CASTLE BODOLA
In a part of the country of upper Weissenburg, as soon as you have
left the Pass of Boza or made a détour of the ravine in the footpath
around the mountain heights, you catch sight of the valley of the
Tatrang. On all sides are low mountains covered with light fog, and in
the background the sky-piercing heights of the foothills of Capri,
bright in the early autumnal snow. In the fog-wrapped valley are four
or five hamlets with whitewashed houses, from which the smoke arises
amid the green fruit trees. The little stream of Tatrang winds clear
as crystal between the quiet villages, forming here and there
waterfalls with snowy mist. The clouds hang so low over the valley as
to shut out with their golden veil first one object and then another
from the observer on the mountain-height. There is Hosszufalu with its
long street; and the church of Trajzonfalu reflects the sunbeams from
its painted metal roof. Tatrang is right on the bank of the stream, at
this point crossed by a long wooden bridge; far in the distance appear
dark and misty the walls of Kronstadt and the outline of the citadel,
at that time still unharmed. Farther down in the valley are the
scattered dwellings of the little village of Bodola, its church high
on a hill; opposite the village stands a small castle with broad
towers and black bastions with battlements; the western bastion is
built on a steep rock. But it is only from afar that the castle looks
gloomy; as you draw nearer you see that what appeared a dark green
growth on the bastion is a garden of flowers. The great Gothic windows
are decorated with sculpture and painted glass. Up the steep cliff is
a well-kept, winding path, with mossy stone benches at every turn; at
its summit is a parapet and the pointed turrets of the castle are
painted red and topped with fantastic weather-vanes.
The road to Kronstadt through the Boza Pass leads to this little
castle in a few hours, and at the very time when John Kemény had
abandoned himself utterly to pleasure in Hermanstadt, a long line of
horsemen was moving out of the castle; there might have been two
thousand Turkish riders, recognizable from afar by their red turbans
and their snow-white caftans; with them were a few hundred Wallachian
howitzers in charge of men in brown woolen cloaks and black turbans.
The way was so narrow here that the horsemen could ride only two by
two, and those in the rear had hardly emerged from the mountain pass
when the first riders were already in Tatrang. Their leader was a
medium sized, sunburned man, with eyes like an eagle's; there was a
long scar across his forehead; the sharp upward turn of his moustache
indicated an unusually hot temper, an impression confirmed by the
short, crisp speech, the proud turn of the head, and the abrupt
movements. Beyond the village he called a halt to await the rear; at
the very end rumbled two baggage-wagons and a melon-shaped calêche,
the entire baggage of the Turk. A child followed, whose serious
expression and gleaming short sword seemed hardly appropriate to the
full round face; he might have been twelve years old. Within the
carriage, the curtains of which had been thrown wide open to give free
play to the evening breeze, sat a young woman of possibly two and
thirty, whose dress was partly Turkish, partly Christian; for she wore
the loose silk trousers and short blue caftan of Turkish women, but
had taken off her turban. Her face, contrary to Turkish custom, was
unveiled, and she looked calmly out of the window at the country and
the passing peasants.
Beyond the village the Turkish leader marshaled his troops, evidently
accustomed to some discipline. At the head of the left wing was the
young boy; the right was led by a strong man.
"My brave men," said the Pasha to his troops, "you will encamp here.
Let every man keep his place beside his horse and not lay down his
arms. Ferhad Aga with twelve men will go to the village and say to the
justiciary most respectfully that he is to send four hundred-weight of
bread, as much meat, and twice as much hay and oats, for which he will
receive four asper the pound,--no more and no less."
The Pasha then turned to the Wallachians. "You dogs, do not think that
we have come here to plunder. Do not stir from your places. If I find
that a single goose has been stolen from the village, I will have your
captains hung and you decimated."
Then he chose four horsemen from the company. "You will follow me. The
others are to rest. We will continue our march to-night. In my
absence, Feriz Bey is in command."
The small boy saluted. "As soon as Feriz Bey receives word from me to
leave you, you will be in command of Ferhad Aga until my return."
With that the Pasha struck spurs to his horse and galloped off to
Bodola with his escort of four men. Then the boy called Feriz Bey by
the Pasha, rode forward with soldierly bearing and in the clearest,
firmest tones gave order to dismount. His Arab steed, with foaming bit
reared and plunged, but the little commandant went on with his orders
as if he did not notice the mad leaps of his horse. Meantime, the
Pasha continued his ride toward the castle of Bodola. The lord of the
castle, Paul Beldi, had just returned the day before with his wife
from the court of Kemény, which he had left without parting words, and
was standing before the dwelling when the Turkish riders came into the
courtyard. In those days the relations of Transylvania and Turkey were
such that a visit of this kind might take place without previous
announcement. As soon as the Pasha caught sight of Beldi he jumped
from his horse, hurried up the steps to him and presented himself
briefly.
"I am Kutschuk Pasha. Since my road lay through this country I have
come to speak with you, if you have time."
"Your servant," replied Beldi, giving his guest precedence as he
showed him to the castle salon. It was a square room, with the walls
painted in Oriental landscapes; in the spaces between the windows were
great mirrors in metal frames; the marble floor was covered over with
large, bright rugs; on the walls above the windows were portraits and
trophies of old weapons of strange shapes and settings; in the centre
of the room was a large table of green marble, with claw feet, and
here and there easy chairs upholstered in leather, with heavy
carvings. Opposite the entrance a door led to the terrace from which
was a wide view of the snow-covered mountains. The evening light
streaming through the painted glass cast a bright reflection over the
faces of the men as they entered.
"In what way can I serve you?" asked Beldi.
"You are well aware," replied Kutschuk, "that at present there is a
great division in the country over the princely succession in
Transylvania."
"That does not concern me and I do not intend to take sides with
either party," answered Beldi, guardedly.
"I did not come here to ask you for help or advice in this affair. The
question is to be settled by the sword. What has brought me to you is
purely a family affair and concerns me and me only."
Beldi, in amazement, bade his guest be seated and said to him,
"Speak."
"You may have heard that there was once here in Transylvania a
Mademoiselle Kallay, who fell in love with a young Turk and became his
wife; naturally, without the knowledge or consent of her parents."
"I do know about it. They used to say that the young Turk knew as well
how to conquer a woman's heart as a foe on the battlefield."
"Perhaps so. Conquests in war have meantime effaced the traces of love
from his cheeks. As you see, my face is crossed this way and that with
scars. For the man who married that woman stands before you."
Beldi looked at the Pasha with astonishment.
"I have loved this woman without ceasing and with adoration,"
continued the Pasha; "this may sound strange to you, coming from the
lips of a Turk, but it is true. I have no other wife. She has borne me
a son of whom I am proud. Now my affairs are in so critical a
condition that I must either work wonders with the help of God, or
fall in battle. You know that the religion of Mohammed sets a high
value on death in battle, so that this causes me little anxiety; but I
am thinking of my wife, who if she should lose me and my son would be
placed in a most doubtful position. In Turkey, she would be exposed to
persecution because she had remained a Christian; in Transylvania,
because she had married a Mohammedan; there through my relatives and
here through her own. For that reason I turn to you with a request. I
have heard you spoken of as a man of honor and of your wife as a
worthy woman. Receive my wife into your family. I have sufficient
property for her so that she will be no burden to you in that respect;
she needs only your protection. If you promise to grant me this
request you can count on my friendship and gratitude forever, the
command of my sword and my property and, in case I survive, of my
life."
Beldi grasped the Pasha by the hand. "Bring your wife," he said, in
cordial tones, "my wife and I will receive her as a sister."
"Not as a sister, I beg of you," said Kutschuk, laughingly, "with us
that is equivalent to enmity. So then, I may bring her?"
"We shall be happy to have her with us," replied Beldi, and gave order
to his servants to return to Tatrang with the Pasha's followers and
bring his carriage from there by torch light. Kutschuk sent word that
Feriz Bey was to come too. Meantime, Beldi presented Kutschuk Pasha to
his wife, and it gave him no little pleasure to find that she
remembered the Pasha's wife as a friend in her youth, whom she would
meet again with natural interest and joy.
In the course of a few hours the carriage arrived and rolled heavily
over the stone-paved courtyard. Madame Beldi hurried down the steps to
meet the Pasha's wife, and as the latter stepped from the carriage
received her with a cry of joy. "Katharine, do you know me still?" She
too recognized her playmate of old and the two friends rushed into
each other's arms, kissed each other and said sweetly, "How handsome
you have grown!" "What a stately woman you have become!"
"See, this is my son," said Katharine, pointing to Feriz Bey who,
dismounted from his horse, was now hurrying forward to help his mother
from the carriage.
"What a fine boy!" exclaimed Madame Beldi, charmed; she threw her arms
around the handsome, rosy-cheeked child and kissed him again and
again;--if she had only known that this child was no longer a child,
but a general!
"I too have children," said Madame Beldi, with the sweet rivalry of
maternal feeling. "You shall see them. Does your son speak Hungarian?"
"Hungarian!" asked Katharine, almost hurt. "Does the child of a
Hungarian mother speak Hungarian! How can you ask such a question?"
"So much the better," said Madame Beldi, "the children will become
acquainted the more easily and they will belong to one family
henceforth. Our husbands have arranged that with each other and it
certainly will please us."
The affectionate mother threw her arms around her friend again, took
Feriz Bey by the hand, and brought them both into the midst of the
family circle, where they chatted uninterruptedly and asked and
answered thousands of questions.
In the little boudoir was a cheerful open fire; large, beflowered silk
curtains shaded the windows; on an ivory table ticked a handsome clock
set with jewels. In the back part of the room an easy sofa covered
with cornflower blue velvet invited one to rest. On a centre-table
covered with a handsome Persian rug was a massive silver candelabrum
in the form of a siren who held up a wax candle in each hand. In front
of the fireplace stood Madame Beldi's children; the older, Sophie, a
maiden of thirteen years, tall, delicately built, with shy glance,
appeared to be arranging the fire. She still wore her hair in childish
fashion in two long, heavy braids reaching almost to her heels. This
girl afterward became the wife of Paul Wesselenyi.
The second child, a little girl of four, knelt before her older sister
and scattered light sticks on the fire. Her name was Aranka, the
Hungarian for gold-child; her hair was in golden curls falling over
her little shoulders; her features were animated and her eyes as well
as her hands in constant motion, interfering with her sister in one
way or another; she laughed innocently when the older girl at last
became angry.
The two children rose when they heard steps and voices at the door. As
soon as the older girl caught sight of the strangers she tried to
smooth out her dress, while Aranka rushed noisily to her mother, and
catching her by the dress looked up at her with a smile on her little
round face. Katharine embraced the older girl who timidly offered her
forehead to be kissed.
"And your cousin, little Feriz, you must kiss him, too," said Madame
Beldi, and brought the two reluctant children together, who hardly
dared touch each other's lips. Sophie turned red to her very ears, ran
out of the room and could not be persuaded to come back that evening.
"Oh, you bashful Mimosa," said Madame Beldi, with a laugh. "Aranka is
braver than you are, I am sure. You are not afraid to kiss Cousin
Feriz, are you, darling?"
The child looked up at Feriz and drew back, clinging to her mother's
gown, with her large, dark blue eyes fixed on Feriz. Feriz Bey on his
side knelt down, embraced the child and imprinted a hearty kiss on her
round, red cheeks. Now that this first step had been taken the
acquaintance was made for Aranka. She bade her Turkish cousin sit down
beside the fireplace, and leaning against him she began to question
him about everything she saw on him, from the sword hilt to the
feathers on his turban; nothing escaped her.
"Let us leave the children to play," said Madame Beldi, and led her
friend out on the balcony from which was a view of the valley of
Tatrang flooded with moonlight. While the men talked seriously and the
children gave themselves up to play, the two ladies began one of those
confidential conversations so dear to young women, especially when
they have so much to tell each other, to ask and to inquire, as these
two had. Madame Beldi sat down beside Katharine, took her
affectionately by the hand and asked half in jest;--"So your husband
has no other wife?"
Katharine laughed, but there was a little vexation with it, as she
said;--"I suppose you think a Hungarian marries a Turk only to be his
slave. My husband loves me dearly."
"I don't doubt it, Katharine, but that certainly is the custom with
you."
"With _us_! I am no Turk."
"What then?"
"A Protestant like yourself. It was a Protestant who married me--the
Reverend Martin Biro, who lives in Constantinople in banishment, and
to whom my husband in his gratitude gave a house where the
Transylvanians and Hungarians living in Constantinople can meet for
worship."
"What, does not your husband persecute the Christians?"
"No, indeed. The Turks believe that every religion is good and leads
to heaven, only they think their own religion is the best; for in
their opinion theirs leads the way to the heaven of heavens. Besides,
my husband has a kind heart and is much more enlightened than most
Turks."
"Then why couldn't you bring him over to the Christian faith?"
"Why not? perhaps because whenever the story-tellers relate the
romance of a Turk who fell in love with a Christian girl, they end the
tale with her bringing him to baptism and exchanging the caftan for a
coat. In this case they have a romance in which the wife follows her
husband and sacrifices everything for him."
"You are quite right, Katharine, but you see it takes me some little
time to become accustomed to the thought that a Christian, a Hungarian
woman, can have a Turk for a husband."
"But consider, my good friend, God might not have counted it such a
good service on my part if I had brought my husband over to our
religion, as he does that I left him in the religion in which he was
born. A Christian renegade, the most that he could have done would
have been to take his place in the Church. But now, as one of the most
influential Pashas, he can transform the fate of any Christian in
Turkey to one so favorable that the Christian subjects of other lands
crowd thither as to the Holy Land. How often, when he has received his
portion of the war-plunder, has he handed me a long list on which were
marked the names of my imprisoned countrymen whom he had set free for
a large sum. He has expended immense treasure for this purpose, and,
my darling, the reading of such a list gives me more pleasure than
would the most beautiful Eastern pearls he could have bought for the
same treasure; and such a deed raises him higher in my eyes than if he
could say all the psalms by heart. Beside, he is not at all the man
whom you would expect to change his opinions in the least for God or
man; then, too, if he were ready to give up his religion I could no
longer trust his love, for he would cease to be the same man I knew
and loved--a man who, when he had once said a thing, stood firmly by
it and never yielded to any fear or persuasion."
Madame Beldi embraced her friend and kissed her glowing cheeks. "You
are right, my good Katharine. Our prejudices prevent us from
entertaining more than the general opinion. It is true, love too has
its religion. But what of your country? Have you never thought of your
country?"
"Know my love for my country from the fact that I am now sacrificing
to that the life of my husband and of my child, whom I see now
probably for the last time."
The expression of Madame Beldi's face showed that she did not fully
comprehend the meaning of her friend's words and Katharine had begun
to explain this to her when the servant announced that the gentlemen
had already been for some time in the dining-hall and were waiting
only for the ladies. Madame Beldi led the way. The children were so
far on in their friendship that Aranka let herself be carried into the
dinning-room by Feriz Bey, while she played with his jeweled feathers.
When Katharine saw a large decanter of wine before her husband she
seized it quickly and changed it for a glass carafe of pure
spring-water. Madame Beldi noticed it and glanced inquiringly at her
embarrassed friend.
"He never drinks wine," said Katharine, by way of excuse. "It hurts
him for he is somewhat passionate by nature." Kutschuk raised
Katharine's hand to his lips with a smile. "Why do you spare the
truth,--that I never drink wine because the Koran forbids it,--because
I am a Turk."
Beldi shook his head at his wife and to give the conversation another
turn pointed to the children sitting side by side.
"Your son, Kutschuk Pasha, seems to feel quite at home already. You
will see what a Hungarian we shall make of him before your return."
At that Kutschuk looked up quickly and proudly at Feriz and both
looked at Beldi. In an instant the child's countenance changed
completely, and he was wonderfully like his father; the same firm
glance, the same proud toss of the head, the same haughty brow.
"Your speech leads me to infer, Beldi," said Kutschuk, "that you think
I have brought my son only to leave him here with you."
"You surely will not take such a child into battle!"
"Such a child! He commands four hundred spahi horse, has already taken
part in three engagements, had two horses shot down under him, and in
the coming war is to lead the left wing of my corps."
The Beldis now looked in astonishment at the child who, conscious
that all eyes were directed toward him, strove to assume a proud look.
"But you will at least stand beside your son in the contest?" said
Madame Beldi, anxiously.
"By no means. I shall lead the centre and he will look after his
division. At his age I was already wearing the Order of Nischan and I
hope he will not return without having won it, too."
"But suppose he should come to a hand-to-hand fight and be in danger?"
asked Madame Beldi, with growing anxiety.
"Then he will be fighting as befits him," replied Kutschuk, stroking
his moustache, that seemed to rise of its own accord.
"But he is far too young to enter a contest with men," said Madame
Beldi, with an expression of pity.
"Feriz," Kutschuk called to his son, "take a sword from the wall there
and show our friends that you know how to swing it like a man."
The boy sprang up and chose from the weapons hanging on the wall, not
a sword but a heavy club, seized it at the very end of the handle and
swung it with outstretched arm so easily in every direction that it
would have been a credit to any man. His proof of strength was
rewarded by a general cry of astonishment.
"Kutschuk, give me the boy!" said Beldi.
"With all my heart. Will you give me your daughter?"
"Which one? You may have your choice."
"The one next him. When she is grown up she will be just a match for
him and we shall both have a son and a daughter."
Beldi laughed good-naturedly, the two women smiled at each other and
Kutschuk Pasha looked with satisfaction at his son, while the latter
drew the heron's feather out of his turban, tore off the jeweled clasp
which had been most pleasing to the little Aranka, and gave it to the
child with generous gallantry. The little maid reached for the costly
present timidly, without the slightest suspicion of either its
material or moral worth; but when once the trinket was in her hand she
would not have let it go for anything in the world. The parents
suddenly became silent. True, their expression was a smiling one, but
their eyes were serious.