"WHEN HUNGARY IS FREE!"
All these bitter memories Prince Andras, in spite of the years that had
passed, kept ever in his mind one sad and tragic event--the burial of his
father, Sandor Zilah, who was shot in the head by a bullet during an
encounter with the Croats early in the month of January, 1849.
Prince Sandor was able to grasp the hand of his son, and murmur in the
ear of this hero of sixteen:
"Remember! Love and defend the fatherland!"
Then, as the Austrians were close at hand, it was necessary to bury the
Prince in a trench dug in the snow, at the foot of a clump of fir-trees.
Some Hungarian 'honveds, bourgeois' militia, and Varhely's hussars held
at the edge of the black opening resinous torches, which the wintry wind
shook like scarlet plumes, and which stained the snow with great red
spots of light. Erect, at the head of the ditch, his fingers grasping
the hand of Yanski Varhely, young Prince Andras gazed upon the earthy
bed, where, in his hussar's uniform, lay Prince Sandor, his long blond
moustache falling over his closed mouth, his blood-stained hands crossed
upon his black embroidered vest, his right hand still clutching the
handle of his sabre, and on his forehead, like a star, the round mark of
the bit of lead that had killed him.
Above, the whitened branches of the firs looked like spectres, and upon
the upturned face of the dead soldier fell flakes of snow like congealed
tears. Under the flickering of the torch-flames, blown about by the
north wind, the hero seemed at times to move again, and a wild desire
came to Andras to leap down into the grave and snatch away the body. He
was an orphan now, his mother having died when he was an infant, and he
was alone in the world, with only the stanch friendship of Varhely and
his duty to his country to sustain him.
"I will avenge you, father," he whispered to the patriot, who could no
longer hear his words.
The hussars and honveds had advanced, ready to fire a final salvo over
the grave of the Prince, when, suddenly, gliding between the ranks of the
soldiers, appeared a band of Tzigani, who began to play the March of
Rakoczy, the Hungarian Marseillaise, the stirring melody pealing forth in
the night-air, and lending a certain mysteriously touching element to the
sad scene. A quick shudder ran through the ranks of the soldiers, ready
to become avengers.
The national hymn rang out like a song of glory over the resting-place of
the vanquished. The soul of the dead seemed to speak in the voice of the
heroic music, recalling to the harassed contestants for liberty the great
days of the revolts of the fatherland, the old memories of the struggles
against the Turks, the furious charges of the cavaliers across the free
puszta, the vast Hungarian plain.
And while, with long sweeps of his arm, the chief of the Tzigani marked
the measure, and the 'czimbalom' poured forth its heartrending notes,
it seemed to the poor fellows gathered about that the music of the March
of Rakoczy summoned a whole fantastic squadron of avengers, horsemen with
floating pelisses and herons' plumes in their hats, who, erect in their
saddles and with sabres drawn, struck, struck the frightened enemy, and
recovered, foot by foot, the conquered territory. There was in this
exalted march a sound of horses' hoofs, the clash of arms, a shaking of
the earth under the gallop of horsemen, a flash of agraffes, a rustle of
pelisses in the wind, an heroic gayety and a chivalrous bravery, like the
cry of a whole people of cavaliers sounding the charge of deliverance.
And the young Prince, gazing down upon his dead father, remembered how
many times those mute lips had related to him the legend of the czardas,
that legend, symbolic of the history of Hungary, summing up all the
bitter pain of the conquest, when the beautiful dark girls of
Transylvania danced, their tears burning their cheeks, under the lash of
the Osmanlis. At first, cold and motionless, like statues whose calm
looks silently insulted their possessors, they stood erect beneath the
eye of the Turk; then little by little, the sting of the master's whip
falling upon their shoulders and tearing their sides and cheeks, their
bodies twisted in painful, revolted spasms; the flesh trembled under the
cord like the muscles of a horse beneath the spur; and, in the morbid
exaltation of suffering, a sort of wild delirium took possession of them,
their arms were waved in the air, their heads with hair dishevelled were
thrown backward, and the captives, uttering a sound at once plaintive and
menacing, danced, their dance, at first slow and melancholy, becoming
gradually active, nervous, and interrupted by cries which resembled sobs.
And the Hungarian czardas, symbolizing thus the dance of these martyrs,
kept still, will always keep, the characteristic of contortions under the
lash of bygone days; and, slow and languishing at first, then soon quick
and agitated, tragically hysterical, it also is interrupted by melancholy
chords, dreary, mournful notes and plaintive accents like drops of blood
from a wound-from the mortal wound of Prince Sandor, lying there in his
martial uniform.
The bronzed Tzigani, fantastically illumined by the red glare of the
torches, stood out against the white background like demons of revenge;
and the hymn, feverish, bold, ardent, echoed through the snow-covered
branches like a hurricane of victory. They were wandering musicians,
who, the evening before, had been discovered in a neighboring village by
some of Jellachich's Croats, and whom Prince Sandor had unceremoniously
rescued at the head of his hussars; and they had come, with their ancient
national airs, the voice of their country, to pay their debt to the
fallen hero.
When they had finished, the wintry night-wind bearing away the last notes
of their war-song, the pistols of the hussars and the guns of the honveds
discharged a salute over the grave. The earth and snow were shovelled in
upon the body of Sandor Zilah, and Prince Andras drew away, after marking
with a cross the place where his father reposed.
A few paces away, he perceived, among the Tzigani musicians, a young
girl, the only woman of the tribe, who wept with mournful sobbings like
the echoes of the deserts of the Orient.
He wondered why the girl wept so bitterly, when he, the son, could not
shed a tear.
"Because Prince Zilah Sandor was valiant among the valiant," she replied,
in answer to his question, "and he died because he would not wear the
talisman which I offered him."
Andras looked at the girl.
"What talisman?"
"Some pebbles from the lakes of Tatra, sewn up in a little leather bag."
Andras knew what a powerful superstition is attached by the people of
Hungary to these deep lakes of Tatra, the "eyes of the sea," where, say
the old legends, the most beautiful carbuncle in the world lies hidden,
a carbuncle which would sparkle like the sun, if it could be discovered,
and which is guarded by frogs with diamond eyes and with lumps of pure
gold for feet. He felt more touched than astonished at the superstition
of the Tzigana, and at the offer which, the evening before, Prince Sandor
had refused with a smile.
"Give me what you wished to give my father," he said. "I will keep it in
memory of him."
A bright, joyous light flashed for a moment across the face of the
Tzigana. She extended to the young Prince the little bag of leather
containing several small, round pebbles like grains of maize.
"At all events," exclaimed the young. girl, "there will be one Zilah
whom the balls of the Croats will spare for the safety of Hungary."
Andras slowly detached from his shoulder the silver agraffe, set with
opals, which clasped his fur pelisse, and handed it to the gypsy, who
regarded it with admiring eyes as it flashed in the red light.
"The day when my father is avenged," he said, "and our Hungary is free,
bring me this jewel, and you and yours come to the castle of the Zilahs.
I will give you a life of peace in memory of this night of mourning."
Already, at a distance, could be heard a rapid fusillade about the
outposts. The Austrians had perhaps perceived the light from the
torches, and were attempting a night attack.
"Extinguish the torches!" cried Yanski Varhely.
The resinous knots hissed as they were thrust into the snow, and the
black, sinister night of winter, with the cries of the wind in the
branches, fell upon the troop of men, ready to die as their chief had
died; and all disappeared vision, phantoms--the Tzigani silently taking
refuge in the sombre forest, while here and there could be heard the
rattle of the ramrods as the honveds loaded their guns.
This January night appeared now to Andras as an almost fantastic dream.
Since then he had erected a mausoleum of marble on the very spot where
Prince Sandor fell; and of all the moments of that romantic, picturesque
war, the agonizing moment, the wild scene of the burial of his father,
was most vivid in his memory--the picture of the warrior stretched in the
snow, his hand on the handle of his sword, remained before his eyes,
imperishable in its melancholy majesty.