THE HOUSE-WARMING.
Carriage after carriage rumbled into the courtyard of Kárpáthy Castle.
Every sort and kind of four-wheeled conveyance was visible that day
within the gates of the crowded mansion.
There seemed to be no end to the continuous flow of guests, male and
female, and Madame Kárpáthy won and captivated every heart. Of course
she had the immense advantage of knowing them all beforehand, of knowing
their weak and their strong points, their virtues and vices; but it is
due to her to add that she had learnt her lesson excellently well, and
turned it to the best advantage. She received Count Szépkiesdy with all
the grave respect due to the most honourable of patriots, and assured
him that she had long since learnt to admire him as a great orator and a
noble-minded man. The Count inwardly cursed and swore at meeting with
some one who regarded him as a hero. To Count Gregory Erdey she extended
a smiling salutation from afar, which he requited by saluting her with
his hat in one hand and his wig in another, which provoked a roar of
Homeric laughter from the assembled guests. The young buffoon had had
his head clean shaved in order that his hair might grow all the
stronger, so that his bald pate quite scared the weak-nerved members of
the company. The young housewife curtsied low in humble silence before
the _Foispán_ Count Sárosdy and his wife, whereby she greatly pleased
that aristocratic patriot. He admitted that middle-class girls are not
so bad when they have been brought up in gentlemen's families. And Fanny
completely won the favour of his consort by impressing upon her servants
to be constantly in attendance on her ladyship, and fulfil all her
wishes; for, although Countess Sárosdy had brought two of her own maids
with her, she did not consider them sufficient. On the arrival of the
Countess Kereszty, Fanny joyfully rushed forward, and kissed her hand
before she could prevent it; whereupon the amazonian dame, first of all,
seized her with both her muscular arms, and held her at arm's length, at
the same time wrinkling her thick black eyebrows as if to scrutinize her
the better, and then drew her towards her, patting her on the back all
the time, and exclaiming in her bass-viol-like voice, "We like each
other, my little sister; we like each other, eh?" Yes, there could be no
doubt about it, Fanny was a success. Her beauty won the hearts of the
gentlemen, and her correct deportment the good opinions of the ladies.
Shortly afterwards the dinner-bell rang, and the company, with a great
clatter and still greater good-humour, occupied the tables, from a
description of which I conscientiously abstain--firstly and lastly
because such things as dinner-tables are only diverting _in natura_, but
infinitely tiresome in books. There was all the wealth, pomp, splendour
and profusion that the occasion and the reputation of the Nabob
demanded; there was everything procurable for man's enjoyment, from the
native products of Hungarian cookery to the masterly creations of French
gastronomic art, and of wines every sort imaginable. The dinner lasted
far into the night, and towards the end of it the company began to grow
uproarious. The great patriot, as usual, related his lubricous,
equivocal anecdotes without troubling himself very much as to whether
ladies were present or not. He was wont to say _Castis sunt omnia
casta_, "To the pure all things are pure," and whoever blushed had, no
doubt, a good reason for blushing, and was therefore corrupt enough
already. The ladies, however, pretended not to hear, and began
conversing with their neighbours without taking any notice of the hoarse
laughter of the young bucks, who held it a point of honour to applaud
the witticisms of the great patriot.
Nevertheless every one did his best to enjoy himself as much as
possible.
And who so happy as the Nabob?
It occurred to him that, scarce a year ago, he had sat in the same place
where he was sitting now, and had seen a horrible sight; and now he saw
by his side a young and enchanting wife, and around him a merry lively
host of guests with cheerful, smiling faces.
And now from the adjoining chamber resounded, alternately grave and gay,
the notes of the Bihari fiddlers; one or two of the young wags thereupon
pushed their chairs away, went out among the gipsies, and fell a dancing
with each other. The more loquacious of the patriots who remained behind
began drinking the health of every fellow-guest present, in turn,
especially toasting the host and hostess; thence proceeding to drink to
the success of all manner of abstract objects, such as social unions,
counties and colleges, and other contemporary institutions. Count
Szépkiesdy made a long speech, into which he very neatly interwove every
applauded phrase which he had uttered during the last twelve months at
public assemblies. There were some present who had heard this speech at
least four times already, but this did not prevent anybody from cheering
him vociferously: we know, of course, that a good thing cannot be
repeated too often. Squire John himself was invincible as a
toast-responder, and if I were not obliged in this particular to give
the pre-eminence to an honoured lady, the amazonian Countess Kereszty, I
should have said that, for witty sallies and the draining of bumpers, he
was the hero of the evening.
In any case he deserves peculiar praise for one thing: in the midst of
all this talking and toasting he it was who first of all bethought him
of raising his glass in honour of two young men who were not actually
present--to wit Count Stephen and Count Rudolf; and he so worthily
extolled the superlative merits of these gentlemen, as to evoke an
unprecedented burst of enthusiasm, the very ladies themselves seizing
brimmers and clinking them with him.
While every face was still beaming with delight, a lackey entered, and
delivered a letter to Lady Szentirmay which a rapid runner had brought
from Szentirma.
Flora with a beating heart recognized her husband's writing on the
cover, and she begged leave to retire and open it. This was the signal
for release and departure, the whole company quitting the tables, and
scattering in the adjoining rooms. Flora and Fanny flew off to their
bedrooms unobserved, to read the precious letter in all peace and
quietness; for Fanny, also, naturally wanted to know what was in the
letter.
The lady broke the seal with a hand that trembled for joy, and, after
pressing the letter to her heart, read its contents, which were as
follows:--
"To-morrow I shall be at Kárpátfalva. There we shall meet. Rudolf.
1000." This "thousand" signified a thousand kisses.
How delighted the beloved wife was! Again and again she kissed the place
where her husband's name was written, as if to snatch beforehand at
least a hundred of the consignment of kisses; and then she concealed it
in her bosom, as if to preserve the remaining nine hundred till later
on; then she drew it forth once more, and read it over again, as if she
could not quite remember the whole contents of the letter, but must
needs read it anew in order to understand it properly; and then she
kissed it over and over again until, at last, she herself did not know
how many kisses she had taken.
And Fanny fully shared the joy of her friend, joy is so contagious.
To-morrow Rudolf will arrive, and how nice it will then be for Flora!
She will see the greatest joy that a loving heart can imagine, and will
not be a bit jealous--no! she will rejoice in another's joy, rejoice in
the happiness of her best friend, who possesses as her very own, so to
speak, the man in whose honour every one has spoken so well and made
such pretty speeches. And to-morrow he will be here; and, to make his
wife happy till he comes, he has notified the day of his arrival. He
does not come surreptitiously, unawares, like one who is jealous; but he
lets her know of his coming beforehand, like one who is well assured of
how greatly, how very greatly he is loved. Oh what a joy it will be even
to look upon such happiness!
The two ladies with radiantly happy faces returned to the company, which
diverted itself till midnight, when every one retired to his own room.
Squire John helped his guests to their repose with a musical
accompaniment, the gipsy band proceeding from window to window and
intoning beneath each one a sleep-compelling symphony. Finally, the last
note died away, and everybody dozed off, and dreamed beautiful dreams.
The hunters dreamt of foxes (there was to be a hunt on the morrow), the
orators dreamt of assemblies, Mr. Málnay dreamt of parties, Lady
Szentirmay dreamt of her husband, and Fanny dreamt of that beautiful
smiling countenance she had been thinking of so often, and which looked
at her so kindly with its eloquent blue eyes and spoke to her with such
a wondrously sweet voice. It is permissible, of course, to dream of
anything.
* * * * *
Well, to-morrow!