THE HOUSE IN EBESFALVA
We now move forward one country;--one country forward, and four years
backward. We are in Transylvania in the year 1662. Before us is a
dwelling, plain but of the nobility, at the lower end of Ebesfalva,
almost the last house in the place. The building was planned more for
convenience than for fancy; on both sides are stables for horses and
for sheep, built partly of stone, partly of plaster and partly of
wood; sheds for wagons, poultry-yards, open barns, high-gabled sheep
pens covered with straw; in the rear is a fruit garden where one
catches sight of the arched top of a beehive, and finally, in the
middle of the courtyard stands the whitewashed dwelling of one wing,
with shady nut-trees under which is a round table improvised out of a
mill-stone. A stone wall separates the court of the dwelling from the
threshing floor, where are to be seen piles of hay and great heaps of
grain, from the top of which a peacock utters his disagreeable cries.
It is evening; the men have returned from the fields; the oxen are
loosed from their heavy wagons loaded with corn; the sheep come with
tinkling bells from the meadow; the grunting swine hurry through the
open gate each to his own trough; the cocks quarrel together on the
nut-trees where they went to roost at sunset; in the distance is heard
the sound of the evening bell; and from still farther away comes the
sound of the village maidens going to the fountain. The men look after
the cattle, one brings a great bundle of fresh-mown grass, and another
carries in a large pail of fresh milk, fragrant and foaming. From the
kitchen comes the gleam of a blazing fire, over which a maiden with
round red cheeks is holding a great pan that gives out the fragrance
of food, soon to be placed on the heavy green earthenware. The farm
hands sit round the mill-stone table, eating heartily, while the
patient house-dogs watch them with thoughtful attention. Then the
dishes are cleared away and the ears of corn are taken from the wagon
and put under cover. The peasant maidens of the neighborhood gather
for the husking; the more timid are frightened for their lives by the
mischievous lads who hollow out ripe pumpkins, cut eyes and mouth and
set a burning light inside to use as a lantern. The more clever of the
lads, seated on upturned baskets, weave long garlands of the corn
husks; and over their quiet work ring out jolly songs, and fairy tales
are told of golden-haired princesses and waifs. Here and there a game
is played, not without kisses proclaimed to all the world with loud
shrieks. The children make merry if they chance to find a red ear in
the corn. And so they sit and sing and tell stories and laugh over
trifles until the heaps of corn are all gone. Then come the long
farewells; down the length of the street they sing on their way home,
partly in joyousness of spirit and partly to keep up their courage.
Each one goes to his house, locks the door and puts out the fire; the
shepherd-dogs throughout the village answer one another, the moon
rises and the night watchman begins to call off the hours in measured
rhythm, while the other villagers sleep unmindful of the golden
proverbs of his song.
Only in one window of the manor house is there still a light: there
only they have not yet gone to rest. The watchers are an old
maidservant, grown grey in service, and a younger one. The old woman
is reading laboriously something from the Psalter that she already
knows by heart from beginning to end. The young maid has sat down to
her spindle as if she had not done enough through the long day, and is
drawing the long threads of the silken flax, which yesterday she
combed and to-day carded.
"Go to bed, Clara," said the old woman kindly, "if I sit up, that is
enough. To-morrow you will have to get up early just the same."
"Surely I could not go to sleep before the return of our noble lady,"
replied the other, continuing her work. "Even though the men are all
at home I am afraid while she is not here; but when once the noble
lady comes I feel as safe as if castle walls surrounded us."
"You are right, my child, she is worth more than many men, poor soul!
For many years all the cares that belong to a man have rested on her
shoulders. She has to look out for everything; and as if that were not
enough she has leased beside the estate of her sisters, Madame Banfy
and Madame Beleky. How many lawsuits she has had to carry on with this
and that neighbor or kinsman! but they meet their match in her! She
goes herself to the judge and the courts and is so clever that an
advocate might learn of her. Once, when my lord Banfy came to play the
gallant with her, thinking our gracious lady one of those
grass-widows, how quickly she showed him the door; the good man hardly
knew which foot to put first and yet he is one of the royal judges. To
pay for that he quartered on us the head collector with a mixed crowd
of troopers. You were here then, weren't you, when our noble lady had
them driven out of the village? How they took to their heels when they
saw that our noble lady herself stood there with her gun."
"If they hadn't," boasted the excited maiden, "I would have struck
them over the head with my oven-cloth."
"You see, Clara, when a woman is compelled to take care of a house
alone for so long a time, to defend herself and her family with her
own strength, she comes to feel just like a man. That is why our lady
has that determined look, as if she had not been a maiden of high
birth."
"But tell me, Aunt Magdalene," said the girl, drawing her stool
nearer, "are we really never to see our gracious master again?"
"God only knows," replied the old woman, with a sigh, "when the poor
man will be set free. I have a sure presentiment which I have told,
but nobody listens to me. When the late Prince George became
dissatisfied with his own country and set out to conquer Poland with
the best Hungarian nobility, our Master Michael went with him. How
hard I tried to keep him back, and so did his noble lady; for they had
been married then but a short time; and the good master himself had no
wish to go, he had much rather sit in the house and read books or
build mills and take care of his trees, but honor bade him go.
However, I insisted that he should at least take my son Andy with him;
surely God ordained it wisely that he should go with him, otherwise we
never should have heard anything more of our gracious master. For when
the prince saw the beastly crowd of Tartars drawn up against him in
the field he hurried home, while all the nobility were taken prisoners
by the heathen Tartars and carried off to Tartary to bitter bondage.
My son Andy begged so hard that they finally let him come home,
especially as he had a wound that made him unfit for work. He brought
back the news that our Master Michael was pining away there in
imprisonment and that the Tartars, when they observed in what esteem
he was held by the other prisoners, took him for a duke and demanded
such a frightfully high ransom for him that all his estate turned into
money would not pay it. However, our noble lady was very happy when
she learned that her husband was still living, and went round trying
to raise the money. But neither relatives nor good friends would help
her, not even for security, for in war-times people do not like to
lend on real estate. So she sold all the valuables she had brought
with her from home; beautiful silver plates, bracelets set with
precious stones, gold cups that were heirlooms, beautiful garments
embroidered with silk and threads of gold, rings, buckles, clasps,
real pearls, in short everything that can be turned to gold. Yet as
all that was not half of what the Tartars demanded she leased the
estates of her sisters, and had the fallow ground ploughed and the
woods cleared away to make room for grain fields. She turned night
into day to find time for all the work. Nothing connected with farming
that would bring money did she leave undone; she had loam-pits made
and stone-quarries opened; she raised cattle that the Armenian cattle
drivers bought; she herself went to market, took her wine even into
Poland, her grain to Hermanstadt, her honey, wax and dried fruits to
Kronstadt; she even went as far as Debreczin to get a good price for
her wool; and how prudently she lived all that time! she never took
anything from her serving people that belonged to them, but she
herself saved every bit. In harvest time, when she would be in the
field all day long she would often go a week at a time without having
any dinner cooked; her entire meal then would be a small piece of
bread, so small that a child would not have been satisfied with it,
and a glass of cold water. But you can take my word for it, Clara,
that no one ever saw her out of temper, and no bitter tear ever fell
on the dry bread which was all she allowed herself in loyalty to her
husband."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Why, I mean that the money that she got together in this way, by hard
work and saving, has been carried by Andy into Tartary at this season
every year to make up the ransom. During this time the poor lady
stinted herself in every way." The old servant wiped the tears from
her eyes.
"And what is the ransom required?"
"I don't know exactly, my child. Andy has always brought back a paper
on which the Tartar has written the amount received and what still
remains to be paid, and the noble lady keeps it very carefully. Of
course I do not like to ask any questions."
The maiden became silent and seemed thoughtful; the spindle went twice
as fast in her hands and her heart beat more rapidly.
"My son Andy has gone on such a journey now, and I am expecting him
back every hour; from him we shall know something certain."
At that very moment the outside gate creaked; a small wagon was driven
noisily into the courtyard and the joyous barking of the dogs showed
that it was no stranger who had come.
"They've come," cried the two serving women, and had just time to rise
from their seats when Anna Bornemissa, wife of Michael Apafi,
entered,--a well-built woman, almost as tall as a man; through the
plain grey linen gown showed the slender but rounded outlines of a
strong figure; she might have been thirty-six years old. Her face was
one of those that give no trace of time until far on in years. She was
sunburned, but with the bloom of youth and her healthy color this only
heightened her peculiar beauty. Her glance was quick and masterful but
its charm lay in the soul which it reflected. In her features there
was nothing hard, rough or masculine; her brow was arched, smooth,
free from wrinkles and full of nobility; her eyebrows were delicately
marked, her eyes exquisitely shaped, with long lashes that only half
shaded them; they were not the fierce black, but rather nut-brown
eyes, showing fire and light, yet now so cold. The nose and the oval
of her face were delicately formed, her lips when her mouth was closed
were gentle and delicate. The rest of her features seemed to be making
an effort not to share her smile, and the mouth when open was proud
and authoritative.
"What, still awake!" she said to her maids. Her voice had a pleasant
ring although the lower tones were subdued by sorrow.
"We wished to sit up for your ladyship so that you would not have to
wait outside for us," answered the old woman, bustling about her
mistress and taking the heavy cloak from her shoulders.
"Is not Andy back yet?" asked Madame Apafi, in a voice almost stifled.
"Not yet, but I am expecting him every moment." The lady sighed
deeply. How much suppressed sorrow, how many vanishing hopes, what
depths of resignation lay in that sigh! Before the strong soul of this
woman passed the many sufferings of her joyless life, her struggles
with fate, mankind and her own heart; her love had been grafted upon
pain that could bring forth wishes only--no pleasures. Another year
of her life had passed, rich only in struggles. With the industry of a
bee, she had succeeded in getting together a few offerings for the
single purpose of her life, and who knew how many more such years
there must be before she could attain it: thus far, she had only work,
patience and a joyless love. Madame Apafi forced her countenance back
into its wonted coldness, bade her servants good-night and was just
going to her room, when Clara kissed the hand of her mistress, causing
her to look at the maid with astonishment. She felt a hot tear on her
hand, which had come in spite of the maiden.
"What is the matter with you?" asked the lady, taken aback.
"Nothing is the matter with me," sobbed the maiden, "but you--most
gracious lady--I am so sorry for you. I have for a long time been
thinking of something, but have never dared tell it. We often talk of
it--how our master has been taken prisoner, and how hard it is to get
his ransom;--I mean my friends in the village;--all of us have
necklaces with much useless gold and silver coin on them, and so we
girls have agreed to put this money together that we have no use for
and give it to you, gracious lady, to send off as ransom for our
master." Madame Apafi pressed the hand of her maidservant and a tear
came to her eye.
"I thank you, my girl," she said, touched. "I prize this offering of
yours far more than I should if my sister Banfy had placed ten
thousand gold necklaces at my disposal. But God will help us." Just
then a horse's hoofs were heard in the courtyard and the dogs began a
tremendous barking.
"Who's that? Robbers, perhaps,--the redcoats," stammered the old
woman, and neither of the serving women dared go to the door; but
Madame Apafi took the light from the table, and boldly going to the
door opened it so that the light shone far out into the courtyard.
"Who is that?" she called, in a strong firm voice.
"Us--I mean me," answered somebody, confusedly; and all three at once
recognized Andy by the voice.
"Oh, it's you, is it? Come, be quick," called Madame Apafi, joyously,
and pulled the evidently confused servant into the house. He stood
twirling his cap, not knowing how to begin.
"Did you see him--speak with him?--is he well?" asked Madame Apafi,
quickly.
"Yes, well," answered the boy, glad to find a starting point. "He
sends you greetings and kisses, my noble lady."
"Why do you look around that way?--whom are the dogs barking at
outside?"
"Perhaps at the black horse; they are so glad to see him again."
"Did you give the money to Murza?"
Instead of answering Andy began rummaging in the pocket of his fur
coat, and as the opening of the pocket was very high and the bottom
seemed very deep, he turned all colors while he was searching for the
paper, and trembled as he handed it over to his mistress.
"Is there much left yet? What did Murza say?" asked Madame Apafi, in a
tone almost trembling.
"There is not much more,--you could almost say there was very little
more," answered Andy, with downcast eyes, in his embarrassment
fumbling with his hat.
"How much? how much more?" They all cried at once. Andy turned red.
"There isn't any more!" he blurted out, and burst into a loud laugh
followed by tears;--at once the lady caught the meaning of his words.
"Man," she cried passionately, seizing him by the shoulders, "you have
brought my husband with you!" Andy pointed behind him and nodded in
silence. He wept and laughed all at once but not a word could he
speak.
With a cry such as one utters only in deepest joy, the lady ran to the
half open door and there stood listening, Michael Apafi, long waited
and oft lamented.
"Michael, my own dear husband!" cried his wife, trembling with
feeling; and, beside herself, she fell on her husband's neck,
whispering to him words too low to be heard, expressions of
tenderness, joy and love. Apafi pressed his wife to his heart; no
sound was to be heard save low sobbing.
"You are mine, mine at last," stammered his wife, after a long pause,
recovering from the violence of her feelings.
"I am yours. And I swear to you that no country, no world can tear me
from you again."
"Oh, my God, what happiness!" cried Anna, raising to heaven her face
covered with tears of joy. "What joy you have brought back to me,"
again leaning on her husband and burying her face on his breast.
"If the whole world were mine I should not be rich enough to repay you
for your loyalty to me. If I could call a kingdom my own I would give
it to you, and that would be only a beggarly reward."
The husband and wife, exultant in their joy and love, remained
undisturbed in their happiness. Until late in the night the light
burned in their room,--how much, how much they had to say!