"I go where I shall be more welcome."
In the meanwhile, in the barn time had been flying along on the wings of
enjoyment. Ever since six o'clock, when vespers were well over and the
gipsies had struck up the first csárdás, merry feet had been tripping it
almost incessantly.
It is amazing what a capacity the young Hungarian peasant--man or
woman--has for footing the national dance. With intervals of singing and
of gossiping these young folk in the barn had been going on for over
three hours.
And they were not even beginning to get tired. To the Hungarian
peasants, be it remembered, the csárdás is not merely a dance, though
they enjoy the movement, of course, the exhilaration and the excitement
of the music, just as all healthy young animals would enjoy gambolling
on a meadow; there is a deeper meaning to these children of the plains
in the sweet, sad strains of their songs and in the mazes and
intricacies of their dance.
They put their whole life, their entire sentiment for country and
sweetheart, in the music and in the dance, and the music and the dance
give outward expression to their feelings, speak in the language of
poetry which they feel well enough, but which their untutored tongue
cannot frame.
A Hungarian peasant in sorrow or distress will probably, like his
Western prototype, seek to drown his grief in drink; far be it from his
chronicler's mind to suggest that his sentiments are more elevated than
those of the peasantry of other nations, or his morality more sound. He
will get drunk, too, like men of other nations, but he will do it to the
accompaniment of music. The gipsy band must be there, when he is in
trouble or in joy--one or two fiddles, perhaps a clarionet, always a
czimbalom--just these few instruments to play his favourite songs. They
don't ease his sorrow, but they help to soothe it by bringing tears to
his eyes and softening the bitterness of his grief.
And in joy he will invariably dance; when he is in love he will dance,
for the csárdás helps him to explain to the girl whom he loves exactly
what he feels for her. And she understands. One csárdás will reveal to a
Hungarian village maid the state of her lover's heart far more clearly
than do all the whisperings behind hedges in more civilized lands.
It was in the csárdás five years ago that Elsa had learned from Andor
how much he loved her; it was during the mazes of the dance that she was
able to overcome her shyness and tell him mutely that she loved him in
return.
And now it was in the csárdás that she was bidding farewell to-day to
her girlhood and to the companions of her youth; to Jenö and Móritz, who
had loved her ardently and hopelessly these past two years, and who must
henceforth become to her mere friends. It was in the turns and the
twirls, with the wild music marking step, that she conveyed all that
there was in her simple heart of regret for the past and cheerful
anticipation for the future.
Elsa was a perfect dancer; it was a joy to have her for a partner, and
she was indefatigable this afternoon. It seemed as if living fire was in
her blood, her cheeks glowed, her eyes shone like dark-blue stars; she
gave herself neither rest nor respite. Determined to enjoy every minute
of the day, she had forcibly put behind her the sorrowful incidents of
the afternoon. She would not remember and she would not think.
Andor was not here, and as the spirit of music and of dancing crept more
and more into her brain, she almost got to the stage of believing that
his appearance to-day had only been a dream. Nor would she look to see
if Erös Béla were here.
She knew that he had gone off soon after dancing began. He had slipped
away quietly, and at first no one had noticed his absence. He had always
professed a lofty contempt for gipsy music and for the csárdás, a
contempt which has of late come into fashion in Hungary among the upper
classes, and has unfortunately been aped by those whose so-called
education has only succeeded in obliterating the fine national spirit of
the past without having the power to graft more modern Western culture
into this Oriental race.
Erös Béla belonged to this same supercilious set, and had made many
enemies by his sarcastic denunciations of things that were almost
thought sacred in Marosfalva. It was therefore quite an understood thing
that the moment a csárdás was struck up, Erös Béla at once went to seek
amusement elsewhere.
Of course to-day was a very different occasion to the more usual village
entertainments. To-day he should have thought of nothing but his
fiancée's pleasure. She was over-fond of dancing, and looked a picture
when she danced. It was clearly a bridegroom's duty, under these
circumstances, to stand by and watch his fiancée with all the admiration
that should be filling his heart.
After the wedding, if he disapproved of the csárdás, why of course he
could forbid his wife to dance it, and there would be an end of the
matter. To-day he was still the groom, the servant of his
fiancée--to-morrow only would he become her master.
But everyone was so intent upon enjoyment that a long time went by
before gossip occupied itself exclusively with Erös Béla's absence from
his pre-nuptial feast. When once it began it raged with unusual
bitterness. The scandal during the banquet was being repeated now. Béla
was obviously sitting in the tap-room of the inn, flirting with the
Jewess, when he should have been in attendance on his bride.
Elsa could not help but hear the comments that were being made by all
the mothers and fathers and older people who were not dancing, and who,
therefore, had plenty of leisure for talk. All the proprieties were
being outraged--so it was declared--and Elsa, who might have married so
well at one time, was indeed now an object of pity.
She hated to hear all this talk, and felt hideously ashamed that people
should be pitying her. Vainly did she try to get some measure of comfort
from her mother. Kapus Irma, irritated by the looks of commiseration
which were being levelled at her daughter, dubbed the latter a fool for
not having the sense to know how to keep her bridegroom by her side.
It was past eight o'clock before Béla put in an appearance at all.
A csárdás was in full swing. The compact group of dancers was crowded
round the musicians' platform, for the csárdás can only be properly
danced under the very bow--as it were--of the gipsy leader. The barn
looked gaily lighted up with oil-lamps swinging down from the rafters
above, and it had been most splendidly decorated for the occasion with
festoons of paper flowers and tri-colour flags. Petticoats and ribbons
were flying, little feet in red leather boots were kicking up clouds of
dust.
There was no moon to-night, the sky was heavy with clouds, so the
village street had been very dark. Erös Béla blinked as he entered the
barn, so dazzling did the picture present itself to his gaze.
And there was such an atmosphere of merriment and of animation about the
place that instinctively Béla's thoughts flew back to the dismal and
dingy little tap-room whence he had just come, with a few drunken
fellows sprawling in corners and Leopold Hirsch's ugly face leering out
of the shadows.
Here everyone was gay and good-tempered. The gipsies scraped their
fiddles till one would have thought their arms would break, the young
people danced, the men shouted and sang. It was a pandemonium of
giddiness and music and laughter.
And Béla, as he blinked and looked upon the scene, remembered that he
had paid for it all. He had paid for the hire of the barn, the music and
the lighting; he had paid for the lavish supper which would be served
presently. And as he had had more silvorium to drink in the tap-room
than was altogether good for the clearness of his brain, he fell to
thinking that he ought now to be received and welcomed with all the
deference which his lavishness deserved. He thought that the young
people should have left off dancing when he appeared, and should have
greeted him, as they would undoubtedly have greeted my lord the Count,
had the latter deigned to come.
And what, after all, was my lord on such an occasion in comparison with
the donor of the feast?
Even Elsa--though she must, of course, have seen him--did not stop in
her senseless gyrations. She was dancing with Barna Móritz--the mayor's
youngest son and a splendid dancer--and the two young people went on
twirling and twisting and flirting and laughing just as if he--the real
host--had not been there.
Enraged at all this indifference, this want of recognition of his
dignity, he elbowed his way through the dense group of spectators which
formed a phalanx round the dancers. The wide and voluminous petticoats
of the women formed a veritable hedge through which he had to scramble
and to push. As the people recognized him they gave him pleasant
greetings, for the Hungarian peasant is by nature kindly and something
of an opportunist; there was no occasion to quarrel openly with Erös
Béla, who was rich and influential.
But he paid no heed either to the greetings or to the whispered comments
that followed in their wake. He just felt that he was the master of this
place, and he meant everyone else to know and acknowledge this fact. So
he strode up to the czigány and ordered them peremptorily to draw this
interminable csárdás to an end; it had lasted quite long enough, he
said, and the girls looked a sight with their crimson, perspiring faces;
he was not going to have such vulgar goings-on at any of his wedding
feasts.
The gipsy leader never thought of disobeying, of course; it was the
_tekintetes úr_ (honoured gentleman) who was paying them for their work,
and they had to do as they were told.
Despite loud protests from the dancers, the csárdás was brought to a
lovely and whirling close. Panting, hot and beaming, the dancers now
mingled with the rest of the throng, and a pandemonium of laughter and
chatter soon filled the barn from end to end.
Elsa, in accordance with the custom which holds sway even at village
dances, was even now turning to walk away with her partner, whose duty
it was to conduct her to her mother's side. She felt wrathful with
Béla--as wrathful, at least, as so gentle a creature could be. She was
ashamed of his behaviour, ashamed for herself as well as for him, and
she didn't want to speak with him just now.
But he, still feeling dictatorial and despotic, had not yet finished
asserting his authority. He called to her loudly and peremptorily:
"Elsa! I want a word with you."
"I'll come directly, Béla," she replied, speaking over her shoulder. "I
want to speak to mother for a minute."
"You can speak to her later," he rejoined roughly. "I want a word with
you now."
And without more ado he pushed his way up close to Elsa's side, elbowing
Barna Móritz with scant ceremony. An angry word rose to the younger
man's lips, and a sudden quarrel was only averted by a pleading look
from Elsa's blue eyes. It would have been very unseemly, of course, to
quarrel with one's host on such an occasion. Móritz, swallowing his
wrath, withdrew without a word, even though he cursed Béla for a brute
under his breath.
Béla took Elsa's arm and led her aside out of the crowd.
"You know," he said roughly, "how I hate you to mix with that rowdy lot
like you do; and you know that I look on the csárdás as indecent and
vulgar. Why do you do it?"
"The rowdy lot, as you call them, Béla," she replied firmly, "are my
friends, and the csárdás is a dance which all true Magyars dance from
childhood."
"I don't choose to allow my wife to dance it," he retorted.
"And after to-morrow I will obey you, Béla. To-day I asked my mother if
I might dance. And she said yes."
"Your mother's a fool," he muttered.
"And remember that to-night I take leave of my girlhood," she said
gently, determined not to quarrel. "My friends like to monopolize me
. . . it's only natural."
"Well! They are not my friends, anyway, and I'd rather you did not dance
another csárdás to-night."
"I am sorry, Béla," she said quietly, "but I have promised Fehér Károly
and also Jenö. They would be disappointed if I broke my promise."
"Then they'll have to be disappointed, that's all."
She made no reply, but looking at her face, which he saw in profile, he
could not fail to note that her lips were tightly set and that there was
an unwonted look of determination round her mouth. He drew in his
breath, for he was quite ready for a second conflict of will to-day,
nor, this time, was the issue for a moment in doubt in his mind. Women
were made to obey--their parents first and then their husbands. In this
case Béla knew well enough that his authority was fully backed by that
of Elsa's mother--the invalid father, of course, didn't count, but Kapus
Irma wanted that house on the Kender Road, she wanted the servant and
the oxen, the chickens and the pigs, she wanted all the ease and the
luxury which her rich son-in-law would give her.
No! There was no fear that Elsa would break her tokened word. In this
semi-Oriental land, where semi-Oriental thought prevails, girls do not
do that sort of thing--if they do, it is to their own hurt, and Elsa was
not of the stuff of which rebellious or perjured women are made.
Therefore Béla now had neither fear nor compunction in asserting that
authority which would be his to the full to-morrow. He felt that there
was a vein of rebellion in Elsa's character, and this he meant to drain
and to staunch till it had withered to nothingness. It would never do
for him--of all men--to have a rebellious or argumentative wife.
"Well, then, that's settled," he said, with absolute finality, "you can
go and talk to your precious friends as much as you like, so long as you
behave yourself as a tokened bride should, but I will not have you dance
that abominable csárdás again to-night."
"And have you behaved to-day, Béla," she retorted quite gently, "as a
tokened bridegroom should?"
"That's nothing to do with it," he replied, with a harsh laugh. "I am a
man, and you are a girl, and even the most ignorant Hungarian peasant
will tell you that there is a vast difference there. But I am not going
to argue about it with you, my dear. I merely forbid you to dance a
dance which I consider indecent. That's all."
"And I am sorry, Béla," she said, speaking at least as firmly as he did,
"but I have given my promise, and even you would not wish me to break my
word."
"You mean to disobey me, then?" he asked.
"Certainly not after to-morrow. To-day I have my mother's permission,
and I am going to dance one csárdás now with Fehér Károly and one after
supper again with Jenö."
They had both unconsciously raised their voices during these last few
words, and thus aroused the attention of some of the folk, who had stood
by to listen. Of course, everyone knew of Béla's aversion to the
csárdás, and curiosity prompted gaffers and gossips to try and hear what
would be the end of this argument between the pretty bride--who
certainly looked rather wilful and obstinate now--and her future lord
and master.
"Well said, little Elsa!" came now in ringing accents from the foremost
group in the little crowd; "we must see you dance the csárdás once or
twice more before that ogre has the authority to shut you up in his
castle."
"Moreover, your promise has been made to me," asserted Fehér Károly
lustily, "and I certainly shall not release you from it."
"Nor I," added Jenö.
"Don't you listen to Béla, my little Elsa," said one of the older women;
"you are still a free girl to-day. You just do as you like--to-morrow
will be time enough to do as he tells you."
But this opinion the married men present were not prepared to endorse,
and one or two minor arguments and lectures ensued anent a woman's duty
of obedience.
Béla had said nothing while these chaffing remarks were being passed
over his head; and now that public attention was momentarily diverted
from him, he took Elsa's hand and passed it under his arm.
"You had better go to your mother now, hadn't you?" he said, with what
seemed like perfect calm. "You said just now that you wished to speak to
her."
Elsa allowed him to lead her away. She tried vainly to guess what was
going on in his mind. She knew, of course, that he must be very angry.
Erös Béla beaten in an argument was at no time a very pleasant customer,
and now he surely was raging inwardly, for he had set his heart on
exerting his authority over this matter of the csárdás and had signally
failed.
But she could not see how he felt, for he kept his face averted from her
inquiring gaze.
Kapus Irma greeted her future son-in-law with obvious acerbity.
"I hear you have been teasing Elsa again," she said crossly. "Why can't
you let her enjoy herself just for to-night, without interfering with
her?"
"Oh! I am not going to interfere with her," he replied, with a sneer.
"You have given her such perfect lessons of disobedience and obstinacy
that it will take me all my time in the future to drill her into proper
wifely shape. But to-night I am not going to interfere with her. She has
told me plainly that she means to do just as she likes and that you have
given her leave to defy me. Public opinion, it seems, is all in her
favour too. So I have just brought your dutiful daughter back to you,
and now I am free to make myself scarce."
"To make yourself scarce?" exclaimed Irma. "What do you mean?"
"Just what I say. I am not going to stay here, where I am jeered at by a
lot of loutish, common peasants, who seem to have forgotten that I am
paying for their enjoyment and for all the food and drink which they
will consume presently. However, that's neither here nor there. Everyone
seems to look upon this entertainment as Elsa's feast, and upon Elsa as
the hostess and the queen. I am so obviously in the way and of no
consequence. I go where I shall be more welcome."
He had dropped Elsa's arm and was turning to go, but Irma had caught
hold of his coat.
"Where are you going?" she gasped.
"That's nothing to do with you, is it, Irma néni?" he replied dryly.
"Indeed it is," she retorted; "why, you can't go away like that--not
before supper--you can't for Elsa's sake--what would everybody say?"
"I don't care one brass fillér what anybody says, Irma néni, and you
know it. As for Elsa, why should I consider her? She has plenty of
friends to stand by her, it seems, in her disobedience to my wishes. She
has openly defied me, and made me look a fool. I am not going to stand
that, so I go elsewhere--or I might do or say something which I might be
sorry for later on--see?"
He tried to speak quietly and not to raise his voice, but it was also
obvious that self-control was costing him a mightily vigorous effort,
for the veins in his temples were standing up like cords, and his one
eye literally shone with a sinister and almost cruel glow.
Kapus Irma turned to her daughter.
"Elsa," she said fretfully, "don't be such a goose. I won't have you
quarrelling with Béla like this, just before your wedding. Just you kiss
him now, and tell him you didn't mean to vex him. We can't have
everybody gossiping about this affair! My goodness! As if a csárdás or
two mattered." . . .
But here Béla's harsh laugh broke in on her mutterings.
"Don't waste your breath, Irma néni," he said roughly. "Even if Elsa
were to come and beg my pardon now I would not remain here. I don't care
for such tardy, perfunctory obedience, and this she will learn by and
by. For to-night, if you and she feel ashamed and uncomfortable, well!
so much the better. Village gossip doesn't affect me in the least. I do
as I like, and let all the chattering women go to h----l. Good-night,
Irma néni--good-night, Elsa! I hope you will be in a better frame of
mind to-morrow."
And before Kapus Irma could detain him or utter another protest, he was
gone, and she turned savagely on her daughter.
"Elsa!" she said, "you are never going to let us all be shamed like
this? Run after him at once, and bring him back!"
"He wouldn't come back, mother, if I begged him ever so . . ." said Elsa
drearily; "and besides--where should I find him?"
"On his way to Ignácz Goldstein's, of course. If you run you can easily
overtake him."
"I can't, mother," protested Elsa; "how can I?"
"You'll just do as I tell you, my girl!" said Irma firmly, and with a
snap of her lean jaws. "By the Holy Virgin, child! Are you going to
disobey your mother now? God will punish you, you know, if you go on
like that. Go at once as I tell you. Run out by this door here. No one
will see you, you will overtake Béla before he is half-way down the
street, and then you must just bring him back. That's all."
Long habits of obedience were so ingrained in the girl that at this
moment--though she felt quite sure that all her attempts would be in
vain, and though she felt bitterly humiliated at having to make such
attempts--she never thought of openly defying her mother. Indeed, she
quite believed that God would punish her if she rebelled so constantly,
for this had been drilled into her since her earliest childhood's days.
Fortunately for the moment everyone's attention was concentrated on a
table of liquid refreshments in a remote corner of the barn, and Elsa
and her mother were practically isolated here, and the last little scene
had gone by unobserved.
Irma picked a shawl from off her own shoulders and put it round her
daughter; then she gave her a final significant push. Elsa, with her
tear-dimmed eyes, could scarcely find the little side door which was
fashioned in the wooden wall itself, and gave direct access into the
street.
God would punish her if she defied her mother; well! God's wrath must be
harder to bear than the bitter humiliation to which her mother had so
airily condemned her. To beg Béla's forgiveness, to assure him of her
obedience, to stand shamed before him and before all her friends, surely
God couldn't want her to do all that?
But already she had crossed the threshold and was out in the dark,
silent street. She ran on mechanically in the direction of the inn; her
mother's commands seemed to be moving her along, for certainly her own
will had nothing to do with it. Her cheeks were aflame, and her eyes
burned with all the tears which she would not shed, but she herself felt
cold and numb, as she ran on blindly, stupidly, to where she had just
seen a tiny speck of light.
The night was dark but exquisitely calm--perfectly still, yet full of
those mysterious whisperings which come from the bosom of the plain, the
flutter of birds' wings, snug in their night's lodgings amongst the
drooping branches of pollarded willows, the quiver of the plumed heads
of maize, touched by some fairy garment as it brushed by, the call of
the cricket from among the tall sunflowers and the quiver of the
glow-worm on the huge pumpkin leaves.
Elsa knew all these soft whisperings; she was a child of this immense
and majestic plain, and all the furtive little beasts that dwelt within
its maze were bosom friends of hers.
At other times, when her mind and heart had been at peace, she loved
these dark, calm nights, when heavy clouds hid the light of the moon and
sounds grew louder and more distinct as the darkness grew more tense;
neither fluttering of unseen wings nor quiver of stealthy footsteps had
the power to startle her; they were all her friends, these tiny dwellers
of the plain, these midnight marauders of whom townsfolk are always so
afraid.
At first, when she perceived the tiny speck of light on ahead, she
thought that it must be a glow-worm settled on the leaves of the dahlias
outside the school-house, for glow-worms had been over-abundant this
late summer, but soon she saw that the burning speck was moving along,
on ahead in the same direction as she herself was going--on the way to
Ignácz Goldstein's.
Béla had lighted a cigar when he left the barn; nursing his resentment,
he had walked along rapidly toward the inn, his head whirling with
thoughts of the many things which he meant to do in order to be revenged
on Elsa this night.
Of course a long visit to Klara fully entered into those schemes, and
now he paused just at the foot of the verandah steps breathing in the
soft evening air with fully dilated nostrils and lungs, so that his
nerves might regain some semblance of that outward calm which his
dignity demanded.
And thus, standing still, he heard through the silence the patter of
small, high-heeled boots upon the hard road. He guessed at once that
Elsa had been sent along by her mother to bring him back, and a
comforting glow of inward satisfaction went right through his veins as,
after a slight moment of hesitation, he made up his mind to await Elsa's
coming here, to listen to her apologies, to read her the lecture which
she fully deserved, but nevertheless to continue the plan of conduct
which he had mapped out for himself.