AN HUNGARIAN MAGNATE IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
There was a great commotion at Bonczhida Castle. The lord of the manor,
Denis Banfi, was expected home from Ebesfalva. The castle gates (on the
midmost panel of which blazed a huge family coat-of-arms between the
claws of two golden lions rampant) were overshadowed by green branches
and bravely-coloured banners; in the street, the school-children, in
gala costume, were drawn up in a long line headed by their teachers;
further back, with bright Sunday faces, stood the vassals; and,
marshalled in front of the hillock which marked the bounds, the mounted
gentry of the County of Klausenburg, some eight hundred horsemen or so,
all of them stalwart, sturdy forms, armed with morning stars and good
broad-swords, had come out to meet their leader, the Marshal of the
Nobility.
On the bastions are to be seen Banfi's own soldiers, consisting of about
six hundred mail-clad heroes, with long Turkish muskets and Scythian
helmets. On the walls facing the Szamos six mortars are placed. A few
yards further off a coal fire is burning, at which the cannoneers are
heating the ends of their long iron staves so as to use them as
linstocks.
At every gate, at every buttressed window, stand a couple of pages in
crimson dolmans and tightly-fitting, cornflower-blue hose, richly
garnished with silver-embroidered lace.
At the window of the highest donjon sits the castellan, ready to
proclaim the arrival of his liege lord by the blast of a horn. Over his
head the wind is wrestling with a gigantic purple banner, the huge
dependent gold tassels of which it can only raise with difficulty.
Out of all the windows, inquisitive domestics and expectant knights and
dames peep forth, or rather, out of all the windows but three, which
are altogether bare of festal groups, for there nothing is to be seen
but fragrant jasmines and quivering mimosas in snow-white porcelain
vases, behind which one can dimly distinguish a pale and delicate form
leaning dreamily on the embroidered window-cushions. This is Denis
Banfi's wife.
It might have been ten o'clock in the morning when the castellan,
perceiving clouds of dust on the highway, announced the approach of his
Excellency with a blast of his horn, whereupon the roar of the mortars
scared every one into his proper place; the priests and teachers
reviewed their pupils, the officers marshalled their troops, and the
trumpeters on the ramparts played the latest marches.
Shortly afterwards the Lord-Lieutenant arrived, escorted by the banderia
of half-a-dozen counties. Before and behind him trotted squadrons of
horsemen, whose arms and caparisons gleamed with all the colours of the
rainbow. There were to be seen horses of every race and every
hue--Arabian stallions, Transylvanian full-bloods, little Wallachian
ponies, slim English racers, and light-footed Barbary steeds. There were
horses with flesh-coloured manes, jewelled bits, variegated reins, and
embroidered schabracks. There were all the weapons with which the art of
war was then familiar--the slender Damascus blade, the toothed
morning-star, the curved _csakany_,[37] the serpentine crease, and those
long, gorgeously-fashioned fire-arms which could seldom be discharged
more than once; here and there, too, was visible a specimen of those
three-edged, six feet long Turkish scimitars, which were just then
coming into vogue.
[Footnote 37: _Csakany._ An ancient weapon, half hook,
half battle-axe, of Tartar origin.]
Each squadron brought its banner, on which the arms of the respective
counties were gaily embroidered, and sturdy standard-bearers bore them
aloft on their saddle-bows. In front of the martial bands rode their
captain, George Veer, a muscular man of about forty, with a
grey-speckled beard, stiffly waxed moustaches, and sun-burnt face. A
stately heron's plume, fastened by an opal agraffe, waved from his
marten-embroidered kalpag; his gorgeous bearskin was held together in
front by a gold chain as broad as a man's hand, set with gems.
Chrysolites as large as filberts gleamed, instead of eyes, in the bear's
head looking over his shoulder; his body was encased in a coat of silver
mail, sewn with gold stars, through which his dark-blue dolman was
visible. His crooked scimitar with its golden hilt well became the hand
which held it, and from his saddle-bows peeped forth the menacing
muzzles of a pair of pistols, the mechanism of which was about as simple
as the mechanism of a modern steam-engine.
The Lord-Lieutenant himself sat in an open carriage, drawn by five black
horses, with rose-coloured, gilded harness; both panels of the carriage
door bore the Banfi crest, gorgeously painted on a gold ground; behind
stood two hussars with silver-embroidered mantles and white heron
plumes.
With haughty dignity Denis Banfi sits back on the velvet cushions of his
coach; all the pomp and splendour which surrounds him suits him well.
His glossy locks leave bare his high forehead, which, together with his
fine, frank eyes, bespeaks infinite good-nature, while the bold curve of
the bushy eyebrows and the peculiar cut of the thin lips indicate a
violent temper. The whole face seems to be constantly under the
influence of these hostile emotions. At one moment it is mild, smiling,
rosy; at another savage, grim, and suffused by a dark purple flush. The
traces of noble enthusiasm and of unbridled fury are impressed upon his
face side by side just as they are in his heart.
The martial squadrons present arms; the school-children chant hymns; the
vassals wave their hats; the music resounds from the battlements; the
clergymen deliver addresses; and all the guests flutter their kerchiefs
and their kalpags at him from the windows, and Banfi receives all these
demonstrations of respect with his usual majestic dignity and
condescension, with the air of a man who feels that all this sort of
thing belongs to him of right. Meanwhile his eyes glance up at those
three windows concealed behind the fragrant jasmines and the quivering
mimosas, and his face grows graver and sadder when he perceives no one
behind them.
From the window of another room there looks down a very tall old man in
a long clerical surtout with small buttons. Since losing his teeth his
chin has moved closer to his nose, which makes his nose look a long way
from his eyes. He seems to be taking no part whatever in the general
rejoicings. By his side leans a lady in mourning, wearing a black velvet
_haube_; rage and contempt are unmistakably visible in her countenance.
Near these two stands Master Stephen Nalaczi with folded arms,
surveying the whole procession with a droll, sarcastic smile.
"Just look, your Reverence," says the lady in widow's weeds to the
grey-headed clergyman. "Did ever prince lord it with the pomp and
splendour of this simple Baron? I have been at coronations,
installations, inaugurations, triumphal ovations, but never, never have
I seen anything like the homage paid to this private man. If they
rendered it to a prince it might pass, but who, forsooth, is this Denis
Banfi? Why, a simple nobleman--just such a one as we are, except that he
is full of arrogance and pretence. All this princely splendour does not
belong to him _de jure_. Oh! well do I know the meaning of the word
_jus_; for I have all my life been before the courts against greater
lords than he."
"How my reverend colleagues press forward to kiss his hand," murmured
Martin Kuncz (for that was the clergyman's name). "Ei! ei! Look now, at
my learned colleague Gabriel Csekalusi, how radiantly he hastens forward
to assist his Excellency out of his carriage!--and he is right, for
Denis Banfi is the visible providence of the Calvinists. But for poor,
vagabond Unitarian ministers like me, the place behind the door is good
enough."
"But just look! just look! how the worthy _armalists_[38] raise him on
high and carry him on their shoulders to the door. 'Tis well they do not
set him on a litter like a sovereign prince--as if, forsooth, feeding
them at his table made him their lord and master!"
[Footnote 38: _Armalists._ Noblemen who could show
_literae armales_ in support of their nobility.]
"Nay, but, Madame Saint Pauli, pray let the good people do him homage if
they like," interrupted Nalaczi with a sneer. "Wait a bit. The greeting
I have in reserve for him will add salt to the soup! It will bring my
lord to his senses, I warrant you!"
Meanwhile Banfi is mounting the steps, and the crowd, pouring after him,
forces its way in at the same time, and carries the Baron on its
shoulders right up to the daïs at the end of the room. The clergymen
squeeze their way through the surging mob into their proper places, not
without being mercilessly mauled on the way; while George Veer, with
respect-inspiring elbows, carves a road for himself through the mob up
to the very seat of the Lord-Lieutenant. The room is already crammed
full with as many of the gentry as it will hold, the remainder block
the corridors. The vassals remain, perforce, in the courtyard, and hear
nothing of what is going on but the hubbub which reaches them through
the windows, and seems to delight them amazingly.
"My noble friends," said Banfi, when there was at last something like
silence, and his eye had taken in every one present, "it was not without
good cause that I invited you to come to my house _armed_. You know
right well from the past history of our poor fatherland, how much our
nation has suffered because our Princes, either discontented with what
they already had, or unable to guard it, have perpetually called in
foreign troops. The historians have only recorded what has redounded to
the glory of our Princes--victories, battles, conquests; but they have
forgotten to mention that in the year 1617, in consequence of the
horrors of war, not a single child was born in the whole of
Transylvania, for famine and flight killed them all in their mothers'
wombs. But we know it, for we have suffered with and for the people.
Now, thank heaven! we are masters in our own homes. By the Peace of
Saint Gothard, the Turkish Sultan and the German Emperor have covenanted
not to march their troops through Transylvania, and by thus holding each
other in check, have vouchsafed us a little breathing-space, inasmuch as
we are no longer bound to take up arms for either of them, but can set
about healing our country's ancient wounds. A golden age is dawning upon
us. The whole world is fighting and bleeding, we alone possess peace; in
our land alone is the Magyar independent and his own master. True, ours
is not a very large realm, but at any rate 'tis our own. We may be a
very little people, but we recognize no greater anywhere. Now there are
persons who would destroy this golden age. There are persons who do not
care what an imprudently begun war may cost the country, provided their
ambition, provided their greed is gratified thereby; and if he whom they
attack chances to win, _they_ do not perish with their country, but
simply turn their coats, go over to the victors, and share the spoil
with them."
"That is a slander!" cried some one from the background. Banfi at once
recognized Nalaczi's voice.
The murmuring crowd turned towards the corner whence the interruption
had proceeded.
"Let him alone, my friends," cried Banfi; "some satellite of Master
Michael Teleki's, I suppose. Let him, too, have the benefit of freedom
of speech! I, however, who am well acquainted with the upright
sentiments of the Estates of the Realm, can tell you positively, that
this thoughtless step can never be taken in a constitutional way, and if
they attempt by secret intrigues or sudden violence to bring about what
cannot be done by fair means, then too they will find me at my post. I
wish to defend the realm _and_ the Prince, but if it must be so, I will
defend the realm against the Prince himself. Now listen to what the
caballers have devised, so as to ensnare us once more in those meshes
from which we have hardly withdrawn our heads. Despite the peace, Turks
at one time, Tartars at another, cross our frontier, blackmail the
people, burn the towns, in short, force their friendship upon us in
every imaginable way. Eight days ago they ravaged Segesvar, and before
that they made incursions into the Csika district. That, however, is not
_my_ business. It concerns the Governors of the Saxon land and the
Captains of the Szeklers. It is true that the mouth of his Excellency,
Ali Pasha, has long been watering for my domains, only he has not quite
made up his mind how to pick a quarrel with me. A few days ago, however,
his roving bands captured the Prince's Patrol-officer, and proclaimed
through his mouth to the whole district a fresh tax of a farthing per
head. The poor peasantry rejoiced at getting off so cheaply, and
hastened to pay the tax without first asking me whether it was lawfully
levied. The artful Turk gained a double end thereby: in the first place,
he got the people to recognize the tax, and in the second place, he
found out exactly how many taxable persons resided in the district, and
immediately afterwards levied upon them the fearful blackmail of two
Hungarian florins per head!"
The multitude howled with rage.
"I immediately forbade all further payments. This tax does not indeed
fall upon our shoulders, for we are nobles; but it is just because we
are the peasants' masters that we are bound to save them from being
fleeced, and defend them at all hazards. The only answer I sent to his
Turkish Excellency was a pig's tail, and if he comes to levy the tax in
person, I swear by the living God, I'll give him a buffet he won't
forget as long as he lives."
"We will cut him to pieces!" roared the mob, striking their scabbards,
and waving their morning-stars in the air.
"And now, my faithful friends, return to your tents. My seneschals will
provide for your entertainment. If we must fight, I'll tell you when."
The excited nobility then withdrew with rattling weapons and boisterous
approbation; only a few petitioners remained behind.
The Klausenburg professors invited their patron to the public
examinations. Banfi promised to come, and distribute rewards to the best
scholars.
As they retired Banfi beckoned to the remaining suppliants to approach
one by one. The first he turned to was Master Martin Kuncz, the Bishop
of the Klausenburg Unitarians.
"How can I serve your Reverence?"
"I have a complaint to make, gracious sir," returned Kuncz, with a bow
and a scrape. "The Klausenburg town-council has forcibly removed the
market booths belonging to the Unitarian Church. I beg you to help us to
regain possession."
"I am very sorry I cannot help your Reverence," returned Banfi,
whistling through his teeth and buttoning up his coat. "That is a
constitutional affair, and concerns the Prince. The land indeed is mine,
but the cause belongs to his Highness's Courts."
"The Prince gave me exactly the same answer, only reversed--'The cause
indeed belongs to my Courts, but the land is Banfi's, go to him.'"
Banfi laughed good-humouredly, but Kuncz did not seem to regard the
matter as particularly entertaining.
"Then, although my right is as clear as noon-day, I can turn nowhither?"
Banfi shrugged his shoulders and stroked his beard.
"Because your Reverence has right on your side, it by no means follows
that you will get justice."
"Then his case is exactly the same as mine," interrupted some one, and
Banfi, looking round, beheld Dame Saint Pauli making towards him.
The magnate pretended he did not see the widow, and nonchalantly
adjusted the gold and diamond chain of his mente; but the widow thrust
herself right under his nose, and thus began--
"Vainly do you condescend to ignore me, my lord. I am here though
uninvited."
Banfi looked at her without saying a word, half amused and half
annoyed.
"Or perhaps your lordship has forgotten my name?" continued the lady
sharply, smiting her breast and exclaiming--"I am the noble,
high-born----"
"And worshipful," added Banfi, laughing.
"Dowager Lady George Saint Pauli," continued the lady imperturbably,
"every scion of whose family is as noble and illustrious as the Prince
himself. I too have never forgotten what name I bear, but have proudly
confessed it before princes and generals--yea, even before greater men
than your Excellency."
"Well, well, your ladyship. All that I know by heart, for I have heard
it from your own lips twenty times before. Come, tell me quickly what
you want."
"Quickly, forsooth! Perchance your Excellency imagines that it is
possible to tell in a few words why the suit between us has lasted four
years already, and why the suit between the town of Klausenburg and my
family has been pending for three-and-sixty years?"
"To cut matters short, I will tell you the whole story myself,"
interrupted Banfi; "your ladyship can make your comment afterwards. Your
ladyship possesses a ruinous den in the midst of the Klausenburg
market-place----"
"I beg your pardon--a manor-house just as good as your lordship's own
castle."
"This shanty has for a long time disfigured the market-place. In vain
has the town-council negotiated with and sued your family in order to
have the house pulled down."
"And we have not surrendered it. Quite right. A genuine nobleman never
sells property which he has purchased with his blood. It belongs to me,
and within my four walls neither Prince nor Diet has the right to
command. No, nor you either, my Lord-General."
"My good lady, I never asked you to give me this venerable ruin for
nothing. I offered you ten thousand florins for it. For that sum I could
have bought up the whole gipsy quarter, though there is no such
dilapidated house there as yours."
"Keep your money, sir. I'll not give up my house. My
seven-and-seventieth ancestor bought it two centuries ago, and therefore
I'll not barter it away. In it I was born; in it died my father and my
mother. If it offends your Excellency's eye to look down upon my
beggarly house from your splendid mansion, pray look the other way; but
at least do not grudge me the poor pleasure of spending the remainder of
my days in the room where my poor husband breathed his last sigh; and
let me tell you, sir, that I wouldn't take a palace in exchange for it."
The widow's sobs at the recollection of her deceased husband here
enabled Banfi to put a word in, and he replied with passionate
vehemence--
"What I have said shall be done. The masons are already on their way to
pull down the house. The ten thousand florins you can have on
application to the town-council."
"I don't want them. Throw them to your dogs," cried the woman furiously.
"Am I a peasant that you turn me thus out of my property? Whoever dares
to step across my threshold shall be driven out with a broomstick like a
cur. I have appealed to the Prince and to the Estates, and there you
have the sealed mandate in which the Diet forbids all and sundry to
invade my property. I'll nail it upon the gate,--'tis engrossed in a
good, legible hand,--and then I'll see who dares to break into my
house."
"And I tell you that to-morrow your house will be razed to the ground,
even if it be surrounded by armalists, and then the Diet may build you a
new one if it is so disposed."
And with that Banfi turned away in high dudgeon, and almost ran into
Nalaczi.
The two men greeted each other with constrained politeness; and while
Dame Saint Pauli went off cursing, Nalaczi, after drawing a long breath,
began in the sweetest of tones--
"His Highness the Prince desires to bring a very unpleasant matter to
the notice of your Excellency."
"I am all attention."
"The Turk has thrice this year extorted gifts from us under various
pretexts."
"You ought not to give them to him."
"If we don't he will force upon us as Prince the refugee Nicholas
Zolyomi, now under the protection of the Porte."
"Let him come! We will kick him out again."
"Bravely spoken! But the Prince, weary of so much discord, and somewhat
fearful besides, has resolved to amnesty Zolyomi and allow him to
return."
"In God's name let him do so then!"
"Right, quite right! But your lordship knows very well that Zolyomi's
estates are now in your lordship's possession; the Prince therefore
finds himself compelled to request your lordship to surrender these
estates to the returning Zolyomi, if it would not greatly inconvenience
your lordship."
Nalaczi had been a little too curt in the delivery of his message,
although he had done his best to sugar it with respectful epithets.
"What!" cried Banfi, stepping back, "do you really suppose that I will
give up these estates? The Diet gave them to me with the onerous
condition of equipping at my own cost twelve regiments for the defence
of the country. That onerous condition I have faithfully fulfilled, and
now you fancy that I shall surrender the estates merely because there is
to be one fool the more in the land? Preposterous!"
"But if the Prince wishes it!"
"I'll not give them up whoever wishes it."
"And that is the answer I'm to take back?"
"You'll please take back these two words," said Banfi, emphasizing each
syllable--"I won't!"
"Your most obedient servant," said Nalaczi, and with an ironical
obeisance he turned upon his heel.
"Servus," replied Banfi contemptuously, as if he were throwing a bone to
a dog; and then he looked out into the corridor, and seeing some of his
vassals waiting there, hat in hand, roughly asked them what they wanted.
When the good people saw that their liege lord was in a villainous
humour, they held back, but the steward pushed them in.
"We ought to have brought the tithes," began the oldest peasant, with a
whining voice and downcast eyes, "but it was impossible."
"Why?"
"Because we have nothing, my lord. There has been no rain; the crops are
a failure; we have not even seed enough to sow our fields. In the
village the people are living on chance roots and fungus, and when these
are all gone, God only knows what will become of us."
"Look now," cried Banfi, "another visitation of God, and yet we must
needs have a war to boot! Steward, open at once the demesne granaries,
and distribute seed to the vassals, that they may sow their fields. See
too that the poor people have enough corn to feed them through the
winter."
The poor peasants would have kissed Banfi's hands, but he would not
suffer it. A tear stood in his eye.
"For what am I your lord if not to lighten your burdens when you are in
need? My stewards will carry out my orders. If my own storehouses fall
short, you shall have corn for ready money from Moldavia."
And with that he retired into the adjoining chamber.
* * * * *
Banfi's wife with a beating heart heard his familiar footsteps drawing
nearer.
There she sits behind the fragrant jasmines and the quivering mimosas,
herself as pale as the jasmine flowers and as tremulous as the mimosas.
Around her is nothing but pomp and splendour. On the walls hang cut
Venetian mirrors in gold frames, portraits of kings and princes, the
handsomest among which is John Kemeny's, painted while he still held
with the Turk and wore close-cropped hair and a long beard in the
Turkish fashion, so much affected by the magnates of those days.
On one side of the room is a wardrobe with countless drawers, a
masterpiece of art, inlaid with tortoise-shell, lapis lazuli, and
mother-of-pearl. In the centre of the room stands a variegated table
surmounted by silver candelabra of exquisite workmanship. Within glass
almeries the family treasures are piled up in gorgeous heaps: pocals
encrusted with gems; gold-enamelled stags, whose heads can be screwed
off and on; large silver filigree flower-baskets, each scarcely heavier
than a crown-piece, filled with posies of precious stones of every hue,
artistically disposed in dazzling groups, with here and there a
butterfly poising above them with delicate wings of transparent gold.
Heavy red silk curtains fall down from the lofty windows to the floor,
and the window-sills are covered with the most gorgeous of the flowers
then in vogue, among which the shining, velvety, amaranthine
cock's-comb, the liriodendron with its dependent, tulip-like calices,
and the mesembryanthemum, with its leaves like dewy pearls, are the most
conspicuous.
Of all these flowers only the trembling mimosa and the pale jasmine
harmonized with the lady of the house, whose face contrasted so sadly
with the gorgeous abode. The tiny, delicate figure seemed almost lost in
the lofty arched room. She could not even have moved one of the massive
morocco arm-chairs, nor have raised one of the huge heavy candlesticks,
nor have pulled aside one of the heavy atlas curtains. Everything around
her seemed to remind her of her feebleness. Every sound made her
nervous, and when the well-known footsteps reached her threshold, all
the blood rushed to her face. She was about to leap up when the door
opened, and immediately she was as pale again as ever, and incapable of
rising from her seat.
Banfi hastened, with expansive joy, towards his trembling wife, who
could not for the moment find words to welcome him, seized both her
delicate hands, and looked kindly into her dreamy eyes.
"So pretty and yet so sad!"
The lady tried to smile.
"And how sad that smile is too," remarked Banfi, gently embracing the
sylph-like lady.
Lady Banfi laid her head on her husband's bosom, threw her arms round
his neck, drew down his face to hers, and kissed it.
"That kiss too, how sad it is!"
She turned away to conceal her tears.
"What is it?" asked Banfi, stroking his wife's forehead. "What is the
matter? Why are you so pale? What do you want?"
"What do I want?" returned Lady Banfi, turning her streaming eyes up to
her husband and sighing deeply. Then she dried her eyes, placed her arm
in his, and as if to give another turn to the conversation, led him to
her flowers.
"Look at that passion-flower, how withered it is, and yet it is planted
in a porcelain vase, and I water it every day with distilled water. But
once I forgot to draw up the blinds, and now look how the poor thing has
faded. It wants nothing--but sunshine."
"It seems," said Banfi, in a low voice, "as if we were to address each
other in the language of flowers."
"What do I want?" repeated Lady Banfi, and leaning on her husband's
neck, she burst forth sobbing. "I want my sunshine--your love."
Banfi at that moment looked very uncomfortable. He sat down on his
wife's chair, took her gently upon his knee, and asked her in a kind
tone, but not without a touch of temper too--
"Am I less able to show you my love now than heretofore?"
"Oh, no!--not less! But I see you so seldom. You have been away these
six weeks, and you would not let me come to you."
"What, my lady! Have you suddenly become ambitious? Would you shine at
the court of the Prince? Believe me, your court is much more splendid
than his, and not nearly so dangerous."
"Oh, you know right well that I neither seek splendour nor fear danger.
When our only shelter was a rude simple hut, nay, sometimes only a tent,
half buried in the snow, then you made me lay my head upon your breast,
covered me with your mantle, and I was so happy, oh, so happy.
Oftentimes the din of battle, the thunder of the cannon, scared sleep
from our eyes, and yet I was so happy. You mounted your horse, I sank
down in prayer; and when you came back blood- and dust-stained, but
unhurt, how happy I was then!"
"Heaven grant that you may always be so. But there is a happiness which
stands higher than domestic happiness; there are matters where the mere
sight of you would be to me a hindrance and an obstacle."
"Oh, I know what they are--sweet adventures, lovely women, eh?" returned
Lady Banfi, with an arch voice but perhaps a bleeding heart.
"You are mistaken," cried Banfi, springing hastily from his chair. "I
was alluding to the commonweal," and he began to pace angrily up and
down the room.
When a husband takes umbrage at such jests, it is a sure sign that he
feels himself hit.
At last Banfi unknitted his bushy brows and stood stock still before his
trembling wife, who, ever since her husband entered the room, had been
the prey of the most conflicting emotions; joy and grief, fear and rage,
love and jealousy, still struggled for the mastery in her agitated
breast.
"Margaret," he began, in an unsteady voice, "Margaret, you are jealous,
and jealousy is the first step towards hatred."
"Then hate me rather than forget me!" cried the lady with a sudden
outburst, which she instantly regretted.
"But what do you want me to do? Have you a single reason for suspecting
me? Perhaps you want me to render you an exact account of how many miles
I've travelled, how many people I've spoken to, like that blockhead Gida
Bertai, for instance, who takes a diary with him every time he leaves
the house, and reports to his better-half every half-hour? To hear you
speak, one would fancy that I keep you under lock and key, like Abraham
Thoroczkai keeps his wife, who, whenever he goes from home, puts a
padlock on his wife's chamber, and on his return exacts an oath from
all his neighbours that no one has spoken to her in the meantime."
Lady Banfi laughed, but it was a laugh which ended in a sigh.
"You evade the question with a jest. I certainly do not accuse you. I do
not watch you, and if you were to deceive me I should be none the wiser.
But look! there is that in a woman's heart (a sort of sixth sense) which
smarts she knows not why, and whereby she can tell instinctively whether
her beloved's love is on the wax or wane. I know not, nor wish to know,
whence you come and whither you go; but this I do know--you stay away a
long time, and do not make much haste in coming back. Banfi, I suffer--I
suffer more than you can think."
"Madame!" cried Banfi, turning upon his wife with a flushed face, "in
this country divorce suits do not last very long!"
Lady Banfi fell back into her chair, pressed her hands to her heart, and
gasped for breath. She uttered one sharp, plaintive cry, but no other
sound came from her parted lips. It was as though some one had suddenly
severed the strings of a harp with a sword.
Half fainting, the wife looked up at her husband, as if to make sure
whether after all it was not a mere jest, though certainly a very
ghastly one.
"You are unhappy," continued Banfi, "and I cannot help you. You are so
romantic, and I'm not given that way at all. Perhaps my heart wounds
yours, and I'm sorry for it; but your heart certainly wounds mine, and I
won't stand it. I recognize no tyrant over me, not even in love, and
I'll not endure persecution--no, not even the persecution of a woman's
tears. Let us rend our hearts asunder. Better do it now while they will
still bleed from the rupture than wait till they drop away of their own
accord. Let us rather part while we still love one another, than wait
till we have learned to hate."
During the whole of this cruel speech the lady panted convulsively for
breath, as if a heavy nightmare were pressing upon her bosom and
depriving her of speech, till at last her emotion found an escape, and
she uttered a piercing scream.
"Banfi! you are killing me!"
Banfi himself seemed aghast at this cry, and turning round in the very
act of quitting the room, cast a glance at his wife.
He did not perceive that at that moment the door opened and some one
entered; he only saw that his wife's agonized countenance was suddenly
distorted by an unspeakably painful smile. A forced smile on those
convulsed features was something too terrible. Banfi thought at first
that his wife had gone mad.
The next instant Dame Banfi rose impetuously from her chair, and
exclaiming, "Anna! my darling Anna!" rushed towards the door.
It was then that Banfi turned round, and saw before him Anna Bornemissa,
the consort of Michael Apafi. That lady's sharp eyes instantly detected
the agitation of the consorts, though they both did their best to hide
it, and not without success. But she made as though she saw nothing, and
drawing Margaret to her breast, kindly held out her hand to Banfi.
"I heard your voices outside," said she, "so I came in without waiting
to be announced."
"Ah, yes ... we were ... laughing," said Dame Banfi, covertly wiping her
eyes with the corner of her pocket-handkerchief.
"And to what circumstances do we owe this extraordinary piece of good
fortune?" asked Banfi, concealing his embarrassment behind an
exaggerated courtesy.
"As you did not bring my sister to see me," returned the Princess, with
a reproachful smile, "I thought I would just visit my poor exiled
Hungarian kinswoman myself."
Banfi felt the sting of these last words, and murmured as he stroked his
beard--
"Here my fair sister-in-law may do with me what she will. She may make
me the butt of her sparkling wit; she may overwhelm me with her playful
sallies. In the Hall of the Diet, before the throne of the Prince, we
stand, face to face, as foes; but here you may command me, here I am
only your most devoted servant, who delights to do homage to your
charms, and is beside himself for joy to have you as his guest."
With these words Banfi embraced the majestic lady with easy familiarity;
then, turning to his wife, added, not without a touch of malice--
"I hope you will not be jealous of Anna?"
The Princess hastened to reply instead of Margaret.
"Methinks you fear me too much to make love to me."
"I might perhaps if you were my wife. Yet we were near being wedded
once. There was a time when I wanted to make you my bride."
"But it went no further than wishing," returned the Princess, laughing.
"We soon learned to know each other," continued Banfi. "There would have
been no room in one house for two such heads as ours, which find one
realm too small to hold them both. We both of us love to rule. We should
have been hard put to it if one had been obliged to obey the other.
Things fell out for the best. We have found our corresponding
halves--you Apafi; I Margaret--and we are both contented."
With these words Banfi tenderly kissed his wife's hand and departed,
leaving the sisters alone.
Anna, with noble gravity, placed her hand on the shoulder of her sister,
who looked up to her with a soft smile like an innocent child regarding
its guardian angel.
"You have been weeping," began the Princess; "'tis in vain that you try
to put a good face on it."
"I have not been weeping!" returned Margaret, keeping her countenance
with wonderful self-control.
"Well, well; I'm glad you conceal it. That shows you love him; and if
ever there was a time when your husband needed your love, your
watchfulness, and your protection, it is now."
"Your words alarm me! You have something extraordinary to tell me!"
"My coming here at all must have been enough to have alarmed you. You
may well suppose that I would not come to your castle for nothing. We
have both equal cause to fear a certain person, and if we do not quickly
come to an understanding, one of us may lose what she prizes most in the
world."
"Speak! oh, speak!" cried Dame Banfi, trembling, and making her sister
sit down beside her on the sofa.
"Our husbands have hated each other from the first. They were always of
different opinions, belonged to opposite parties, and early became
accustomed to regard each other as foes. Woe betide us if this hatred
should turn to open strife, and we should see our loved ones compass
each other's ruin."
"Oh, I can positively assure you that Banfi nourishes no hostile feeling
against your husband."
"I do not apprehend Apafi's fall, but your husband's. The throne upon
which he was placed by force has quite changed Apafi's character. I
perceive, to my consternation, that he has begun to grow jealous of his
authority. Why, even at Érsekújvár, when he first became Prince, he
expressed his anxiety to the Grand Vizier that Gabriel Haller was
plotting for the diadem, whereupon the Grand Vizier had poor Haller
beheaded there and then without my husband's knowledge; but Apafi still
recollects the message your husband sent him on that occasion, namely,
that ere long he would tear from his shoulders the green velvet mantle,
the symbol of the princely dignity."
"Oh, my God! what must I not fear?"
"Nothing, so long as I do not lose my husband's favour. While you are
securely sleeping, I am watchfully guarding against his passionate
outbursts, and hitherto God has given me strength to fight against the
monsters who would make of his reign a bloody memorial. But there is a
certain condition of mind to which my husband is liable when my
influence over him loses all its talismanic power; when, revolting
against his own nature, his gentleness turns to ravening savagery; when
his eyes, usually so ready to weep at the death of his lowliest vassal,
seem to thirst for blood; when he throws off his habitual
circumspectness and becomes wildly reckless. And this condition--I blush
to confess it--is drunkenness. I do not bring it against him as an
accusation. He whom we love has no fault in our eyes."
"Except one thing--his infidelity to us," interrupted Margaret.
"That too, yes, that too must be forgiven when it becomes a question of
saving his life," replied the Princess.
"Oh, Anna!" cried Margaret, "you make me suspect mysteries which you
will not reveal to me."
"What you ought to know you shall know. A little while ago your husband,
with haughty presumption, opposed himself to a mighty faction which has
kings for its confederates and kings for its antagonists; he might just
as well have opposed Destiny herself. He is too proud to calculate the
dangers which he thus draws down upon his head; or does he really think
that they who sharpen their swords against a reigning monarch would
suffer for an instant one of their own subjects to raise his head
against them? And Banfi has threatened, mocked, insulted them, and
entangled the meshes of their well and widely laid plans--nay, more, he
has encountered and browbeaten them in the very presence of the
Prince."
Dame Banfi folded her arms in timid resignation.
"I see the storm which is gathering over Banfi's head. In his drunken
fits, Apafi has let fall hints which have filled my soul with terror,
and I don't wish Apafi's to be the hand to strike down Banfi for the
sake of others. They will try to catch him at every turn, but we two
will watch over him. I will endeavour to keep back the stroke, yet
should it fall, 'tis for you to ward it off. We must both possess the
entire love and confidence of our consorts, so as to be able to
intervene energetically and decisively should they come to blows. For
would it not be frightful if one fell by the other's hand, and one of us
were the cause of the other's misery?"
Margaret timidly pressed Anna's hand.
"What am I to do? Oh, my God! what can I do? How can I intervene? I have
no power."
"Your power lies in your love, watchfulness, and self-sacrifice,"
returned Dame Apafi with an exalted look, striving to inspire her weaker
sister with something of her own strength.
At that moment the fate of two men was in the hands of two angels, and
the fate of those two men was one with the fate of Transylvania.