A GREAT LORD IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
There was racing and running in the castle of Bonczida. Dionysius
Banfy was expected back from Ebesfalva. The castle gate, which
displayed a huge crest between the claws of a gilded lion, was
overshadowed with green boughs and gay flags. On the street in a long
line stood the school children, dressed in their Sunday clothes, with
the teacher at their head. Farther back, with Sunday mien, stood the
dependents, and in front of a hill were drawn up in orderly ranks the
mounted nobility of the county of Klausenburg, about eight hundred
men, noble, warlike figures, armed with broad swords and clubs. They
had come to greet their superior officer, the general of the nobility.
On the walls were Banfy's own warriors; about six hundred, in full
armor, with long Turkish guns and with Scythian helmets. On the
bastion toward Szamos were eight mortars, and several feet away burned
a fire in which the cannoneers heated the ends of their long iron rods
to use as a slow match. At every gate, at every door, stood two pages
in scarlet cloaks and blue stockings, their entire costume adorned
with silver lacings. At the window of the high tower was stationed a
lookout to announce with the trumpet the arrival of the lord. The wind
struggled above his head with a great purple banner, only swaying the
heavy gold tassels that hung from it. From every window eager servants
looked out. Lords and ladies appeared expectant. Only three windows
were without gay groups. In their place were fragrant jasmine and
quivering mimosa in beautiful porcelain jars, behind which one could
just discern a pale, gentle woman, leaning on an embroidered cushion,
in sentimental melancholy. This was Banfy's wife.
It might have been ten o'clock in the morning when the watcher on the
tower inferred the arrival of the first carriages from the clouds of
dust along the road and blew his trumpet mightily. The priests and
teachers hurried to their pupils; the lieutenants brought their ranks
into order and the trumpeters began to play their latest march. Soon
came the carriages, attended by troops from the rest of the counties.
Before and behind rode an armed throng in whose costume and equipment
the greatest splendor of color was shown. The horses were of all kinds
and colors: Arabian stallions, Transylvanian thoroughbreds, small
Wallachian ponies, slender English racers and lightfooted horses from
Barbary. There were horses with flesh-colored manes, with jeweled
bridles, and with housings embroidered with butterflies, and in every
color. There was, too, all the war equipment of days gone by: the
slender Damascene, the spiked mace and those long, three-bladed
daggers the points of which dragged on the ground. Each division
carried the crest of its county on its gay standards. In front of the
band rode the captain of the nobility, George Veer, a stout, muscular
man of forty years.
The chief sat in a carriage drawn by five black horses; on both
carriage doors was Banfy's crest in gilding. Behind were two hussars.
Dionysius Banfy in proud dignity sat in splendor on the velvet
cushions of his coach. All the magnificence displayed about him
harmonized with his appearance.
The troops drawn up in line lowered their swords before him, the
school children greeted him with songs, his vassals waved their hats,
music sounded out along the walls, the priests made speeches and the
guests in the windows waved their handkerchiefs and caps.
Banfy received all these marks of honor with accustomed dignity and
noble nonchalance, like a man who feels that it is all his due. His
eyes wandered to the three windows of jasmine and mimosa and his
expression grew serious as he saw no one there.
From another window looked down an old man in a long soutane-like
coat; but his bearing did not indicate that he took part in the
general homage. At his side was a lady in mourning, on whose
countenance were unmistakable signs of anger and contempt; and at a
window below them stood Stephen Nalaczy with crossed arms, watching
the whole procession with a scornful smile.
"Was there ever a Prince with so much splendor as this single baron?"
said the lady in mourning to the old man. "I have been present at a
coronation, an installation, an inauguration and a triumphal
procession, but never before have I seen such a stir made over a
single man. If it were a Prince it might pass, but what is this
Banfy?--a nobleman like ourselves, with this difference only that he
advances arrogantly and knows how to make pretensions; yet this
princely splendor is not appropriate for him. I know the proper thing,
for I have carried on lawsuits with greater lords than my Lord Banfy."
"Just see how my colleagues crowd forward to kiss his hand," muttered
Koncz, to himself. "My learned companion, Csehfalusi, takes pleasure
in being allowed to assist his Grace from the carriage; well may he,
for Dionysius Banfy is a great patron of the Calvinists; for a poor
Unitarian clergyman like me a place behind the door is quite good
enough."
"Just see--do see--how they carry him on their shoulders to the gate!
It is a good thing they do not carry him in a chair the way they do
princes;--as if he were their lord because he is serving them to-day!"
"Let the people do him homage," said Nalaczy; "my men will provide
salt for the entertainment. He will get his comb cut!"
Meanwhile Banfy had mounted the stairs, the people crowding in at the
same time to deposit their load at the end of the hall. In the surging
throng the clergy succeeded in maintaining their places only with
great difficulty, being knocked about by the godless crowd without
mercy, while George Veer forced his way to the over-lord with many a
thrust of his elbow. As many of the nobility crowded into the hall as
it could contain; the rest filled the corridors. The dependents
remained in the courtyard and, although they caught only the noise,
took great satisfaction in that.
"My noble friends," said Banfy, after it had become somewhat quiet and
he had allowed his glance to run over the throng;--"it is not without
cause that I wish to see you before me in arms. The history of our
poor fatherland is familiar to you, how much our nation has suffered
because our princes, either dissatisfied with what they already
possessed or else incapable of maintaining it, have persistently
called foreign troops into the country. Of these days of contest the
historians have described only what was to the credit of the princes,
the victories, the battles; they have forgotten to mention that in the
year 1617 as a result of the misery caused by the war throughout all
Transylvania not a single child was born, but we know it, for we felt
it with the people. Now, thanks to Heaven, we are masters in our
native land. By the peace of Saint Gotthard both the Roman Emperor and
the Turkish have alike agreed not to send any more of their troops
into Transylvania, and have put such a restraint upon each other that
they have assured us some respite, so that we are not compelled either
to take up arms against the one or for the other, but can give our
energies to healing the wounds of our fatherland that have bled for a
century. For a Golden Age is dawning. The entire land struggles and
bleeds; we alone enjoy peace; in our country only is the Hungarian
master independent. It is true the country is not large, but it
belongs to us, and even if we are a small people we recognize no
greater ones over us. But now there are people who would shorten the
Golden Age: there are people who do not concern themselves with the
cost to the country of a war unwisely begun, if only their ambition,
if only their greed, be fattened. And if by chance their opponent
conquers they will not be ruined with their fatherland, but will
simply turn their coat, join the conqueror and share with him the
booty."
"That's a slander!" was hissed from the rear, in a voice that Banfy
recognized as Nalaczy's.
The crowd turned threateningly toward the corner from which the voice
had come.
"Let him alone, my friends," said Banfy. "Very likely it is some
satellite of Michael Teleki's. He too shall have the advantage of
freedom of speech. But I, who know the swift mode of thought of the
states throughout the country, I can tell you quietly that this rash
step will never be taken in lawful fashion. But should secret
stratagems, or unforeseen violence attempt to accomplish what would
not succeed in open attack, they will find me on the spot. If
necessary I will defend the country even against the Prince. Hear now
what the intriguers have planned in order to entangle us against our
will in snares out of which we have escaped. In spite of the peace,
Turks and Tartars at times fall upon our borders, plunder the people,
set the towns on fire,--in short, in every possible way obtrude upon
us their friendship. A week ago they laid waste Schassburg and before
that they made raids in the vicinity of Csik. But that is not my
affair. That concerns the Saxon magistrate and the general of the
Szeklers. The mouth of his majesty, Ali Pasha, has for a long time
been watering for my province but he is not yet quite sure of the way
to catch me. Lately he had the circuit Lieutenant of the Prince caught
by Tartars and forced him to declare throughout the entire
neighborhood that the people were to pay a new tax, a penny a head.
The poor peasantry were delighted to get off so cheaply and made haste
to pay the tax, without asking me first whether this could be justly
levied. In this way the sly Turk accomplished a twofold purpose; in
the first place he had compelled the people to recognize the tax, and
in the second place he had found out how many taxpayers there were;
then he at once imposed the frightful tax of two Hungarian florins a
head."
The crowd expressed their indignation.
"At once I forbade all further payments. It is true this tax was not a
burden to us, for we are of the nobility, but for that very reason are
we the lords of the peasantry that we may not allow them to be robbed
of their last farthing. Instead of any reply I sent his Turkish
majesty a pig's tail in a box, and if he comes himself to collect the
tax I swear by the God in heaven to receive him in such a way that he
will remember it all his life."
"We will cut him to pieces," threatened the crowd, clashing their
swords and swinging their clubs in the air.
"Now, my faithful followers, go to your tents," said Banfy. "The
master of the kitchen will look out for your entertainment. I will
decide whether there shall be war."
The excited nobility withdrew amid lively expressions of approval and
the clinking of swords. Only a few with requests to make, remained
behind. The Professors from Klausenburg invited their patron to the
public examinations. Banfy promised to come, and offered prizes for
the best pupils. When they had withdrawn he indicated those whom he
would see in turn. In the first place he motioned to him Martin Koncz,
leader of the Unitarians in Klausenburg.
"How can I serve you, worthy sir?"
"I have a complaint to bring before you, gracious lord," replied
Koncz, bowing and scraping. "The city council of Klausenburg has taken
by violence the market booths belonging to the Unitarian church. I beg
you to assist in their recovery."
"I regret, worthy sir, that I cannot help you in this case," replied
Banfy, as he fastened up his coat. "That is a privilege by
establishment and concerns the Prince. It is true the territory is
mine but the affairs must come up before him for judgment."
"This is the reply that the Prince made me, only reversed: 'It is true
the decision in the matter is mine, but the territory is Banfy's, and
you must go to him.'"
Banfy smiled good-naturedly, but Koncz did not find the affair so
entertaining.
"Listen, there is no way for me to turn, even though justice is most
clearly on my side."
Banfy shrugged his shoulders.
"You would like to have justice, worthy sir, but that can hardly be
attained."
"Then he is as badly off as I am," cried a voice, and as Banfy looked,
he saw Madame Szent-Pali coming toward him. The great lord acted as if
he had not noticed the widow and fingered indifferently the diamond
clasp of his cloak; but the widow placed herself directly in front of
him and began to speak:
"Your Grace has been pleased to look beyond me, but it is in vain. I
am here, even though unbidden."
Banfy looked at her without a word, half smiling and half amused.
"Or has your Grace perhaps forgotten my name?" asked the woman,
sharply, and smiting her breast. "I am the noble, well-born"--
"And knightly," said Banfy, completing her words with a laugh.
"I am the widow of George Szent-Pali," continued the lady, without
allowing herself to be disconcerted,--"whose family in all its
branches is quite as noble as is the Prince himself, and that too
since the beginning of the world. I have never forgotten my name when
asked, and have already stood in the presence of princes and generals
greater even than your Grace."
"Well, well, gracious lady, I know that already, I have heard it so
often. Tell me quickly now anything good that you may have to say."
"Quickly! I suppose your Grace thinks that a few words will set forth
what has been a lawsuit between us now for four years, and between the
town and my family for sixty-three."
"To cut it short I will tell you the story," interrupted Banfy. "The
gracious lady may then make her additions. The gracious lady owns a
dilapidated little house in the centre of the Klausenburg market
place"--
"The idea! A manor house just as good as your Grace's castle!"
"These barracks have for a long time disfigured the market place. It
was in vain the city council entered into negotiations with your
family--went before the courts to buy the house and move it off."
"We did not yield. You are quite right. A true nobleman does not sell
his property gained by heritage. It belongs to me and within my four
walls neither country nor Prince has any authority over me--not even
you, General!"
"I certainly did not demand this noble ruin of you for nothing. I
offered you ten thousand florins for it. For that sum of money I could
have bought the entire gypsy quarter, and yet there is not a single
house in it so dilapidated as yours."
"Let my lord keep his money. I do not give up my house. Two hundred
years ago an ancestor of mine built it. Cease, I beg, your scornful
words. I was born there; my father and my mother were buried from
there. If it offends your Grace's sense of beauty to look down from
your magnificent palace upon the roof of my poor house, yet it does me
good to be able to live out my days in the room in which my poor
husband breathed away his life, and I would not accept any palace in
exchange."
At the mention of her dear departed husband the lady began to sob;
this gave Banfy an opportunity to speak, and he took advantage to
reply vehemently:
"As I have said, so shall it be. The masons are already on the way to
tear down your house. You will receive your ten thousand florins at
the public treasury."
"I do not wish them. Throw them to your dogs!" screamed the lady, in a
passion. "I am no peasant woman to be hunted from my property. I
advise nobody to enter my courtyard unless he wishes to be driven out
with a broom like a dog. I have been to the Prince, I have been to the
Diet, and here you have an official document in which the Diet forbids
anybody to trespass on my land. I will nail it to the gate, it is good
legible handwriting, then I will see who dares force his way into my
possessions."
"And I tell you that to-morrow your house shall be moved off, even if
it is surrounded by armed troops. If the Diet pleases it may have the
place rebuilt."
With that Banfy was going away full of anger, when Nalaczy met him.
The two men greeted each other with forced friendliness, and while
Madame Szent-Pali moved away uttering imprecations, Nalaczy began in
sweet tones, after a little preparation,
"His Highness, the Prince, wishes to inform your Grace of a very
unpleasant incident."
"I will hear."
"During this year the Turk has already forced from us, under one
pretext or another, presents on three different occasions."
"He ought not to be allowed to force them."
"If we refuse him he threatens to force on us as Prince the fugitive,
Nicholas Zolyomi, living at Constantinople."
"He has only to bring him here and we will drive him out at once,
together with his protector."
"Quite true. But the Prince is so wearied of this bitter hatred that
he has decided, partly out of fright too, to pardon Zolyomi and permit
him to return."
"Let him do so, in God's name."
"Right, quite right. But your Grace certainly knows that the estates
of Zolyomi are at present in the possession of your Grace. The
Prince, therefore, finds himself compelled to demand of your Grace
that you should with all good feeling give over these estates to
Zolyomi on his return."
"What!" cried Banfy, stepping back. "And you think that I will give up
these estates! The Diet gave them over to me with the burdensome
condition that I should equip two regiments for the defence of the
country. This burdensome condition I have complied with, and do you
think that now I will give up these estates that you may have one more
fool in the country?"
"But if it is the Prince's wish?"
"It matters not who wishes it, I will not give them back."
"And shall I carry back this answer?"
"This unmistakable answer," replied Banfy, accenting every syllable.
"I do not give them up."
"Your most humble servant," said Nalaczy, bowed mockingly, and
withdrew.
"Slave!" Banfy threw after him contemptuously. Then he looked out into
the corridor and seeing some of his dependents waiting there hat in
hand, he shouted: "Come in, what do you want?"
When the simple folk saw that their over-lord was in a bad humor they
hesitated to enter until the castle steward pushed them in.
"We ought to have brought the tithe," began the oldest peasant, with
eyes downcast and in tearful voice, "but we really could not. It was
not possible."
"Why could you not?" said Banfy, harshly.
"Because we have nothing, gracious lord,--the rain has failed, crops
have gone to ruin, we have not harvested enough corn for the sowing;
the people in the village are living on roots and mushrooms, so long
as they last. After that God knows what will become of them!"
"There it is," said Banfy. "A new blow of fortune and we are still
longing for war. Here, steward, you must have the storehouses opened
at once and furnish grain for sowing; and the poor must be provided
with sufficient food for the winter."
The poor peasant wanted to kiss Banfy's hand but he would not allow
it. The tears stood in his eyes.
"That is what I am your master for--to lighten your fate if I see you
in need. My agents will carry out my orders; if my own granaries
become empty they must order grain for you from Moldavia for cash,"
and with that he went away.
* * * * *
Banfy's wife listened with throbbing heart as the familiar footsteps
came nearer. There she sat among the fragrant jasmine and quivering
mimosa, as tremulous as the mimosa and as pale as the jasmine.
Everything about her shone with splendor. On the walls hung polished
Venetian mirrors in gold frames, portraits of kings and princes, the
most beautiful of which was John Kemény's, painted when he was still
attached to the Turk, with smooth shaven hair and a long beard, at
that time quite fashionable with Hungarian gentlemen. On one side of
the room was an artistic cabinet with countless drawers, inlaid with
mother-of-pearl, lapis lazuli and tortoise-shell. In the middle of the
room stood a beautifully painted table with wonderfully wrought silver
candelabra; in glass cases the family jewels were displayed to view,
beakers covered with precious stones; stags enameled in gold, their
heads made to unscrew; several large silver baskets of flowers,
marvels of filagree work, hardly worth a dollar in weight; the
bouquets in these baskets were of various-colored jewels; a gold
butterfly alighted on an emerald leaf, so cunningly made that
everything gleamed through its wings as it swayed gracefully. From the
high windows heavy red silk curtains hung down to the ground and the
sills were covered with the most beautiful flowers of those times.
Amid all these flowers only the quivering mimosa and the pale jasmine
seemed suited to the lady, so melancholy a contrast did her face make
to the splendor of her house.
The delicate little figure was almost lost in the high-vaulted room,
in which she could with difficulty move one of the heavy armchairs or
lift one of the huge candelabra or push aside a hanging. Every noise,
every footstep set her nerves quivering. When the familiar step
touched her threshold all the blood streamed into her face. She wanted
to jump up to meet him but after the door opened she turned pale again
and was unable to rise from her seat. Banfy hurried toward his
trembling wife whose voice was too stifled for words, clasped both her
hands, delicate as dewdrops, and looked kindly into the dreamy eyes.
"How beautiful you are, and yet how sad!"
The lady tried to smile.
"This smile even is melancholy," said Banfy, gently, and put his arm
around his fairy wife.
Madame Banfy drew close to her husband, put her arms around his neck,
drew his face down to hers and kissed it.
"This very kiss is sorrowful!"
She turned away to hide her tears.
"What is the matter with you?" Banfy asked, and smoothed her brow.
"What has happened to you? why are you so pale? what is the matter?"
"What is the matter with me?" replied Madame Banfy, raising her eyes
full of tears and sighing deeply; then she dried her eyes, put her arm
in her husband's and led him to her flowers as if to turn the
conversation. "Just see this poor passionflower, how faded it is; yet
it is planted in a porcelain vase and I water it daily with distilled
water. Once I forgot to raise the curtains, and just see how the poor
thing is faded. It lacks nothing except sunlight."
"Ah," whispered Banfy in subdued voice. "It seems we speak with each
other in the language of the flowers."
"What is the matter with me?" said Madame Banfy with a sob, as she
clung to her husband's neck;--"my sunlight is wanting--your love!"
Banfy felt himself unpleasantly affected. He sat down beside his wife,
drew her gently toward him and asked in the most friendly, though
excited voice,
"Do I not know how to express this to you as well as formerly?"
"Oh yes, but I see you so rarely. You have been away now nearly six
weeks, and I could not be with you."
"Wife, are you ambitious? would you shine at the Prince's court?
Believe me your court is more splendid than his and not nearly so
dangerous."
"Oh, you know that I do not seek splendor nor fear danger. When you
were banished, when a little hut sheltered us and often only a tent
covered us in the snow, then you would lay my head on your breast,
cover me with your cloak--and I was so happy! Often noise of battle
and thunder of cannon would frighten sleep from our eyes and yet I was
so happy! You would mount your horse while I sank down in prayer, and
when you came back covered with blood and dust, how happy I was!"
"Heaven grant that you may be so again. But there is a fortune that
stands higher than that of family life. There are times when your mere
glance would hinder me--would stand in my way"--
"Yes, I know them. Gay adventures, beautiful women--am I not right?"
said Madame Banfy in a jesting tone, but perhaps not without
significance in the background.
"Certainly!" said Banfy, springing hastily from his chair. "I was
thinking of the fatherland." With that he paced angrily the length of
the room.
When a husband falls into a rage over such a jest it is a sign that he
feels himself hit. With smoothed brow Banfy stood before his trembling
wife, who in the few moments since her husband had entered the room
had been a prey to the most varied feelings; joy and sorrow, fear and
anger, love and jealousy struggled in her excited bosom.
"Margaret," he began, in a dull voice, "you are jealous, and jealousy
is the first step toward hatred."
"Then hate me, rather than forget me!" said his wife, bursting out
vehemently, and then regretting it at once.
"What then do you wish of me? have you any ground for your suspicions?
You certainly do not wish me to give you an account of the roads I
have taken and the people I have spoken with, like the simpleton Giola
Bertai, who when he goes away from home takes a diary with him and
makes out a report of every hour for his other half. Neither do I keep
you under lock and key the way Abraham Thoroczkai does his wife. He
has a lock put on his wife's room during his entire absence and when
he returns requires the whole village to give an oath that his wife
has not spoken with any one in the interval."
Madame Banfy laughed, but the laugh ended in a sigh.
"You evade the question with a jest. I do not accuse you, I do not
keep watch of you, and if you should deceive me I should never find it
out. But listen; there is in the heart of woman a something, a certain
distressing feeling which causes pain without one's knowing why, which
knows how to give information whether the love of one who is our all
is coming or going, without being able to support itself by reasons. I
do not know, and I will not learn where you spend your time, but this
I do know, that you stay away a long while at a time and do not make
haste to come home. Banfy, I suffer--suffer more than you can
imagine."
"Madame," said Banfy, looking at her coldly as he stood before her;
"in this country a suit for divorce does not require much time."
Madame Banfy fell back in her chair, clasped her hands over her heart
in terror and struggled for breath. A trembling cry broke from her
lips and they did not close again. It was as if some one had cut the
strings of her heart with a sword. Half-fainting she stared at her
husband as if doubting whether his words could have been in earnest or
whether she ought not to take them for a horrible jest.
"You are unhappy," Banfy went on, "and I cannot help you. You love to
dream and I do not understand you in the least. Possibly my soul does
hurt yours, but it is unintentional. It is a fact that your feelings
hurt mine and that I will not endure. I recognize no tyrant over me,
not even in love. I will not be importuned even with tears. Let us
tear our hearts apart. Better for us to do it now while they would
still bleed, than to wait until they fall apart naturally. Better for
us to separate now while we love each other, than to wait until we
come to hatred."
During this terrible speech the lady struggled, gasping for breath, as
if some dread phantom oppressed her heart and robbed her of speech,
until at last her passion made its way by force and she uttered the
piercing cry:
"Banfy, you have killed me!"
Her voice, the expression of her face, seemed to make Banfy tremble;
and though he was already on the point of leaving the room in haste,
he stopped half-way and looked once more at his wife. He did not
notice at this moment that the door had opened and that some one had
entered. He saw only that in the face of his wife, so ravaged with
despair, there came suddenly an indescribably distressed smile; this
forced smile on her agonized features was something terrible. Banfy
thought his wife was losing her mind. But Madame Banfy rose, bustling
from her seat and cried out,
"Anna, my dear sister," and rushed to the door.
Then for the first time Banfy turned toward the door and saw Anna
Bornemissa, wife of Michael Apafi.
This keen-eyed woman had not failed to take in the situation in which
she had surprised these married people, although they knew well how to
assume a calm air in an instant; but she acted as if she had noticed
nothing. She drew Margaret to her breast and extended her hand to
Banfy in the most friendly fashion. Her sister had not yet fully
recovered.
"I heard your voices outside," said Madame Apafi, "and that is why I
came here without being announced."
"Oh yes, we were laughing," said Madame Banfy, and made haste to dry
her tears with her handkerchief.
"To what circumstances are we indebted for this extraordinary good
fortune?" asked Banfy, hiding his confusion behind rare courtesy.
"As you did not bring my sister to me," began Madame Apafi with
smiling reproach, "I came on a visit to my poor relative exiled to
Hungary."
Banfy felt the sting under these last words and said as he stroked his
beard:
"Here my lovely sister-in-law can do with me what she pleases. She can
use me as the target of her wit and overthrow me with her jests.
Before the Prince's throne, in the national hall, we face each other
as foes. Here on the contrary you are my ruler. Here I am nothing
except your most loyal subject, who does homage to your grace and is
beside himself with joy that he may have you as a guest."
While he was saying this Banfy threw his arms around the dignified
Madame Apafi with familiarity. Not without significance he added
turning to his wife, "It is to be hoped that you will not be jealous
of Anna."
Madame Apafi took it upon herself to answer in Margaret's place.
"I am more inclined to think that you cannot trust yourself to me."
"If you were my wife that might be so. And that came very near being
the state of affairs; there was a time when I wanted to marry you."
"But it did not advance beyond the beginning," replied the Princess
with a laugh.
"We recognized each other soon," continued Banfy. "Two such heads as
ours would have been too much for one house; there is not even room
for them both in one country. We both like to rule and we should have
been well sold if we had been obliged to obey each other. It is better
as it is; we have both found our corresponding halves; you, Apafi; and
I, Margaret; and we are both happy."
With these words Banfy kissed his wife's hand tenderly, which she
acknowledged with equal tenderness, and then he left the two sisters
alone. Anna with sweet seriousness laid her hand on her sister's, who
looked up to her with a smile, like an innocent child to her good
genius.
"You have been crying," began Madame Apafi. "It is of no use for you
to assume the appearance of good spirits."
"I have not been crying," replied Margaret, asserting her assumed calm
with astonishing strength of mind.
"Very well, I am glad that you hide it. It shows that you love him;
and if ever you needed to love your husband, to watch over and
protect him, it is now."
"Your words bewilder me. You seem to have something extraordinary to
say."
"You must have wondered already at my coming here. You can well
understand that I have not come without a reason. We have both of us
one person to fear, in like degree, and of whom we must be jealous;
and if we do not understand each other one of us may lose an
individual dear to her."
"Speak, oh speak!" replied Madame Banfy, and drew her sister down to
her on a sofa in a corner of the room.
"Our husbands have hated each other from the first. They were always
of opposite opinions, in different parties, and had become accustomed
to consider each other as foes. Woe to us if this hatred should come
to open battle and we should see our dear ones fall at each other's
hands."
"I can assure you positively that Banfy cherishes no unfriendly
intentions toward your husband."
"I am not afraid of Apafi's overthrow, but of your husband's. The
throne to which he was called by force has worked a great change in
Apafi. I notice with astonishment that he is beginning to be jealous
of his power. Already at Neuhaüsel he expressed himself in the
presence of the Grand Vizier as disturbed because Gabriel Haller had
aspirations toward the Prince's crown; in consequence of which the
Vizier had poor Haller beheaded at once without my husband's
knowledge. Even now Apafi recalls the message which your husband once
had sent to him, that in a short time he would tear his green velvet
cloak from off his shoulders."
"Oh my God, what must I fear!"
"Nothing so long as I have not lost my husband's favor. While others
sleep I am awake at my husband's side and keep watch for the
manifestations of his feelings; and God has given me the strength to
be able to struggle against monsters who would drown in blood the
memory of his rule. In spite of all this, now and then there appears
in my husband a condition of mind when my influence loses all its
magic, when he steps out of his own nature and his gentleness turns to
a brutality demanding action. Then his eyes, which at other times
overflow with tears at the death of a servant, become bloodshot and
seem eager for murder; he who at other times is so cautious, then
becomes hasty. And this condition, I blush to acknowledge to you, is
drunkenness. I do not bring it up against him as a complaint, the man
we love has no faults for us, we forgive him everything"--
"With one exception--his infidelity."
"That too--that too," the Princess made haste to add. "When his life
is at stake we must forgive that too."
"Oh, Anna," said Margaret, in distress, "you leave me to suspect
mysteries that you do not reveal."
"What you must learn, you shall. A little time since, your husband
with proud recklessness set himself against a mighty party which
joined with kings against kings. It may be said that your husband
intends to thwart fate. He is proud enough not to take into
consideration the peril which he has raised up against himself in this
way. Or perhaps he thinks that those who are whetting their weapons
against a ruling king would defer an instant if one of your people
should show his face against them. Banfy has insulted, mocked and
threatened the men, and tangled the threads in their fine-spun plans;
in fact he has insulted both them and the Prince face to face, and
that too in the presence of each other."
Madame Banfy folded her hands timidly.
"I see the storm that is gathering over Banfy's head."
"In his drunkenness Apafi has let fall allusions in my presence that
have filled my soul with terror, and for the sake of others I am not
willing that Apafi's hand should be the one to strike him. On all
sides they are going to seek occasions of quarrel with him. I will
exert myself to keep off the blow, but if it must fall you shall ward
it from him. We two must keep the love of our husbands to the
uttermost that we may be able in this spiritual power to throw
ourselves between them if they should attack each other. Think how
terrible it would be if one should fall by the hand of the other, and
one of us should have caused the other's mourning!"
"What shall I do? Oh my God, what can I do, where does my strength
lie?"
"Your strength? In love, watchfulness and self-sacrifice," replied
Madame Apafi, striving by her own strong soul to fill her weak
sister's with courage.
The fate of two men was in that moment given over into the hands of
two angels: and the fate of these two men was one with the destiny of
Transylvania.