the only person to
suffer will be Anna Dunkircher. If we lived in ordinary peaceful times,
the business might be settled by the military authorities compelling
Lieutenant Wenceslaus Kvatopil to renounce his rank by marrying contrary
to the regulations. In that case the marriage contracted with Anna
Dunkircher would remain valid. On the other hand, according to the tenor
of the Austrian criminal law, Mr. Kvatopil would then have the pleasant
prospect of two years' imprisonment for the subsequently committed crime
of bigamy. Nevertheless, under our present circumstances, when the army
of Lombardy has great need of every valiant and experienced officer, the
Cracow wife would, undoubtedly, get this answer for her trouble: "Your
marriage has been contracted illegally, and is consequently null and
void." The parson who joined them would be sent for a twelvemonth to a
monastery, by way of penitential discipline; but Wenceslaus Kvatopil
would remain a lieutenant, or even, if he distinguished himself, become
a captain. You, consequently, will be Mrs. Lieutenant, and perhaps Mrs.
Captain, for the annulling of the former marriage will restore to you
all your rights.'
"Those were the lawyer's words. I laid them to heart. Now, do you know
anything of martial law?"
"I frankly confess that martial law occupies a most prominent place
among those sciences which I do _not_ know."
"Well, I'll tell you what I replied to him. 'Good!' I said, 'the laws,
the circumstances, the position of things, everything, in fact, proves
and proves to demonstration that Anna Dunkircher has forfeited all her
marital rights; but has not the law of the human heart also its
validity? Do I express myself in proper legal phraseology?'"
At this I couldn't help laughing, but she proceeded with her story.
"My lawyer was very far indeed from laughing. 'What!' said he, 'do you
imagine that Wenceslaus Kvatopil's heart still beats for his first wife
whom he deserted--to whom he did not write of set purpose, not even when
he could, lest he might thus have supplied some written testimony to the
fact of her really having been Wenceslaus Kvatopil's lawful spouse, and
not merely some betrayed girl with whom he had, at some time or other,
unlawfully cohabited? Do you fancy that Wenceslaus Kvatopil, thirteen
years after the event, is still so romantic as to ask for his dismissal
from the service in the middle of a campaign, on the very field of
battle, and desert the standard of his Sovereign, whom he has sworn to
obey, simply to enable Anna Dunkircher to save her matronly dignity? Do
you fancy that Wenceslaus Kvatopil will throw up his career at the very
moment when it is full of the most brilliant hopes for him, and allow
himself to be shut up as a felon for a couple of years, at the end of
which time he will be discharged a branded beggar, simply to live for
the rest of his life as the lawful husband of a beggar woman even more
beggarly than himself? And finally, do you imagine that Wenceslaus
Kvatopil has so completely lost the use of his five senses as to be
capable of spurning away from him, and exposing to the contempt of the
whole world, a young and lovely consort like yourself, a rich and noble
lady who can keep him in comfort for the rest of his days--and all for
what? for the sake of taking back a faded, withered woman, whose face is
wrinkled with care, who is the daughter of an honest glover, to whom it
would be no advantage to stick the name of Kvatopil on his sign-board
instead of the time-honoured firm of Dunkircher? No, madam. That he is
such a good-hearted man as all that I do not for one moment believe. I
would as soon believe in sea-maidens with finny tails--upon my word I
would.'
"I did not interrupt my lawyer. I allowed him to have his say out. But
when he made a brief pause, I said to him: 'I am not speaking of
Kvatopil's heart, but of my own.'
"'Your own?' cried he, in amazement. 'What has _your_ heart got to do
with it?'
"'I have my own notion of settling this painful business,' I said. 'I
propose to transfer to Anna Dunkircher the surety-money which I
deposited on the occasion of our marriage, and then she will have
satisfied the conditions imposed on officers who marry--and may she and
her husband be happy. I can easily disappear somewhere in the crowd. The
world is large.'
"At this the lawyer flew into a passion. 'If you do that,' he cried,
'you are only fit to be locked up in a lunatic asylum at Döbling.'
"Nevertheless," concluded Bessy, "it is my serious and fixed resolve to
do so."
I could not help laying my hand on hers. What true, what noble
sentiments were slumbering in that heart! If only she had had some one
to awaken them! What an excellent lady might have been made out of this
woman, if she had only met with a husband who, in the most ordinary
acceptance of the word, had been a good fellow, as is really the case
with about _nine_ men out of every ten. Why should she have always
managed to draw the unlucky _tenth_ out of the urn of destiny?
She guessed my thoughts during that moment of silence. Those large, deep
fiery eyes slowly filled with tears. The fire of a diamond is nothing to
be compared with the fiery sparkle of those tears. How lovely she was at
that moment!
Her lips began to quiver, and she could scarcely pronounce the words:
"_That other woman had a child._"
And at this she began to sob convulsively, covering her face with one
hand, and squeezing my hand violently with the other.
My heart was so touched that, a very little more, and I should have
mingled my tears with hers.
When she had wept out her bitter mood, she sighed deeply, and dried her
tears.
"Now you know why I asked you to come here," said she. "Be you the
judge in this matter. Which is right, the reason or the heart? Am I to
do what my lawyer advises, or what my own feelings suggest?"
It was a difficult matter.
"Let us see," I said, "can't we hit upon some middle course? I advise
you neither to do what your lawyer advises nor what you yourself
propose. Wait a bit. The great war is still going on, more than a
million of warriors are standing face to face. Not a fifth part of that
number will return to their homes when the war is over. In this war your
Kvatopil will either fall or remain alive. If he falls, you can both go
into mourning. You need not quarrel about the widow's veil. If, however,
Kvatopil survives the end of the war, a brave and ambitious officer like
him will undoubtedly have mounted higher on the ladder of promotion--the
battle-field is the forcing house of advancement! He will have become a
major, and as major he will not be required to deposit[109] any
matrimonial caution-money. He can then take his Anna Dunkircher, and you
will have no need to surrender your guarantee money, which you want very
much yourself."
[Footnote 109: I say this of past times.--M. J.]
"I thank you," said the lady. "'Tis every bit as simple as the egg of
Columbus. Then we'll wait, Anna and I, till the war is over, and till
then we'll make one family."
"Let me call your attention to one thing, however. For the present it
would be well if you were to hide yourself somewhere, in some little
town, for instance, where nobody knows you. Here, in this capital, you
will quickly find yourself in an awkward and untenable position. The
story of the first wife will very quickly be known by all the world. The
title of _straw-widow_ would do pretty well perhaps, but the title of
_straw-wife_ won't do at all. Pack up your traps, I say, go straight off
to the country to-morrow, and take your guests along with you."
"I'll do so."
We had scarcely finished speaking when the doctor knocked at the door.
When there's sickness in the house one cannot deny oneself to the
doctor. The doctor, too, was an old acquaintance of mine. He had a very
extensive practice, and he was a homoeopathist. I could take it as
absolutely certain that when he went his rounds among his patients on
the morrow, he would let them have, in addition to their _nux vomica_,
or whatever else it might be, the very latest bit of scandal--to wit,
that he had found me closeted with the pretty lady, and both of us in
our cups--tea-cups of course.
I waited till he came back from his little patient. He satisfied us that
there was now no danger, and she might leave her bed.
Bessy asked whether the girl might be taken into the country.
"Yes, it will do her good."
The doctor and I left at the same time.
I had no sooner got out of the door than I again stumbled upon Tóni
Sági.
"_Corpo di Bacco!_ And you have been sitting all this time with that
pretty young lady?"
"And you have been walking all the time in front of the door, eh?"
The window of the house opposite was full of inquisitive female faces. I
rushed into a coach and had myself driven to the railway station. The
same evening I was at Szeged. There I remained for three days, and
stayed with my wife till her provincial engagement was over. On every
one of these three days one or two anonymous letters reached my wife
from Buda-Pest of the following import: "My poor dear friend,--Your
husband passes whole nights and days with his former lady-love, the
lieutenant's wife. Our hearts bleed for you. The whole town knows all
about it."
How we did laugh at these letters! But what if I had _not_ traversed the
intentions of our _dear friends_?