"HAVE I NO RIGHT TO BE HAPPY"
There was a certain womanly coquetry, mingled with a profound love of the
soil where her martyred mother reposed, in the desire which Marsa Laszlo
had to be called the Tzigana, instead of by her own name. The Tzigana!
This name, as clear cut, resonant and expressive as the czimbaloms of the
Hungarian musicians, lent her an additional, original charm. She was
always spoken of thus, when she was perceived riding her pure-blooded
black mare, or driving, attached to a victoria, a pair of bay horses of
the Kisber breed. Before the horses ran two superb Danish hounds, of a
lustrous dark gray, with white feet, eyes of a peculiar blue, rimmed with
yellow, and sensitive, pointed ears--Duna and Bundas, the Hungarian names
for the Danube and the Velu.
These hounds, and an enormous dog of the Himalayas, with a thick, yellow
coat and long, sharp teeth, a half-savage beast, bearing the name of
Ortog (Satan), were Marsa's companions in her walks; and their submission
to their young mistress, whom they could have knocked down with one pat
of their paws, gave the Tzigana reputation for eccentricity; which,
however, neither pleased nor displeased her, as she was perfectly
indifferent to the opinion of the public at large.
She continued to inhabit, near the forest of Saint-Germain, beyond the
fashionable avenues, the villa, ornamented with the holy Muscovite icon,
which Prince Tchereteff had purchased; and she persisted in remaining
there alone with old Vogotzine, who regarded her respectfully with his
round eyes, always moist with 'kwass' or brandy.
Flying the crowded city, eager for space and air, a true daughter of
Hungary, Marsa loved to ride through the beautiful, silent park, down the
long, almost deserted avenues, toward the bit of pale blue horizon
discernible in the distance at the end of the sombre arch formed by the
trees. Birds, startled by the horses' hoofs, rose here and there out of
the bushes, pouring forth their caroling to the clear ether; and Marsa,
spurring her thoroughbred, would dash in a mad gallop toward a little,
almost unknown grove of oaks, with thickets full of golden furze and pink
heather, where woodcutters worked, half buried in the long grass peppered
with blue cornflowers and scarlet poppies.
Or, at other times, with Duna and Bundas bounding before her,
disappearing, returning, disappearing again with yelps of joy, it was
Marsa's delight to wander alone under the great limes of the Albine
avenue--shade over her head, silence about her--and then slowly, by way
of a little alley bordered with lofty poplars trembling at every breath
of wind, to reach the borders of the forest. In ten steps she would
suddenly find herself plunged in solitude as in a bath of verdure, shade
and oblivion. The sweet silence surrounding her calmed her, and she
would walk on and on though the thick grass under the great trees. The
trunks of the giant oaks were clothed in robes of emerald moss, and wild
flowers of all descriptions raised their heads amid the grass. There was
no footstep, no sound; a bee lazily humming, a brilliant butterfly
darting across the path, something quick and red flashing up a tree--
a squirrel frightened by the Danish hounds; that was all. And Marsa was
happy with the languorous happiness which nature gives, her forehead
cooled by the fresh breeze, her eyes rested by the deep green which hid
the shoes, her whole being refreshed by the atmosphere of peace which
fell from the trees.
Then, calling her dogs, she would proceed to a little farmhouse, and,
sitting down under the mulberry trees, wait until the farmer's wife
brought her some newly baked bread and a cup of milk, warm from the cows.
Then she would remain idly there, surrounded by chickens, ducks, and
great, greedy geese, which she fed, breaking the bread between her white
fingers, while Duna and Bundas crouched at her feet, pricking up their
ears, and watching these winged denizens of the farmyard, which Marsa
forbade them to touch. Finally the Tzigana would slowly wend her way
home, enter the villa, sit down before the piano, and play, with
ineffable sweetness, like souvenirs of another life, the free and
wandering life of her mother, the Hungarian airs of Janos Nemeth, the sad
"Song of Plevna," the sparkling air of "The Little Brown Maid of
Budapest," and that bitter; melancholy romance, "The World holds but One
Fair Maiden," a mournful and despairing melody, which she preferred to
all others, because it responded, with its tearful accents, to a
particular state of her own heart.
The girl was evidently concealing some secret suffering. The bitter
memory of her early years? Perhaps. Physical pain? Possibly. She had
been ill some years before, and had been obliged to pass a winter at Pau.
But it seemed rather some mental anxiety or torture which impelled the
Tzigana to seek solitude and silence in her voluntary retreat.
The days passed thus in that villa of Maisons-Lafitte, where Tisza died.
Very often, in the evening, Marsa would shut herself up in the solitude
of that death-chamber, which remained just as her mother had left it.
Below, General Vogotzine smoked his pipe, with a bottle of brandy for
company: above, Marsa prayed.
One night she went out, and through the sombre alleys, in the tender
light of the moon, made her way to the little convent in the Avenue Egle,
where the blue sisters were established; those sisters whom she often met
in the park, with their full robes of blue cloth, their white veils, a
silver medallion and crucifix upon their breasts, and a rosary of wooden
beads suspended at their girdles. The little house of the community was
shut, the grating closed. The only sign of life was in the lighted
windows of the chapel.
Marsa paused there, leaning her heated brow against the cold bars of
iron, with a longing for death, and a terrible temptation to end all by
suicide.
"Who knows?" she murmured. "Perhaps forgetfulness, deep, profound
forgetfulness, lies within these walls." Forgetfulness! Marsa, then,
wished to forget? What secret torture gave to her beautiful face that
expression so bitter, so terrible in its agony?
She stood leaning there, gazing at the windows of the chapel. Broken
words of prayers, of muttered verses and responses, reached her like the
tinkling of far-off chimes, like the rustling of invisible wings. The
blue sisters, behind those walls, were celebrating their vesper service.
Does prayer drive away anguish and heartrending memories?
Marsa was a Catholic, her mother having belonged to the minority of
Tzigani professing the faith of Rome; and Tisza's daughter could,
therefore, bury her youth and beauty in the convent of the blue sisters.
The hollow murmur of the verses and prayers, which paused, began again,
and then died away in the night like sighs, attracted her, and, like the
trees of the forest, gave her an impression of that peace, that deep
repose, which was the longed-for dream of her soul.
But, suddenly, the Tzigana started, removed her gaze from the light
streaming through the blue and crimson glass, and hurried away, crying
aloud in the darkness:
"No! repose is not there. And, after all, where is repose? Only in
ourselves! It can be found nowhere, if it is not in the heart!"
Then, after these hours of solitude, this longing for the cloister, this
thirsting for annihilation and oblivion, Marsa would experience a desire
for the dashing, false, and frivolous life of Paris. She would quit
Maisons, taking with her a maid, or sometimes old Vogotzine, go to some
immense hotel, like the Continental or the Grand, dine at the table
d'hote, or in the restaurant, seeking everywhere bustle and noise, the
antithesis of the life of shade and silence which she led amid the leafy
trees of her park. She would show herself everywhere, at races,
theatres, parties--as when she accepted the Baroness Dinati's invitation;
and, when she became nauseated with all the artificiality of worldly
life, she would return eagerly to her woods, her dogs and her solitude,
and, if it were winter, would shut herself up for long months in her
lonely, snow-girt house.
And was not this existence sweet and pleasant, compared with the life led
by Tisza in the castle of the suburbs of Moscow?
In this solitude, in the villa of Maisons-Lafitte, Andras Zilah was again
to see Marsa Laszlo. He came not once, but again and again. He was,
perhaps, since the death of Prince Tchereteff, the only man General
Vogotzine had seen in his niece's house, and Marsa was always strangely
happy when Andras came to see her.
"Mademoiselle is very particular when Prince Zilah is coming to Maisons,"
said her maid to her.
"Because Prince Zilah is not a man like other men. He is a hero. In my
mother's country there is no name more popular than his."
"So I have heard Count Menko say to Mademoiselle."
If it were the maid's wish to remove all happiness from her mistress's
face, she had met with complete success.
At the name of Menko, Marsa's expression became dark and threatening.
Prince Andras had noticed this same change in the Tzigana's face, when he
was speaking to her at Baroness Dinati's.
The Prince had forgotten no detail of that first fascinating interview,
at which his love for the Tzigana was born. This man, who had hardly any
other desire than to end in peace a life long saddened by defeat and
exile, suddenly awoke to a happy hope of a home and family joys. He was
rich, alone in the world, and independent; and he was, therefore, free to
choose the woman to be made his princess. No caste prejudice prevented
him from giving his title to the daughter of Tisza. The Zilahs, in
trying to free their country, had freed themselves from all littleness;
and proud, but not vain, they bore but slight resemblance to those
Magyars of whom Szechenyi, the great count, who died of despair in 1849,
said: "The overweening haughtiness of my people will be their ruin."
The last of the Zilahs did not consider his pride humiliated by loving
and wedding a Tzigana. Frankly, in accents of the deepest love and the
most sincere devotion, Andras asked Marsa Laszlo if she would consent to
become his wife. But he was terrified at the expression of anguish which
passed over the pale face of the young girl.
Marsa, Princess Zilah! Like her mother, she would have refused from a
Tchereteff this title of princess which Andras offered her, nay, laid at
her feet with passionate tenderness. But--Princess Zilah!
She regarded with wild eyes the Prince, who stood before her, timid and
with trembling lips, awaiting her reply. But, as she did not answer, he
stooped over and took her hands in his.
"What is it?" he cried; for Marsa's fingers were icy.
It cost the young girl a terrible effort to prevent herself from losing
consciousness.
"But speak to me, Marsa," exclaimed Andras, "do not keep me in suspense."
He had loved her now for six months, and an iron hand seemed to clutch
the heart of this man, who had never known what it was to fear, at the
thought that perhaps Marsa did not return his love.
He had, doubtless, believed that he had perceived in her a tender feeling
toward himself which had emboldened him to ask her to be his wife. But
had be been deceived? Was it only the soldier in him that had pleased
Marsa? Was he about to suffer a terrible disappointment? Ah, what folly
to love, and to love at forty years, a young and beautiful girl like
Marsa!
Still, she made him no answer, but sat there before him like a statue,
pale to the lips, her dark eyes fixed on him in a wild, horrified stare.
Then, as he pressed her, with tears in his voice, to speak, she forced
her almost paralyzed tongue to utter a response which fell, cruel as a
death-sentence, upon the heart of the hero:
"Never!"
Andras stood motionless before her in such terrible stillness that she
longed to throw herself at his feet and cry out: "I love you! I love
you! But your wife--no, never!"
She loved him? Yes, madly-better than that, with a deep, eternal
passion, a passion solidly anchored in admiration, respect and esteem;
with an unconquerable attraction toward what represented, to her harassed
soul, honor without a blemish, perfect goodness in perfect courage, the
immolation of a life to duty, all incarnate in one man, radiant in one
illustrious name--Zilah.
And Andras himself divined something of this feeling; he felt that Marsa,
despite her enigmatical refusal, cared for him in a way that was
something more than friendship; he was certain of it. Then, why did she
command him thus with a single word to despair? "Never!" She was not
free, then? And a question, for which he immediately asked her pardon by
a gesture, escaped, like the appeal of a drowning man, from his lips:
"Do you love some one else, Marsa?"
She uttered a cry.
"No! I swear to you--no!"
He urged her, then, to explain what was the meaning of her refusal, of
the fright she had just shown; and, in a sort of nervous hysteria which
she forced herself to control, in the midst of stifled sobs, she told him
that if she could ever consent to unite herself to anyone, it would be to
him, to him alone, to the hero of her country, to him whose chivalrous
devotion she had admired long before she knew him, and that now-- And
here she stopped short, just on the brink of an avowal.
"Well, now? Now?" demanded Andras, awaiting the word which, in her
overstrung condition, Marsa had almost spoken. "Now?"
But she did not speak these words which Zilah begged for with newly
awakened hope. She longed to end this interview which was killing her,
and in broken accents asked him to excuse her, to forgive her--but she
was really ill.
"But if you are suffering, I can not, I will not leave you."
"I implore you. I need to be alone."
"At least you will permit me to come to-morrow, Marsa, and ask for your
answer?"
"My answer? I have given it to you."
"No! No! I do not accept that refusal. No! you did not know what you
were saying. I swear to you, Marsa, that without you life is impossible
to me; all my existence is bound up in yours. You will reflect there was
an accent in your voice which bade me hope. I will come again to-morrow.
Tomorrow, Marsa. What you have said to-day does not count. Tomorrow,
to-morrow; and remember that I adore you."
And she, shuddering at the tones of his voice, not daring to say no, and
to bid him an eternal farewell, let him depart, confident, hopeful,
despite the silence to which she obstinately, desperately clung. Then,
when Andras was gone, at the end of her strength, she threw herself, like
a mad woman, down upon the divan. Once alone, she gave way utterly,
sobbing passionately, and then, suddenly ceasing, with wild eyes fixed
upon vacancy, to mutter with dry, feverish lips:
"Yet--it is life he brings to me--happiness he offers me. Have I no
right to be happy--I? My God! To be the wife of such a man! To love
him--to devote myself to him-to make his existence one succession of
happy days! To be his slave, his thing! Shall I marry him? Or--shall
I kill myself? Kill myself!" with a horrible, agonizing laugh. "Yes,
that is the only thing for me to do. But--but--I am a coward, now that
I love him--a coward! a coward! a miserable wretch!" And she fell
headlong forward, crouching upon the floor in a fierce despair, as if
either life or reason was about to escape from her forever.