ESAIAS MEDVÉSI[110]
[Footnote 110: Bearish.]
It fared with Wenceslaus Kvatopil as I had predicted.
I am very sorry, but I really can't help it. Willingly would I bring him
back a full major if it depended on me; but it was written in the book
of fate that the worthy officer was to end his heroic career on the
battle-field. He had at least the consolation of falling in a famous
battle. While MacMahon at Solferino broke through the mass of Schlick's
forces, Benedek on the right wing pressed victoriously forwards and
drove the Piedmontese army under Victor Emmanuel as far back as San
Martino, and there it was that a mortal bullet struck Captain Kvatopil
through the heart. Yet I am able to say that at that moment the kisses
of his lovely wife pressed the lips of nobody but his own deserted
daughter.
The two widows could now share the widow's veil between them in peace.
The bigamy became known, but of course they could not bring an action
for it against a dead man. The events of those great days quickly
obliterated all recollection of the petty scandal. Both Anna and Bessy
could now assume the title of Widow Kvatopil, and nobody could have a
word to say against it. There was this little difference, however, that
while the one might style herself Mrs. Captain Kvatopil, the other had
only the right to Mrs. Lieutenant.
By the intervention of her lawyer, and with my consent as her guardian,
Bessy recovered her deposited caution-money. One thousand florins of it
she gave as a gift to Anna, who returned with it to Cracow to her
father's. The rest of the money Bessy invested in a pretty little house,
in the village where she was stopping, surrounded by a pleasant garden.
I was now quite easy in my mind as to her subsequent fate. She had now
her own house, an honourable title--"_Özvegy Kapitányné_,"[111] and a
certain regular income. In the little village where she was she could
play a leading part. In her present situation, moreover, she was
completely protected against all the snares of the evil world, for in
this particular village every man was virtuous, and the women ruled them
with a rod of iron. To stumble, make a _faux pas_, and fall into sin was
not possible, because it was not allowed.
[Footnote 111: Lit., The widowed Captain's lady.]
I could now be quite easy as to Bessy's prospects. A woman who had
learnt such bitter experience at her own cost could not help drawing
conclusions from the past; and if ever she were to make her choice
again she certainly would not allow herself to be led astray by
superficial graces, but would judge him whom she might definitely and
finally select as the partner of her destiny by his inner worth alone. I
even took the trouble, with the true solicitude of a guardian, to write
this beautiful and sensible phrase to her in a letter. I also impressed
upon her not to give herself away to any official "for the time being,"
or any other kind of dog-headed Tartar, for such a husband could only be
provisional.[112] She gave me her word that she would not do so.
[Footnote 112: Towards this period it was plain that the Austrian
domination of Hungary could not last much longer, and that the foreign
officials who had been appointed by the Vienna Court must speedily
go.--TR.]
For nearly four years I heard nothing more of Bessy. She had fallen into
the ranks of those women who do nothing to make people talk about them,
and this category is the best of all. Every year I sent her the interest
on her money; she acknowledged the receipt of it with thanks, and--that
was all.
But I, too, had cause enough not to think of those lovely but dangerous
Eyes like the Sea.
My evil stars were in the ascendant.
Not a year passed without a heavy blow descending on my head. At one
time it was a dear dead friend whom I had to bury; at another time I had
to go through a severe illness which brought me to the very brink of
death; I had scarcely recovered when my wife also fell dangerously ill.
Through the conduct of persons whom I had regarded as my friends I very
nearly became bankrupt; I had to work day and night at my writing-table
to draw myself out of the mire. Then my publisher bolted to America;
then came a year of calamity, when nobody cared a fig for either books
or newspapers; then I had to fight a duel through no fault of my own;
and all along there was the wretched fate of my country, which demanded
my help. The whole plan of winning back our confiscated liberties was
_my_ secret; I was the organ of the Committee, the organ that was
tormented, persecuted, insulted by a derisive tyranny. Life under such
conditions was like a dreadful dream--an incoherent, continually
shifting vision of hope, an eternal nightmare; and when I awoke from
this nightmare I found I was quite bald.
One fine spring the Fairy Queen of my fantastic dreams locked me up in
prison by way of variation. Nobody can escape his fate. I had founded a
political journal. I was its responsible editor and publisher. My
assistants were the votadores of the Liberal party. We soon had a large
public. I had quite enough to do. It was my business to write romances
for this paper, and leading articles too. Once an admirably elaborated
article was sent to me, signed by one of the most illustrious names
among the Hungarian magnate families. Without more ado I published it.
It was a loyal, patriotic article on purely constitutional lines,
showing in the most matter of fact way in the world the justice and the
necessity of a constitutional government for Hungary. On account of this
article, the Governor brought both the Count who wrote it and the editor
who inserted it before a court-martial. He signified to the pair of us
beforehand that he meant to lock us up for three months for it.
The court-martial consisted of a colonel, a major, a captain, a senior
and a junior lieutenant, a sergeant, a corporal, and a private; the last
four were Bohemians. Before this Areopagus I delivered a powerful
defence in German, to which they naturally replied "March!" The tribunal
condemned me and my comrade the Count to twelve months hard labour in
irons, on bread and water, with enforced fasting, loss of nobility, and
a fine of a thousand florins.
When the sentence was read out, I said to the President:
"This is very strange. The Governor promised us only three months."
To this the President replied with a smile:
"Yes, three months for the incriminated article, but nine more for your
high-flying defence."
Our sentence was for no offence against the press-laws. Oh dear, no! We
were condemned for inciting to a breach of the peace. The Count and I
had been throwing stones at the windows, and breaking the gas-lamps in
Kerepesi Street! It was as public brawlers that we were sent to cool our
heels in jail!
The reader must not expect me, however, to weave a martyr's crown for
myself, or describe the tortures of the Venetian dungeons.... The whole
of my life in prison was a pure joke and diversion. The Commandant of
the place, with whom I lived, used to come every day to tell and be told
anecdotes, and then took me out for country walks. He had my
writing-table, my books, and my carpentering tools brought into my
dungeon, and it was there that I turned out a bust of my wife. The
Commandant also was passionately fond of carpenter's work, so we worked
away together at our lathes as if for a wager. There was no talk
whatever of chains or fetters, and I was allowed to have with my bread
and water the best that money could purchase from the inn. In the
afternoons my friends from the Pest Club came to play cards with me, so
that when, on one occasion, one of my most radical acquaintances,
Beniczky, entered my apartment and looked around, he exclaimed with
contemptuous indignation: "Call this a dungeon! Why, there's no romance
at all about this sort of thing!"
Once I took my fellow-prisoner and my jailer to my villa at Svabhegy,
where my wife had made ready for us a splendid supper. I tapped my new
wine, and we amused ourselves to such a very late hour that when we
returned they would hardly let us into prison again. Fortunately we had
the Provost with us, and with our assistance he managed to force his way
in.
And then my visitors!
In the whole course of my life I never received so many visitors as
during the _month_ that my _year's_ captivity lasted. In the following
month, by the way, I had to make room for the editor of the _officious_
government, who was also condemned by the court-martial for disturbing
the public peace.
I was sought out in my dungeon by all sorts of good friends, who came
from far--lords and ladies, countesses and actresses. It happened once
that a magnate's wife, who was a great invalid, and therefore could not
ascend to the second flight where our prison was, begged us to come down
to her carriage, and there we received our visitor in the street--poor
slaves that we were!
In fact, I had too much of a good thing.
How could I work when my admirers were crowding at my latch all day
long? At last I had to beg my jailer, with tears in my eyes, to sentence
me to _solitary_ confinement for a couple of hours every day, and write
on my door the hours when I was free to receive company. "Wasn't I in
prison?" I said.
I had an honest Bohemian lad as my servant. His name was Wenceslaus. We
soon got to understand each other very well.
I explained to him that at certain hours when I was sitting down to
work nobody was to be admitted--except when a pretty woman came to see
me.
_Honi soit qui mal y pense!_
And singularly enough, one cannot imagine a more convenient place for an
assignation than such a dungeon as mine. I only wonder that our
_bon-viveurs_ have not grasped the fact. And what a capital place for an
afternoon nap such a locality really is! The best advice I can give to
any one who suffers from sleeplessness is--get yourself locked up! Is it
not a special mercy of Providence that slaves can sleep so soundly?
One afternoon Wenceslaus aroused me from my sweet afternoon nap with the
intimation that a pretty woman wanted to speak to me.
"Really pretty?"
"Oh yes!"
"Oh yes?"
"Oh yes, yes!"
It was indeed "oh yes!" for it was Bessy.
She was dressed in complete mourning, with a black silk veil over her
head. I saw from her eyes that she was in mourning for my fate.
I anticipated her by making her a compliment.
"Why, how nice you look, my dear ward! The country air seems to agree
with you."
With this I put a stop to her tearful anxiety on my account.
"I see that the air of a dungeon has not done you much harm, either."
"And how did you get in here?"
"Not very easily, I can tell you. They would hardly let me in. They said
that the prisoner was confined to his room. I thought of giving the
warder a box on the ears, and then perhaps they would have shut me up
along with you by way of punishment."
"That would have, indeed, been a _heavy_ chain to bear."
She laughed.
"I understand the allusion. My figure _has_ become a little sturdy, I
know. What else has a person to do in a little country town but grow
fat?"
"It is a sign of peace of mind," I said.
I offered her my arm-chair, and in this act of politeness she read
another allusion.
"It has good strong legs, I hope?" said she, as she sat down in it.
I must candidly admit that her figure had grown pronouncedly rotund, but
this by no means injured her beauty. She really looked quite appetizing!
I was very glad, too, to see her again.
"Don't take my remarks amiss," I said; "it is so good for the poor slave
when a smiling lady's face lights up the gloom of his dungeon. A sweet,
melodious woman's voice sounds so consolingly amidst the clanking of his
fetters."
"I am glad to see that you preserve your good humour, for I have come to
you on a very serious business."
"What! Then it was _not_ tender sympathy for the poor captive that
brought you hither?"
"That also--I may even say principally. Every day I read in the
_Fövárosi Lapok_ how many and what sort of visitors you receive--noble
ladies, pretty actresses, and what not. Well, thought I, if they may go
and see him, it is only my duty to go too. At the same time there are
other circumstances which have brought me here."
At this she furtively looked around her.
"Won't they hear what we are talking about through that door?"
"Have no fear. That room is empty. My fellow-prisoner is provided with a
separate apartment."
"I have come to inform you of something. I have petitioned the office of
wards to relieve you from your guardianship."
"And you've very good cause, too, I think, seeing that I myself have
been under guardianship for some time."
"That's not my reason, however. But my position has now become such as
to make it indispensable for me to have the free disposal of my money."
"May I guess the cause? Another misfortune has happened. We have lost
our heart again, eh?"
Bessy covered her blushing face with her silk veil.
"Eh, but how you do always detect a thing at once! You would have made a
capital magistrate."
"But it is such a natural thing to suppose. You are so young, you know."
"I am well advanced in the thirties."
"You are only four years over thirty. I ought to know, for I was at your
christening. Then you have once more discovered your ideal?"
"This time I most solemnly believe that I really have found him."
"But no provisional person, I hope?"
"Don't insult me, please."
"I'm above such a thing. But, as your guardian, I would not have given
my consent to it; so I was bound to suppose that that was why you wanted
to be freed from my guardianship."
"Not at all! In future also I mean to take your advice as though it came
from my own father. Scold me as much as you like when you catch me
tripping. I will continue to be your obedient ward if only you don't
shut the door in my face. All I want is my money. Believe me when I say
I will do nothing frivolous with it. The sum will remain to my credit,
but I wish to be free to use it as I like in the future."
"I presume your bridegroom is some squire to whom the amount will be of
service?"
"He is _not_ a squire."
"Then perhaps he is a merchant? That also is an honourable walk in life.
In good commercial hands the amount will yield a nice income."
"He is not a merchant."
"Then perhaps he is a manufacturer, the proprietor of a saw-mill or a
steam-mill?"
"Neither the one nor the other."
"Then what on earth is he?"
"My bridegroom is a worthy and eminent schoolmaster, whose name is
Esaias Medvési."
"Esaias Medvési! But what the deuce does a village schoolmaster want
with twenty-five thousand florins?"
"I'll tell you presently. But I must go a little farther back first.
Have you the time to listen to my story?"
"Of course I have: I remain at home all day."
"Will nobody interrupt us?"
"My servant is a very sensible fellow, he knows the rules of the place."
"But won't they lock the door of the prison behind me?"
An ordinary person would have replied to this question that it would
have been no great harm if they did; but I pulled out the drawer of my
writing-table and showed the fair lady that I had _my own key_ for
opening my prison door. At this she laughed and seemed quite satisfied.
"Well, I'll begin by telling you how I made his acquaintance."
"What, your Ezzy?"
"I beg your pardon, but you must always pronounce the name in full, or
you will aggravate its owner. He is very particular about giving to
every one his full name and corresponding titles; never breaks that
rule himself, and constantly addresses me as 'Worthy dame Captain!' It
is in vain to call me 'Madame' in his presence, for he roundly maintains
that such a title belongs to the consort of the Prince of Transylvania
only. His motto is '_suum cuique_.' Oh, I've learnt such a lot of Latin
since I made his acquaintance?"
"Oh, then you have been taking Latin lessons from him, and so the
acquaintance began?"
"No irony, please! It didn't begin that way at all. I suppose you know
that in our little town there is a very well attended Calvinist church?"
"I know it pretty well."
"And I am a very zealous church goer?"
"That I did _not_ know."
"With us the laudable custom prevails of going to church every Sunday
for the purpose of devotion."
"And to show off your new bonnets."
"Don't make fun of me, please. Esaias is not only the schoolmaster, but
the cantor and the organist as well. He has a splendid bass voice. When
he intones the verse--
'How blest the man whose walk in life ...'
the whole podium trembles. It was that wondrously beautiful voice which
first enthralled me."
"But I should have thought that the organ would have drowned the sound
of the hymn?"
"But not only in church have I had the opportunity of hearing him, but
at funerals also."
"Then you condescend to go to funerals too?"
"Not as a habit. But you must know that most of the people there beg me
to act as sponsor to their new-born children. Now, two-thirds of our
children seem only born to die, and I am obliged to always go to the
funerals of my little _protégés_."
"Then Esaias is in the habit of speaking and singing over them?"
"Yes, and what beautiful speeches they are too, all in verse."
"So Esaias is a poet into the bargain?"
"Yes, he really makes most beautiful verses."
"And I've no doubt he wrote a nice onomasticon on St. Elizabeth's Day?"
"He did nothing of the kind. He's not that sort of man. It is not his
habit to flatter anybody; on the contrary, he always tells them the
truth to their faces."
"That is generally the distinguishing characteristic of all Calvinist
schoolmasters."
"Well, but let us keep to the point. I left off at the funerals, I
think. I was struck by the frequent mortality among our little ones, and
set in movement a project among the ladies of the town for starting a
_crèche_. The idea found zealous partisans. We soon found a large
meeting-room; the ladies supplied linen in large quantities; milk and
other necessary aliments were provided by public subscription; money we
resolved to collect in the usual way."
"By a charitable concert?"
"I see that you are a practical man. A charitable concert was indeed
arranged, and a committee of seven appointed to manage it. The sessions
of this committee were held in my house; mine was the most convenient
locality, and I had a piano besides. Each member of the committee had
her part assigned to her: one was to recite, another to sing a solo, a
third to give a comic reading, a fourth to play a piece on the piano, a
fifth to dance a Hungarian dance; I was to fiddle, Esaias was to sing
the high priest's aria from the opera of _Nabucco_: 'He who trusts in
the Lord!'--You know the rest."
"Of course I do. At the first meeting of the committee one of the
members had a slight misunderstanding with another member, at the second
meeting a second member had a second misunderstanding, and by the time
the fifth meeting was held Esaias and yourself were left to practise
alone."
"That is, word for word, what did happen, with this little difference,
that we never had any practice at all. On the fifth occasion, four of
the six members of the committee sent letters of excuse. Every one of
them was ill. It was a veritable epidemic. Only the dancing master found
no excuse for himself. As he was the only dancing-master in the town he
could not go and lie that he had sprained his foot.
"Esaias walked three times up and down in front of my house, puffing
away at his big pipe. Every time he passed he looked up at the window,
and, seeing nobody there, went on farther.
"At last the dancing-master came _chassé_-ing up; I could see from his
grinning face that he had some ill-tidings to tell me. Only people who
have found some excuse for covering their retreat come smiling like
that.
"'My lady! I am inconsolable'--('I know all about _that_!' thought
I)--'but I can't come to the concert. Our gipsy musicians have gone to
Pest.' ('What do they want there?' I asked.) 'All the gipsy bands in the
kingdom have assembled together for a grand competition.... Now, without
gipsy music I can't dance. Who can play me the "_Bihari Kesergó_," I
should like to know?' ('I will!' I said.) 'Ha! ha! ha! that wouldn't do
at all! What? _one_ dancer and _one_ violin-player!--it would be a mere
farce.'
"Hereupon Esaias popped in. Seeing through the window that I was no
longer alone, he took heart and came in. He had not dared to do so
before."
Here I intervened: "If I am not very much mistaken, I know this dear
Esaias of yours. It once happened to him, while still a student, that he
sat beside the priest's daughter at supper. He did not dare to say a
word to her; but in the afternoon he went up the church tower and
courted the young lady from one of the windows."
"It is possible that it was he. I, however, made both the gentlemen
stay, that at least the coffee and 'cowl-skippers'[113] might not be
wasted. They did not wait to be asked twice, but ate with right good
will. During the meal we fully discussed the best means of helping
forward the stranded concert. Suddenly the dancing-master looked at his
watch: 'Gracious me, if it isn't six o'clock! I must be off to give the
children of the chief magistrate a dancing-lesson'--and with that he
jumped up, kissed my hand, and pirouetted off.
[Footnote 113: A sort of dumpling.]
"Then Esaias also rose from the table, brushed the crumbs of the
cowl-skippers from his coat, and said: 'Blessing and peace be with
you!'--This was always his parting formula. Such a salutation as 'Your
humble servant!' or 'I commend myself to your protection!' nobody has
ever heard from his lips--no, not even his superintendent; for Esaias is
not _humble_ and not _your servant_, and does not commend himself to
anybody, nor will he tell a lie even as a matter of form.
"'What! must you go too?' I replied to his 'blessing and peace.' 'You
have no six-o'clock school this evening.'
"'No; but why should I stay here if there's to be no practice?'
"'Must I, then, begin singing in my own house before a man?'
"'It depends upon the man,' replied Esaias.
"'What am I to understand by that?' I inquired, much astonished.
"'What are you to understand by that?' said he, striking the leg of his
boot repeatedly with his pipe stem--'what are you to understand by that?
It is not very hard to understand, I should think. If a lawyer, a
doctor, or a squire were to come to see you and amuse himself here with
or without music, not a dog in the village would have anything to bark
at; but if they saw the schoolmaster come here at six o'clock in the
afternoon--if they saw him, I say, remain here last of all when the
other guests were gone, then there would be such a stir in Israel that
men would be ready to stone me.'
"'Do I stand, then, in such evil odour as all that?'
"'I did not say that you were in any evil odour at all.'
"'It is true,' he continued, 'that there are as many names written in
your album as in Charles Trattner's almanack. That, however, does a
pretty woman no harm. But me the Church would not forgive. If I get into
evil odour, if I overstep the line, I shall be sent packing.'
"'Then celibacy obtains among the Calvinists also?'
"'Not celibacy, but we have the canonical prescriptions. A canonical
offence is a very serious business for a Calvinist priest or
schoolmaster. Let a man be a veritable John Chrysostom, and it will
avail him nothing if he commit a canonical offence.'
"'And _you_ have _never_ committed a canonical offence?' I said to him.
"'Never!' he replied resolutely. And he grew quite red in the face. He
was so proud of his virtue."
"Why surely this is quite a new thing?" I interrupted--"a thing never
known in the world before: a man who is virtuous, and not ashamed to
confess it?"
"Quite unique, isn't it? When I heard this I seized his hand and would
not let him leave me. I could read from his eyes that it was the first
time he had ever felt the pressure of a lady's hand. 'You have been
candid,' I said to him, 'I will be candid also. You would never approach
a woman whom you had not led to the altar. I know it. Then you shall
lead _me_ to the altar!'
"Even this did not seem to surprise him. His face remained as motionless
as a statue.
"'That is soon done,' said he; 'but _respice finem_! Man proposes, but
'tis an old dog that holds on. I am not like other men. I am a very
difficult man to get on with. You can't deal with me as with those who
look through their fingers at the goings-on of their spouses. If I take
you to wife, there must be an end to all this dancing and prancing and
gadding about, and flirting and ogling. My wife will not have to go
fasting, but she won't be allowed any junketing. I don't understand a
joke. Do you see this cherry-wood pipe-stem? If I catch my wife at any
piece of trickery, I'll break this cherry-stem across her back--take my
word for it.'"
I couldn't help smiling at this. "And you, my dear, pretty ward, have
actually taken the schoolmaster to husband, cherry-stem and all?"
"I should like to have taken him, but he didn't surrender himself so
easily. I assured him that I would submit myself to the most stringent
discipline of virtue, and if I transgressed against him, I should not
mind his beating me. But even that did not vanquish him. By no means
whatever could he be brought to sit down beside me on the sofa. He even
pushed back the chair on which he was sitting, when he saw that I was
besieging him. At last he brought his big guns to bear upon me.
"'Look now, my dear dame, I know very well that humorous habit of yours
of never remaining long in one nest. You deal with your sweethearts on a
sort of give-and-take system. You are here to-day and off to-morrow.
Supposing now, that in the exercise of my marital authority, I were to
inflict an edifying chastisement upon you for your flightiness, you
might easily take it into your head to bolt, and there should I be left
in the lurch for the finger of scorn to point at. A Calvinist
schoolmaster cannot submit to the fate of an ordinary man. If my wife
were to leave me, I should be expelled from the Church with contumely.
Then I should have to flee. I should be as good as excluded from human
society. Now, I am very well satisfied with my present condition. I have
a fixed salary of six hundred florins in good hard cash, and my
perquisites amount to about as much again. I live honourably, you see,
and I cannot afford to stake everything on a throw of the dice.'
"Then I talked big also.
"'Listen to me!' I said. 'I have capital sufficient to bring me in as
much as your yearly income--that is to say, twenty-five thousand
florins. I will make over the whole amount to you by way of a dower, and
I am ready to forfeit it all in case I am unfaithful to you.'"
"And didn't your Esaias capitulate even then?" I inquired of Bessy.
"He asked for three days to think about it. I immediately hastened to
you to signify my desire that your guardianship might cease."
"Then Esaias has still two days' grace," I said. "I hope and trust he
may be inwardly illuminated to say no!"
"Then you do not approve of my determination?"
"I am a friend of truth, and I understand a little about prophecy too.
It doesn't matter to me if you surrender all your capital as a sort of
shrift-money, and your house as well."
"Such a man as he is worthy of it."
"I'll take your word for it. You are something of an expert in such
matters! But one thing I strongly advise you to do: keep the garden
attached to the house at your own disposition."
"Why?"
"That you may have it planted full of cherry-trees. I know the natural
history of the Calvinist-schoolmaster species. I know that what once he
has promised he always performs. I also know the natural history of the
lady with the eyes like the sea, and it is my belief that you will
frequently give occasion for the employment of cherry-tree stems."
At this the fair lady sprang from her chair, boiling over with rage.
"What a gross monster it is! Poet indeed! A pedantic lout is what I call
you! They've done very well to lock you up. This is the last time that
we shall ever talk to each other."
And with that she went, or rather flounced, away.
But I gave a great sigh of relief.
"May she keep her word, and never, never come back again!" I said.
* * * * *
One of the first things I saw, on my release from prison, was the
announcement in the newspapers of the solemnization of the marriage. The
bank also informed me by letter that the amount there standing to the
credit of my ward had been transferred to her husband's name.
Well, at last Bessy had got the _ne plus ultra_ of husbands. For,
really, the man who has reached his two-and-thirtieth year without
sinning against the canonical prescriptions must indeed be a superlative
treasure in the eyes of a lady who knows how to appreciate the value of
such renunciation.