PIGEON IN THE CAGE
OR ROMANTICISM VERSUS REALISM (1891)

by KÁLMÁN MIKSZÁTH
translated by ANDRÁS TOKAJI

Introduction to the two novelettes

In the past days (ten years ago) I used to write novelettes by scamping two or three themes together.^[1] As one tale was too short, I stuck it to another and, after all, the two were sufficient for a fair-sized story.

By the time one grows old, one will have run out of inventiveness. Now I only have one topic, and want to write two novelettes about it.

And, with Muse’s help, it is going to be done. Even without her. Because she, who in times past used to rule the world, has sunk into old age, and only runs a tiny beauty shop. Who once used to inspire poets, today, in the epoch of artificial flowers, can at best enhance her appearance. Also her household used to be different; she has dismissed her beautiful room-maid, Fantasy, from service, and employs a squalid, grim maid-of-all-work, Observation, instead.

I can still make use of her with the first novelette, but she only would be underfoot with the other. From all that the gentle reader will be able to see that I have settled down to do a rather strange thing, which will resemble the deceptive drawings found in many houses in Hungary.^[2] If you look at facing them, they will portray Garibaldi,^[3] if you look at them from the side, Pope Pius. Two pictures in one. Both are serious separately, but the two, combined, make a comic effect.

In consequence of all of the above, I could append „Pigeon in the Cage: a humoristic novelette” as a title–although you will read the two most serious stories.

The First Novelette

Once upon a time (some four hundred years ago) there was a frank, warm-hearted man living in Verona, by name Balduinii Gervasius,^[4] who was remarkably fond of flowers. It was his only passion. He used to have the famous tulip-bulbs brought from the Netherlands; roses from Turkey, and was happy in the belief of having had the most beautiful garden in the world.

Even his happiness was disturbed by his neighbour, the old Richard, to whom he one day showed his flower beds and plants.

“Do you think Paradise can be more beautiful than that?” asked Balduini.

“I don’t know Paradise, because I haven’t seen it yet. Thanks God, you haven’t sent me there yet.” (Namely, by profession Balduini was a doctor.)

“I’d send you there in vain,” responded Balduini laughing; “because for your craft, you wouldn’t be let in.” (Namely, Richard was the most famous lawyer in Verona.)

“Maybe, but, as for the roses, I’ve seen more beautiful ones, than these.”

Balduini jumped up. “Where ever?” ***

“In one of my acquaintance’s garden in the Naples.”

“What’s the name of the person in question?”

„Albertus Marosini”.

„At the house of Albertus? Why, he’s a good friend of mine.”

“Do you know him? Really?”

“No, we haven’ ever met. But he wrote a book on flowers, and so did I, and we’ve been in correspondence since, we’re friends in body and spirit.”

There used to be friendships like this four hundred years ago. Balduini had decided to obtain some grafts of the praised roses at any rate, and soon set off to the Naples to visit Albertus.

Albertus gave a warm reception to his unknown fellow (the chronicle at least uses a great flow of words describing the cordial welcome). Fragrant, amber-scented baths and boards groaning under the weight of magnificent foods were waiting for him there. He showed his ships to him, because twelve ships of his were going over the seas, he showed the greatest ornaments of his fabulous garden, and, when Balduini let him know that, as a matter of fact, he had come with the intention of taking some rose-branches back home, he generously said:

“What? Branches? I’ll give you my most beautiful rose root and brunch! It’s rarity that makes roses more beautiful. If I also have it, your also will be held in lower regard. And when you leave my house (which, I wish to God it took its turn as late as possible), take that rose-tree of the unique ones that you like most, and carry it back home.

Balduini had not the slightest intention to leave Albertus’ splendid house in a hurry; it was an excessive residence, furnished luxuriously. Also, the tasty Cyprian wine was waiting in the barrels in the cellars. Delicious nectar fit for the gods.

“You’re a man of means, Albertus, which I didn’t expect.”

“I’m rich, my dear fellow, so please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

The two friends were living with dizziness caused by the scent of the flowers in the magnificent garden and the Cyprian nectar, because they both were hardly over thirty. Albertus was a short, squat lad, with a gentle, fair complexion, and laughing blue eyes. Balduini was a tall, athletic man, with a head similar a bull. And both were so good, generous and tolerant.

Albertus kept nothing from Balduini. He showed him all the rooms and barns, his chests and writings, save for a small cottage, standing at the end of the enchanted garden, among orange trees, concealed, covered in hedge bindweed, from the wall of which thousands of colourful hedge bindweed bells jingled, when the wind shook the tiny bells, saying, “And what’s here? What on earth is here?”

Once walking together, Balduini asked him as well, “And what do you keep in this cage?” (For the summer arbour exactly looked like a cage.)

Albertus gave a laugh, “Well, it’s a secret. Even I don”t step into it. My dear fellow, there’s a pigeon in that cage. But let’s don’t speak about it any more.”

So Balduini did not speak about it any more. However, he could not help thinking about it. And when, sometimes in the morning, he got up earlier than his friend did, made his way towards the arbour. There, in the coppice, more birds were flying, and more beetles were buzzing around.

One day he found the grey, old gardener, Guido loitering there.

“I’m waiting for the master”, said the gardener.

“Can I help you?”

“My little grandchild’s foot’s sprained”, said Guido, “and you, being a doctor, might help him.”

The doctor went into the gardener’s lodge, which was behind the cage-like cot––a nine-year-old boy was shouting and wailing, lying on a bed, surrounded by a few old ladies. On of them was already treating his strained foot, according to the custom of the period, by using incantations, murmuring these things:

“Christ, our Lord goes to his stone bridge, the place of his torment, and his donkey’s leg loses his foothold on the rock. Saint Peter goes that way, and feels it with his holy hand.” (At this point the old lady squeezed the painful spot several times).

“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!”, screamed the child, kicking and striking about with his sound leg.

But the old lady, not caring, continued quiet and calmly doing her job, “He breathes on it” (at this moment she breathed on the aching spot) “and is saying, “Bone to bone, flesh to flesh, blood to blood, Saint Jesus of Nazareth, put the child’s foot in its place!”

Balduini angrily drew the woman bone-setters away, “Saint Jesus of Nazareth has no time for things like this. I’ll do it for him!”

Having reduced the boy’s foot, he plastered and dressed it. The old Guido thanked him effusively, and asked him what he could give to him in return for his kindness.

“One word, my old friend. Tell me, what your master keeps in that cottage.

“A rose”, said the gardener, “but I’ve disclosed too much even by that.”

A rose! So not pigeons, but roses! Something unique of great value, magic plant of the Rhodope Mountains.^[5] Ay, Albertus, you rogue!

The disclosure threw cold water on his enthusiasm. His friend’s love and kindness has become worthless at once. “Choose yours from among my roses”, he said, but kept the most valuable rose back from him.

The dodge made him indignant (four hundred years ago people used to be very sensitive), went into his room, and started doing his packing.

“What preparations are these?”, brought him to account the landlord.

“Travelling back home”, answered the other coldly.

“Impossible!”, Marosini flared up. “You can’t leave me so, without a warning! I’ve become attached to you so much, Balduini, that I won’t be able to bear your sudden leaving. First I have to reconcile myself to the thought.”

“I must leave right away.”

“But tell me, at least, why”, entreated Marosini. “Don’t you like here?”

“Why! Why!”, answered Balduini grumpily. “You know mythology very well. Jupiter appeared before Numa and asked for a human’s head and soul. At this Numa gave him an onion bulb instead of a head, a fish instead of a soul, and good Jupiter smiling stated, that he was content with that as well.^[6]

“So what? Can’t understand.”

“I’m worse than Jupiter.”

“I can hear a note of reproach in your words, Balduini. I’m sorry, believe me, but I cannot help it. With that being the case, please, remain at least until the morning. Look, neither have you chosen your rose.

“Leave me alone, will you? It’s you bringing up your roses. Well, right you are. You told me to choose my rose from your roses. Well, I’ll choose your rose in the pigeon cottage.”

The Naples merchant staggered beck with fear and surprise. He was about to understand mythology.

“You were keeping things back from me, weren’t you?”, putting him Balduini to the blush mockingly.

“Yes, I wanted to conceal her from you,” answered the Neapolitan, “for I knew that you would be attached to her. I was selfish; I don’t deny it, because I also love her. But let she be yours, take her away!”

The Verona lad had these words on the tip of his tongue (for the man of Verona was generous, too), “If you give it to me, I’ll abandon it”, but he was so much overcome by curiosity: what might the concealed rose be like, that he, having mastered his emotion, let it stand over till the end of the scene. Let it end with a more surprising bang.

And so Balduini remained there until next morning. Albertus was sad the whole day, and one could hardly get a word out of him the whole day. He fell, time after time, on Balduini’s neck, then turned away, shut himself up in his closet, and shed many, many tears. After all, it’s all too much sorrow for a rose!

They were spending the Naples evening with its red sky, with its ravishing, dreamy silence together, when the leafage was motionless, only Mother Earth was panting sweetly, gently, and the enchanting sound of Pan’s pipe was humming in the dark blue space on the veranda. (Yes, Sirs, Italian evenings are beautiful even when two lads are sitting side by side; the damsel is not a prerequisite.) They were talking about the flowers, the myrtles, the Georgina Flowers, the azaleas; miracle plants of alien parts of the world, whose names, via the great travellers, have been reported everywhere; of course, embroidered. The two passionate gardeners were absorbed in pleasure. Balduini told his ideas about how to endow tulips with optional colours. On the other hand, Albertus let out his secret, saying the scent of lavender can be enhanced to a certain degree, where any bird that flies over the lavender bushes, will drop dazed upon them. Poor little birds!…

But neither brought forward the rose. Balduini did not mention it out of tact, as for Marosini, apparently because his heart bled for it.

It was already getting on for midnight, when they went to bed to dream about the plants, the wonderful hair of Mother Earth.

“Ah, what nonsense,” says the Gentle Reader, “the writer has two adolescent lads talk about plants in a nice evening in Naples, to which the sea chimes in from a distant. Can that all be true? How is it that they did not talk about politics? Might they not racking their brains about what Doge of Venice was doing? Two educated lads; moreover, one being a man of means, do they really want to become nothing? Were there really times, when no pushers, self-willed persons existed? Absurdity, fantasy! They were talking about plantations, ha, ha, ha. If, at least, the famous plant of Gálocs and Verpelét, which delivers the most precious thought of Mother Earth.^[7]

At such times the writer puts his pen down, and he himself asks doubtfully, “Can that be true? After all, the chronicle relates it like this… Shoo, simple-minded concerns, teasing mischievous sprites of realism, get out from my ink-pot! Let me follow the colourful thread of the story…

In the morning Marosini woke Balduini up. “Wake up, dear fellow and put on your clothes. The ship’s about to leave, you must set off soon. The mule, that’s to take you to the ship, is waiting for you out there.

Balduini rubbed his eyes and heard the mule bell from outside. He hastily hitched up his clothes, embraced his friend and hurried out.

There were two mules in harness in front of the door of the portico waiting; one with an empty saddle, on the other, there was a beautiful girl sitting, but how beautiful she was: her stately, supple trunk continued with admirable swan-shoulders, the colour of her complexion was that of the most beautiful rose, the colour of her hairs was that of the blackest night. And her eyes, most of all, if the two downcast eyelids had not shaded them.

Charmed Balduini newly rubbed his eyes, and, as if in ecstasy, asked him, “Is it possible or am I dreaming?”

“No, Balduini, let she be yours, since you wished it,” said Albertus in a quivering voice.

“Mine?” stammered the young man of Verona confusedly. “And who’s she?”

Marosini could not utter a word; his eyes were filled with tears. The old gardener, who was holding Balduini’s mule, answered instead of him, “She’s the rose of the cottage.”

“And you’re giving her to me!” shouted out Balduini with enthusiasm. “This fairy! This adornment of the Garden of Eden. O, Forgive me, Albertus! I sinned against you by being doubtful about your friendship. But no no! I cannot accept her from you.”

At this moment the enchanting damsel’s eyes opened, looked at Balduini, and smiled at him. Ah, what a smile it was! Flowers cannot laugh like that.

“How so? Maybe, you still don’t want her?” shouted Albertus out snatching at the words eagerly.

“I won’t take her from you, if she is near your heart. I wouldn’t have demanded her, if I had known that what was in the cage was not a single rose but a pigeon. I thought it was some kind of real rose, Albertus. Neither I had seen her; neither had she seen me before, I swear.”

“Don’t swear,” opened her mouth the girl sitting on the mule’s back, and her voice rang sweet,“ because I’ve seen you through the window-slot ever so many times., and smiled at him again. (Oh, women! They have not changed; they are the same as they used to be four hundred years ago.)

“Balduini!” spoke the good friend of Naples with reproving severity. “You want to sacrifice your own happiness for my sake. I can tell it from your eyes that you love Esre, but out of forbearance towards me you’re denying your own soul. I’ve already resigned myself to the loss. “It was a terrible twenty-four hours, but I’m now ready for it. It was a terrible twenty-four hours. My heart’s grown as hard as stone. Feel free to take her with you.”

Balduini called his friend aside behind the columns of the portico. “And who is she in reality?”

“Esre’s a daughter of a merchant of Genoa. His father put her under my care in her early age, designating me as her guardian. She put forth buds, and grew here before my eyes, like a rosebud. I’ve protected her from sunshine, from wind, even from myself. Very soon she is going to complete her sixteenth year, and I planned to pluck her, but God wanted otherwise. But start now, lest you miss the ship.”

“No! I swear by God, I won’t deprive you from her! I couldn’t endure the sorrow of knowing that your heart breaking over. I would rather be ruined, for I don’t deny that her very first glance shot an arrow through my heart.”

“That’s natural,” said Albertus. “And I could even less reconcile to the knowledge that you and the girl are unfortunate.”

“By the by! Hold on! We forgot about something,” called out lively Balduini. “But it should’ve been started with the girl deciding in our debate.”

“Esre’s already decided,” said Albertus woefully. “I had a talk with her yesterday.”

“And then?”

“She wants to leave.”

“What happiness!” burst out the young lad of Verona, and his face lit up with pleasure. “Let’s leave then.”

“No! One more minute!” said Albertus, and blew a little whistle, upon which the side yard gate opened, and twelve donkeys were led forth, loaded with packs. “This is, my friend, Esre’s wedding dower that I have to hand over. These packs contain money, valuables, gold and silver works, and precious textile fabrics. Esre’s a rich girl –– the richest one in the whole Naples.”

‘Oh, Aalbertus, your goodness surpasses everything else. Novels will be written about it some time in the future.” (The guy was thinking about me as early as that time.) “It’s a shame on me for receiving all this now.”

Marosini made a declining gesture with his hand. “You deserve her better than me, because I had known that she had been rich; hence my love was not as pure, as yours, who had not the faintest idea of her treasures. Bot adieu, Balduini, adieu, Esre! Be happy with each other!

He could hardly pronounce his last words because of sobbing, and in order to avoid a painful farewell scene, run into the rooms.

Now then Balduini travelled back home with his beautiful prey. The twelve donkeys carried the treasure sacks behind her, and the thirteenth donkey was crying loud in his splendid halls.

Sadness was healed in the same way that time as it is done today. Who was tormented with grief, drank some wine, and who was plunged into deep sorrow, drank a lot of wine, and recovered. Albertus also tried to find oblivion in wine. However, wine is also a dangerous liquid. When Noah planted the first vine-stock, trustworthy sources have it, mixed the soil with the blood of a lion, a sheep, and a pig.

Since that time every drunken man has the air of one of these animals. Our hero only had the air of a sheep. He got meek and silly. He neglected his dealings, and his ships suffered heavy losses on the sea. Before long, his affairs got entangled and, in order to disentangle himself from his perplexity, turned all his possessions into ready cash, and set out on his travels among unknown people in a strange country––in order to forget.

Cash runs out even quicker. And our hero was a light-minded, jocund boy; whenever he met anybody, who had no money, he would offer him a loan. Although, at this point I am not sure, because I have not been advised by any writer of that time that people would have been short of money as well in those days. Those good sols were waging wars, plucking lutes beneath the castle windows, bearing the colours of their inamoratas on their arms, doing constantly kindness to helpless chaps, squandering their gold––but I am uninformed about where they acquired it from.

As for Albertus, the bulk of his money, that he in a little, blue silk bag carrying with him, was supposedly robbed by a one-eyed brigand on the way, though, I think, one must not assume as much malice as that even in the part of brigands of the time.

However it might have been, one is certain: the young lad of Naples, spent all his possession while knocking about during five or six years. Even his clothes got worn to rags. Therefore he, in his great strait, starving and shivering, decided to call on his friend in Verona, hoping that he would welcome him in his house.

He was going, and going for weeks––his clothes and sandal got worn even more––until, at last one evening, he came to Verona. The towers in Verona were sparkling and glittering by the light of the sun, but not at all inviting. Albertus’ heart was heavy: “I wonder whether Balduini will recognise me. And how about Esre? Won’t they chase me out, as an intruding bagger? Will they not chase me out? They’ll be ashamed for my acquaintance. But how would I dare to drop into their house?”

“No, no, I can’t do it at daylight. I’ll wait until evening somewhere, and I’ll walk to Balduini’s house under the cover of darkness. Esre mustn’t know about it. I’d die for shame before her. I’ll have Albertus called out in secret. He brewed thousands of lots, and every single one rejected. Every one was such that it made his cheeks glow red. But one thing was certain, that he must not go through the town in rags and tatters, unclean, bushy-haired, especially come before the Balduinis, so he’ll crouch and wait somewhere till evening.”

He was at the border of the town, by the cemetery. (For a cemetery is a must in every four hundred year-old story.) There stood a sheet-iron-covered dome among the tombs and the stone crosses––the mortuary. The entrance-hall of the graves.

Albertus was seized with a peculiar desire for going into the mortuary room, and lying down for a little while in the darkness to rest his tired limbs. His legs took him there involuntarily, just the same, only his abdomen held opposite views. It urged him saying, “Let’s go to Balduini’s place’.

But, when it is about going, legs are the masters, so Albertus opened the door of the mortuary room (the door was not closed, but shot), and entered. There stood four or five empty catafalques in the room. In this dreadful heat nobody felt inclined to die. It was nice and cool inside, the two opposite windows were open, and the air freely came in and went out. Not a bad place at all. The exhausted man raised himself up to a catafalque, stretched himself out on it, put his worn-out hat under his head, and soon was sleeping the sleep of the just.

Who knows how long he was sleeping. He woke up with a start at a loud noise, a throbbing sound. It was dark already. He sprang to his feet, and cried out; all his body shivering, “Who’s that?”

A figure rose from the ground, and harshly grumbled, “It’s no business of yours. Once you’ve died, shut up. Just look at that, how impertinent these dead persons are!’

Notwithstanding, overcome by fear, he took himself off, and instantly jumped out through the window.

Albertus collected himself. His fear vanished, and his teeth stopped chattering. “What could this have been? Well, somebody must’ve jumped in through the window, and I must’ve started up from my sleep at the rumbling sound of the jump. It must’ve been a miserable homeless man wanting to spend the night here, but who, terrified of the deceased person’s words, there and then leapt out of the window.”

He did not have to try to guess too long. Silence was broken by approaching sounds. Just at this moment the door opened, and two men sprung in through the windows with a great crash, each one respectively.

“Give in, evil spirit!” they shouted, “Give in!”

The one, who came in through the door, had a lantern in his hand, which was lighting the mortuary room and the three men. They were constables with swards and spears.

Well, artful dodger, you finally have been caught!”

Having said this, they fell upon Albertus, laid him low, bound him, and carried him away. He repeatedly attempted to clear himself, saying “But what’s the matter with me, good fellows? I did not touch anybody. I’ve only dropped in to have a rest in this sorrowful place.”

“We know that, you artful dodger. Do you say it was my granddad to stab that man on the fringe of the cemetery a moment ago?”

“What sort of man? I’m innocent.”

The constables gurgled with laughter at his excuses, and carried him to the prison.

“At least let me eat something,” said the captive, “and you are free to think about me whatever you want to.”^[8]

On the next day he was led before the judge. The grey Celini Marius was Verona’s chief justice that time; a man of great importance, a member of Venice nobility;^[9] his name is shining in Venice’s Golden Book. As a token of that, he was wearing his purple cloak with ermine.

The accused was led in by two bailiffs.

“You’ve committed murder,“ said the chief justice. “Produce your excuses for doing murder. God will take them into account. Nay, so will I do, to some extent.” (Judges used to speak as presumptuously as that.)

“I didn’t do any murder, Sir, I’m guiltless.”

“Don’t lie. Here are the witnesses. Step forward!”

The three sbires^[10] related that they had seen two men grappling on the perimeter of the churchyard. It was dark; they could not make out the faces of the wrestling figures. They immediately run there but by the time they arrived, one of the persons was lying, due to several stabs, in a pool of blood, rattling and dying, the other, having jumped over the graveyard wall, ran away quick like a bunny and, having headed for the mortuary room, scuttled through an open window. The constables in pursuit of him could see him well enough by the light of the rising moon and, having blocked the openings of the mortuary room, managed to catch the villain.

“Well?” asked the chief justice, turned to the accused. “What do you say to it?”

“I see I’m lost,” said Marosini, “though, as I’ve put it, I’m innocent. My name’s Marosini Albertus. Some years ago I used to be a well-to-do man in Naples, but, having been bankrupt, I wanted to call on a friend in Verona. This is how I got to the border of the town tired and hungry, yesterday afternoon and, being afraid of the shame of my friend seeing me in my rags in broad daylight, I stepped into the mortuary room with the intention of awaiting nightfall there. And that was my misfortune. I was overcome with sleep; I woke up to hear the sound of some heavy body fall down. A man jumped in through the window of the mortuary room. I shouted, ‘What’s that? Who’s that?’ whereupon the man, being panic-stricken by the thought that one of the stretched-out carcasses had started to speak, desperately broke into a run, and sprung out through the other window.

“That’s a pretty piece of business!” said the chief justice ironically, turning towards the city aldermen sitting in semi-circle. “Boccaccio wouldn’t compose it more shrewdly. This man was the murder, I suppose?”

“Surely,” said Marosini.

“Is that so?” continued the chief justice. “But, even if your brain’s sharp enough to make up tall stories, it’s too blunt in other respects. If your name is Marosini Albertus, and you in spite of this have nothing to do with the crime, how had even your name got onto the blue money bag, found beside the carcass?”

The accused vehemently interrupted, “I swear to God! This is my bag! It was stolen from me by a bandit near to Genoa not long ago!”

“Again a new made-up-story. I’ve had enough of it!” Interrupted the chief justice severely.

Albertus sighed, just to himself, “It was embroidered by the good Esre! I used to be happy that time. How merciless is fate that has me entangled! And now I have to die as an evil-doer. Never mind! At least, I’ll escape from my hated, aimless life!”

He submitted to his fate. Since, even so, this is the best solution; at least he won’t be a cross to the world, a millstone around anybody’s neck. All the conditions are unquestionably against him. Miraculously, strangely. “But what makes conditions? He asked himself. “The hand of God! If the Lord wanted it to be so, let be it so!”

He received the sentence with perfect equanimity, though it was a death penalty. Beheading by an headsman’s sword.

Executions were very popular in Verona. The women were especially fond of them. A rolling down head is a genuine delicacy for the eyes. The whole town is out on the place of execution. For it will be a special spectacle including not only a usual beheading, but also a breaking on the wheel. A giant, by name Orizi was condemned to breaking on the wheel. A flagrant pirate and fire-raiser. “ Maestro della luce.”

They are going to die, that is, Oziri will be broken on the wheel first (by the programme), which Albertus can, if he is curious, to see. So, at least he will not die without seeing breaking on the wheel, which is, after all, a rare thing.

They were sitting in the condemned cell together. Albertus was praying, Oziri was cursing and swearing. The “master of light” (incendiary in the language of flowers) was not in the least inclined to die.

When Baccarini city alderman (whom the chief justice charged with the execution of the two sentences) stepped into the condemned cell, in order to ask the convicts, as usual, about their dying wishes (which, according to the law, should be met within these three days), Albertus requested delicious foods and excellent wines. As for Orizi, he came forward with the following request with great determination, ‘”I want to acquire French.”

“Ask for something brighter, that has its uses.”

“This is my only wish. I would take great pleasure in the knowledge of French language.”

“Come now, fool! But it’s absolutely nonsense to acquire French in three days.”

Orizi shrugged, “Well, I can’t help that.”

The giant insisted on his idea, which embarrassed so much Signor Baccarini, the legal expert, who did not know what to do in a situation like this, that he was compelled to go to the chief justice. The greybeard himself was shocked at the murder’s idea.

„Porco di Madonna! This blackguard would want to lengthen his life by at least ten years, let’s supposed, we keep the law.”

“What should I do with him then?”

A language teacher must be sent him into the condemned cell, with the reasoning that he can learn as much from the French language in three days as he needs.

The news of the pirate’s odd wish leaked into the town creating a scare that because of that the breaking on the wheel may be cancelled. However, it has arisen interest in Orizi’s person; that is why a sea of people gathered on the place of execution on the appointed day.

The headsman was coming in front, holding up his sharp, heavy broadsword with dignity; though the sward is not naked yet; it is in its scabbard. This is Pizo, the ‘Younger Brother of Illnesses’. He is called like this in all Italy. Because he executes the convicted with such a grace, that it does not hurt the person in question; maybe, it is even pleasant for him. However, Pizo can only handle the heavy broadsword; it is his special task, while for the breaking on the wheel the ill-famed Bubulo Trux was invited there from Bologna.

After the executioners, who were wearing scarlet-red clothes, and before the condemned, two torturers were carrying black banners. Both of them depicted seven flying red ravens on a black background. They were emblems of the convicts. Seven ravens! Seven good companions, whom they will have to do with later on. The two condemned were pacing after the two standard bearers, each accompanied by six bailiffs. Marosini was going shattered, silent, and with lowered head, while Orizi was shaking his formidable fists, belching forth blasphemies, inaudible because of the mask, because the melancholy travellers leave for the Other World under a mask, which will be taken from them just before the delivering of the verdict. After the henchmen rode the captain of the sbire-s mounted on a black steed, brandishing his drawn sward in every direction, and stentoriously shouting: “Make way for the town-councillors! Make way! Way! Way!” Because the process was closed by the senators striding with dignity with the chief justice, who was taking the lead. On the place of execution there was scaffolding erected and covered with apple-green baize for the senators.

All the town-councillors settled down. Save for Baccarini, who stood near the scaffold to give his orders.

Orizi’s mask was taken down. Large crowd milling and surging about.

Baccarini read aloudt Orizi’s all offences (there is no place here to report them; they would come to five pages), then the sentence: “breaking on the wheel in the name of the Father and the Son, and the Holy Spirit”.

Then he waved to the executioner, Bubulo Trux: „Do hereby what Verona orders and commands to do!”

The executioner stepped to Orizi, seized him, while his assistant was holding the ropes in readiness, when the robust pirate stroke a blow with his monstrous fist as fast as a lightning bolt upon the executioner’s chest as strongly that he collapsed, and rolled head over heels a distance of nine feet.

“Wow! Wow!” was heard among the people. “What enormous strength! What powerful arms!”

The catchpoles ran towards Orizi, but he, using his brute force, tore a pole off the scaffold, and started whirling it round and round. The beam-like heavy club made a humming noise in the air.

“Anybody who dares to take a step closer, is a dead man,” rattled the giant with anger.

The catchpoles moved back. Bubulo Trux struggled to his feet, and walked with a limp in front of the tribune of the chief justice: “This is a savage, he’s almost indented my chest. I surely won’t touch him again.”

The grey Celini turned pale with rage. “What a shame! Hallo there! Catchpoles! Executioners! Seize him! Otherwise, honestly, you’ll pay for this!”

But neither the executioners nor the bailiffs made a move.

“Ten gold coins shall be given, per capita, to the ones,” shouted Celini again, “who constrain Orizi to obedience!”

It is true, however, that it had either no effect at all. Orizi was master of the situation. His big, bulging, grey eyes saw red, his chest rattled like the one of a bull, but his hand did not get tired.

Baccarini decided to try to pursue him. He was known for his persuasiveness. “Listen Orizi, let me tell you something. Stop sawing the air with that rotten stick, or else you’ll get tired sooner or later! Let’s talk good sense. Oh, boy, what’s the use? Why are you doing this nonsense? I know you to be a clever man, and you’ve been that in all your life. Why the hell are you pretending that you are a fool? You have to die, that’s all. It was a good joke by you, after all, that you wanted to learn French. I myself appreciated. But behaving as a callow youth, a stupid guy, you bring shame on me, the one who told the chief justice not long ago, that if you were an honest man, you could become even a bishop.”

The conversation started to interest the pirate. He looked around and, seeing no attacker within easy reach of him, lowered the bar for a minute, and leaned on it with one arm.

Seeing his success, Baccarini senator became even more jovial than before. “And, you see, you bring not only shame upon me, but also cause inconvenience to me. I’ve had my mother-in-law taken from the province knowing that there’ll be breaking on the wheel here today. She’s over there, on the balcony of the Corsetti house, if you don’t believe, look there! You’re not a blockhead, maybe you can guess what it is. You also must’ve had a mother-in-law. Granting this, please, fancy you in my shoes, this breaking on the wheel should not take place.”

The cudgel dropped from Orizi’s hand. Was he overcome by the arguments or the fatigue? He said hoarsely, with a rattle in his throat, “Do to me whatever you want to!”

The executioners had hardly begun to approach him, when Celini Marius, the chief justice of Verona rose from his seat, and motioned with his ivory stick to the executioners: “Stop there!”

There became crypt-like, dead silence.

“This man is worthy of esteem,” said the chief justice in his trembling voice, ‘”I find the verdict too sanguinary and cruel. Let his penalty be life sentence.”

The senators were nodding in agreement. Orizi expressed his thanks in broken words.

“Now you can learn French indeed,” noted Baccarini.

Then he read aloud the accusations against the other convict and the verdict.

The mask was taken from Marosini. Pizo, the ‘Younger Brother of Illnesses’ – the tender-hearted brother, who serves Death with less pain – had drew off the accused’s jerkin. And was already covering his eyes with a piece of white cloth, when a figure, having pushed way, gasping for breath, through the crowd, ran directly in front of the tribune of judges, shouting,

“This man’s innocent of the proclaimed crime! The murder is me.”

Murmur of astonishment could be heard from all directions. His name went from mouth to mouth, “Balduini the physician.”

Would Balduini be the killer? This honest man? What queer things happen in our world!

The chief justice motioned to the headsman to release the condemned.

“Balduini!” cried the man. “My dear friend! Are you really that killer?” That’s impossible!”

Baldiun raised his head and said, “Yes, judges of Verona. I am the murder. I killed the man in question on the fringe of the cemetery and now, seeing that an innocent man’s going to be executed instead of me, I’ve got overcome by remorse, and have brought my head voluntarily here.

Marsini desperately ran to Balduini, and in a low voice, reproachingly said, “Oh, my dear fellow, why didn’t leave it at that? What need was there for this? My life is worthless anyway and, once you’ve fallen into sin, I would willingly have taken your worldly penalty upon myself. Withdraw your words until it is too late.”

Balduini pushed him off angrily, “Don’t bother me with inane drivel! Life stands even lower in my esteem.”

“Come now! And how about Esre? You should be remain alive for the sake of Esre!”

“Esre… Esre… “ mumbled Balduini in a dreamy voice.

“You’ll learn everything. Call on her!”

Celini Marius, who during this time was consulting the judges, proclamed the decision to the people, “Seeing that Balduini Gervasius declares himself the perpetrator of the murder, the punitive verdict shall be, by our laws, delivered against him; his head shall be stricken off by executioner’s sword.”

Baccarini turned to Pizo, “Hereby take him over, Pizo, and do what Verona orders and commands to do!”

But when Pizo, who had not reached Balduini yet but had been taking stock of his thick neck without enthusiasm, the crowd was agog with a new excitement.

A cobbler, by name Silos, who was watching the scene on the top of a tree, yelled lively over the heads of the crowd, “The new killer’s coming! Ha-ha-ha!”

At this point, as a matter of tact, an evil eyed, martial man was pushing his way with his fists through the crowd, and kept shouting, “Let me in! Let me in! While, I swear to Madonna that it’s me, who’s going to be beheaded here today.”

The crowd was roaring with laughter, and gave him way; the stranger went in through the aperture on the bar made by Orizi before, and, while he was hurrying to Balduini, slapped on Pizo’s shoulder jovially, “Wait a minute, yokel! I’d also like to have a word for the stuff.”

With that, he turned to the court and, having thrown his dark ragged cloak back over his shoulder, spoke, “May it please, Your Honour, Gentlemen of the Jury! The committer of the announced murder is neither this, nor that man, but me.”

“And who are you?” asked Celini Marius.

“I’m Ruffo, the Villain. The man whom I had killed on the edge of the cemetery, was a fellow of mine, the one-eyed Cartus, the ‘Old Flea’, as he used to be called; we used to go marauding together. When sharing, he wanted to cheat me out of a guinea^[11] about which we started to quarrel, the quarrel led to scuffle, and I stabbed him through the heart in anger, for I got very annoyed with his unfairness. A few constables hurried to the scene. I escaped through the cemetery fence to the mortuary, where someone from the catafalque spoke to me. A thought he was a dead man, but it must’ve been this poor boy (at this point, he pointed at Albertus), and I jumped back out of the open window and, with a chill in my spine, hid among the graves.”

The chief justice of Verona was nodding his assent, “A peculiar case. Nothing like this has ever happened in my office of judge. It must’ve been so, beyond the shadow of doubt. Poor Marosini was caught in a trap innocently. But I don’t understand you, Balduini. Could you explain us, why did you make the fuss?”

“Because I saw my best friend on scaffold”, said Balduini, “who, several years ago, had given me one of his treasures more precious than his life. I was indebted to him, and wanted to pay off my debt; that’s all.

Balduini briefly narrated his stay in the Naples, Marosini’s friendly behaviour towards him, which profoundly moved the heart of the judges as well.

“You acted in the proper way, Balduini. Now you’ve become worthy of your friend”, said the chief justice solemnly. “Leave for home, may God speed you, and be glad of each other’s company.”

Then he turned to Ruffo knitting his commanding eyebrows, “And what made you, killer, to give yourself up, knowing that your sin was well-hidden?”

“My heart couldn’t bear it any longer. I was an eye witness to everything. I saw that an immaculate person was going to perish instead of me. My heart constricted, my soul was distracted, but what followed after that, touched me even more. Í was to see that instead of an innocent person another one shoulders the sin. That was too much for me! I couldn’t put up with it any longer. I forced my way through the crowd, your Honours, to you!”

Cellini rose from his chair to deliver the verdict. As usual, all the other senators did the same.

“In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit! Citizens of Verona! (He rose his voice ever higher.) Inasmuch as this sinful man loved truth better than his own life, has deserved not to be deprived of his life. I shall reprieve him on this Earth. “

The crowd burst into acclamation; buzzed and cheered, waved their hand-kerchiefs, and they were billowing towards the people of the hour. Even Baccarini’s mother-in-law may have reconciled herself to the unexpected developments on the balcony of the Corsetti house, Only Pizo, the ‘Younger Brother of Illnesses’ was mumbling angrily to himself, “Why the hell did they call everybody here to no purpose?”

Balduini took Albertus by the arm, and left the place of execution. “Come with me, I’ll take you to Esre.”

“But with these clothes on me?” protested.

“Forget about your clothes. Rubbish! The richest man of Verona puts on what he wants to put on.”

“I don’t understand your joke, Balduini,”

“Everything comes to him who waits, dear friend. Do not care for anything but pacing after me. … But lo, here we are, this is my house. But let’s go through the garden, because Esre sits about there in the arbour at such times.”

Oh, how high Albertus’ heart beat! He was not as excited on the scaffold as he was here and now.

“No, no, Balduini, I won’t. I have good reason to do so; let me go hiding somewhere in the world.”

“If you don’t come, I’ll carry you.” And violently grasped his hand.

It was a beautiful garden with huge trees crowned by enormous foliage; there were wildernesses here and there, there was a clearing with red strawberries and ant-hills; bramble runners trailed on the ground, grasses, thistles intertwined disorderly; over there again, there were some masterpieces of gardening in a dazzling colour orgy, gorgeous flower beds, over which the bees were buzzing in a drunken, inebriated state.

Albertus suddenly gave a start. “What’s this? Am I dreaming?”

Having left the dark foliage, a cottage came into sight, for all the world like the one he had had in the Naples, if not it itself.

“Was it this cage that frightened you so much?” asked him Balduini smiling. “There’s nothing surprising about that. It’s just the same as yours. And I keep a dove in it, exactly like yours.”

A dove could be found in this one as well! This one was also covered in hedge bindweed up to the roof; and the flower bells were moving, swinging and rustling, as if they were jingling. All you need to do to be able to hear it. Poor Marosini’s heart sank to the bottom. He might have heard what they were ringing.

There was an arbour behind the cabin. Thousands of roses were hanging from it, and tiny flies and bugs were swarming around it. Each and every woos a different single flower.

“What about you? Why are you pulling my hand?”

“She’s sitting there”, stuttered Marosini with childish timidity.

And she was sitting there indeed. Esre was sitting in the arbour, with back to them. Her slender waist was bent in a shape of a snake, because she was sewing or embroidering with her leg put spontaneously on an outstanding twig, guided by mere love of comfort with the dangerous consequence that her bent knee slightly lifted her garnet-red skirt up, and let to have a look at her gorgeous ankle. Oh, what a dazzling beauty!

Albertus turned to stone, but Balduini on tiptoe stole to her, and with his hands covered her eyes from behind. “Balduini!”, said Esre. “I recognize you from your palm.”

“Her voice is still the same”, Marosini sighed.

“You’ve found it out.” Said Balduini, “now there’s only one thing for you to do: guess who I’ve taken here.”

“The old Mr. Richard from the next house. Let me go!

“Not until you find it out.”

“Don”t chop logic with me, Balduini. Who may be here? Mr. Mileni con Bologna.

“In fact, he is not here. But somebody is here, the one you love most in the world.”

“How should I know?” answered, and stamped her foot sulkily. “I’ll bite your hands!”

“Oh! Do you want to say you don’t know whom you love most in the world? Doesn’t whisper your little heart anything to you? It’s deaf and dumb… Your future husband is present, Esre!”

“Albertus!” cried out Esre, wrenching herself from Balduini’s arms, and in the next moment she was in Marosini’s arms.

He embraced her with a glorified face. He saw and heard everything without understanding anything at all.

“She’s yours,” said Balduini with melancholy. ‘”as she has always been.” When you gave her to me, she was only a child. She was lonely and bored in the cage, so came with me. She wanted a change. In one word, she’s a woman and, as such, she’s capricious. She came with me, but I noticed on the first day at sea, that she was missing you very much. As early as on the next day she was suffering from homesickness… By the time we arrived in Verona, she was ill, and confessed, that she loved you. I travelled back to the Naples, but by that time you were over hedge and ditch.

“Is that possible? Good heavens!” faltered out Marosini.

Esre looked at him gently with those big, black eyes, like a real pigeon, and was nodding sweetly with that beautiful head, that it was so, everything was so.

“Believe me, Balduini, I had been having you hunted for all over the place, until I found you at the place of execution today. Why don’t you come with me? Let me tell you everything in details. You and Esre shall surely have time enough for billing and cooing. Life‘s long enough…

He took Albert’s arm, and narrated him what he had to know. How he had had the cottage built for Esre, almost the same like the one in the Naples. She wanted such a small house.

As for the fact that he had never crossed her threshold, he said, “You know, Albertus, you’ve given me a dangerous Single Rose, the fragrance of which I must feel every day but mustn’t pull off.”

He also gave account of Esre’s wealth, “I’ve managed your property with good conscience. Trust me, Albertus, there’s hardly any man as rich as you in Verona.

* * *

With that, it has come to the end of one of my novelettes. Esre and Albertus have got back, and they would live happily if they would not have died ever since.

But the Reader might say, “They didn’t die, because they never lived. They’re too good to do so. As for them, honesty predominates over everything else. One gives his own fiancée away as a present to the other, though he loves him; and the other gives her back untouched, although the latter also loves her. On the other hand, he multiplies his money. Nobody loves money. Each wants to die for the other. That’s ridiculous! They’re all so good, that even a murderer’s an honest man amongst them.

But the Writer interrupts, “The only problem with these people is that they’re four hundred year old.”

And, with having stated that, he slams his antique reed, inserts a steel pen with glistening blade into the holder, and puts down his pair of spectacles, through which his predecessors, one-time writers, were looking at the world, and starts to write this as follows:

The Second Novelette

Let us jump forward four centuries. And hey presto – here we are in Budapest. Why not, there is only a slight connection between the two narrations. Maybe, we have jumped to the wrong place, because Budapest is not the most suitable scene for wonderful things worthy of the pen of writers. Romantic events take place in Budapest as well, but they are known by all the old ladies of the city; chili pepper dramas,^[12] love suicides in separate hotel rooms, missing boys, abducted girls, and other trivialities of that kind.

Budapest is a transparent city. It is not big enough, unlike the ones wrapped in the mystery of the innumerable blocks of houses, to fatten up the phantasies of the writers, but it is big enough for gnomes, mischievous sprite, lymphae and nymphs to move away from it. The situation is similar with the ghosts, about which it hardly can be stated in good faith that they were walking along Váci Street^[13] at such and such a time, at midnight sharp while, on the other hand, at Szentmihályfalva^[14] or Bágyon they venture out of the cemetery any time. From here, mysticism is also banished, because horse tramways do not run on Kerepesi Road at midnight any more, and ghosts do not come so far. There are many, many things missing from the basket of props of poetry; there is neither fragrance of flowers, nor dew, nor singing of birds. There is dust instead of dew, smell of soap and paraffin instead of flower-scent, and street-organ instead of the song of bird.

And you, Kock, the jovial, kind-hearted man,^[15] who keeps his heroes well-fed with copious repasts in most various restaurants in Paris, do you think that you could make your characters converse here just like there, and the plot would roll on as usual? Forget about things like this, benignant man of pen and ink, because a plot of novel, which takes place in Szikszay’s Restaurant,^[16] provokes a smile among the readers.

Silliness! Anything that happens in the Szikszay’s will be better known by the regular guests than by the writer and, if any remarkable event had happened, it would have been heard by everybody from the regular guests.

Where should the threads of the tale be started? Maybe the nimble weaving-loom is in your hand, but the heddles are missing to which you could weave the colourful thread. Who will believe the dramas having taken place in the English Queen’s Inn?^[17] No wonder; we know all the people frequenting it. Including the wide table upstairs, where Ferenc Deák used to sit about,^[18] where some old members of parliament had a dinner party these days as well, for which only this table was left from Deák. Downstairs in the banqueting hall the moneyed but otherwise undistinguished inhabitants of the capital make marry beside gypsy songs in the evenings. They eat roast beef and chew on the exchange reports and the political news of the evening papers day by day exactly the same way. This will go on every night like this, until they fall away entirely.

Because they surely will fall away. Budapest restaurants have wandering people. While here everything is regulated by coat-of-arms. The rich go to the English Queen’s Inn because illustrious people had frequented just a short time before. Having a dinner in the English Queen’s Inn is chic.

But the grand play hide-and-seek with the rich. The grand people will disappear from where they were come upon before––just to reappear again. The rich will find them over an over again, and this may go like this for evermore, unless they should disappear from the bourgeois eyes in the staircase––which is equipped with a marble fireplace––of the national casino for good and all.^[19] The glass door will shut behind them––and the game is over.

The rich are looking for the well-to-do people, who arrive in the English Queen’s Inn, when the rich have already left their tables, because the latter had already figured out, that they had been looking for the gentle men at the wrong place. The well-to-do people are sought for by the title-hunting poor who, on the other hand, have been late, because the former are about to leave to join the rich. And the perpetual wandering is in progress, without interruption.

While the aping, the crazy climbing, many people perish. One or two pistols fire, one or two keys squeak in the prison latch. They are our dramas.

Beautiful women love and kiss, there is spring, summer and winter here as well. Budding and fall of flowers, but in a constrained form like this. Cupid draws his bow, though without teasing; though his arrow is flying and flying, but in a straight line in midair, without describing a winding route. People do love, though without much ado. However, this ado is the honey substance, into which the Writer could his reed dip in.

There is not any social life either. The city is already too big to lead the life of a small town, and too small yet to lead a metropolis life.

You are, our beautiful, young capital city, like a girl in the awkward age. An insecure being! You are already not naïve enough to be kind, and not matured enough yet to be exciting. Sometimes you put on a long dress, sometimes your everyday short skirt.

That is why writers do not think too highly of you yet. Your only place is Remi kiosk,^[20] where novels can start properly, under the dwarf-acacias, beside the plashing of the geyser fountain, sprinkling water on the bunches of the lilies-of-the-valley. You can feast your eyes on princesses, baronesses and ordinary general dealers’ wives on this one-and-a-half acre place. One-and-a-half acre split from Paradise, and thrown here. Adventurers, soldiers of fortune and magnates are sitting random on the cane-seat chairs showing a variety of colours.

The waiters are running about, the coffee spoons are clinging and clanging, the pebbles are happily crashing under the soles of the passers-by. Merry laughs and rustling sound of silk…

I would be a fool if I did not begin my story here.

Two young men were sitting beside each other absorbed in a private conversation.

“Will you accept it then?”

“Of course, I will.”

“I’ll introduce you in her house tomorrow.”

“What time?”

“We’ll leave the Houses of Parliament at noon. Are you coming to the House tomorrow?”

“Will there be any voting there?”

“I think so.”

“Is your fiancée beautiful?”

“Not so bad.”

“Is she rich or not?”

“She is worth one hundred forint.”

“By Jove!”

“And, most important, I’ll get the money at once.”

“That’s something! And how did you get her?”

“Via her guardian. He administered Divine Dispensation, who is, by chance, my lawyer who, at the time of the elections, stood surety for me up to the value of eight hundred forint, about which he started to be concerned and in this way he, to say the truth, granted Dispensation for himself by letting me get Miss Willner.”

“And who’s this honest lawyer?”

“Our fellow-representative, the old Mr. Dániel Szabó.”

“Really? The old fox! And what about the girl? Does she love you?”

The questioned made a heated reply, “You mean does she love me? How shall I know that? I think she loves me, just as I think my voters also love me, while they have voted me.”

The young gentlemen paid and left. At the next table under the glazed gloriette, an old gentleman was sitting among young women, who asked curiously, “Who were these people?”

“The young brunet is Mr. István^[21] Altorjay^[22], engaged to be married to Miss Eszter^[23] Willner; the fair, more handsome young man is Mr. Peter Korláthy.”

“Are they MPs?” asked the ladies.

“MPs and volitioners”, the old gentleman answered jovially.

But while he did not explain the word ‘volitioner’ (because the ladies’ attention was distracted with lightning speed by the laces and jewel of a countess who was entering with her daughter), it is me who has to remedy the negligence.

Willer! Volitioner!^[24] Well, why should anybody not coin a good Hungarian word, quite like the old gentleman mentioned before? Everybody has the right to do that, who is sipping his own coffee with milk. By the way, this is the time when mind is the sharpest. Otherwise it is not an unfamiliar word. Moreover, it sounds quite pretty. Once our language contains ‘asztalnok’^[25] (truxes), why should not we say ‘akarnok’ (for pusher)? Because any truxes is less skilled in the activities around the table, than a modern climber in the art of volition.

Volitioners want; they are always wanting something; they want everything. They want something when they are sleeping (because one of their eyes is always open), they want something when they are not sleeping (because they keep one of their eyes shut at the time too); they want when they say they want, and want when they say they do not want.

Volitioners are fitted to want and to be wanted. They are born to want as a matter of course. Phylloxera lice live only wine-stocks, caterpillars only on the leaves of a tree, but volitioners subsist anywhere. Phylloxera lice and caterpillars are sober beings, because they know what they want; some know that they must eat wine-stock; the others that they must eat tree leaves, respectively, but volitioners never know what to eat.

Phylloxera lice and caterpillars exist by virtue of some logical principles. First the tree leaves come to existence, then the caterpillars.

But as with volitioners, it is the volitioners who come to life first, and only then the tree leaves. And, going into the Depth of Existence for feeling the subtleties thereof, it can be stated, if the phylloxera lice should eat the tree leaves, and the caterpillars the wine-stocks, neither of them would undertake cross-eating. But volitioners are not so stubborn; for volitioners, everything is the same. Volitioners want everything, save for one thing: to be mulish.

However, although volitioners grow anywhere, they also prefer their own element: the Houses of Parliament. Volitioners’ cocoon existence will end when they become Member of Parliament.

A Member of Parliament and a volitioner! What a promising condition! He was earlier a volitioner perhaps because he was not a Member of Parliament yet; now he is a volitioner because he has become Member of Parliament. Being a volitioner is like a ring, which nowhere begins and ends.

Oh, happy caterpillars, who were born to eat all the tree leaves while they are green, and who found themselves on the highly desired meadow directly when becoming self-conscious… On the other hand, the tree leaves are only waving to the poor volitioners, tempting, teasing…

But let us stop here! That is to say, let us go further. While explaining ‘volitioner’, I almost forgot that the Reader, as a matter of fact, wants the narration to be continued.

Well, one thing has become clear from all the talk that Mr. Altorjay was getting married and Mr. Korláthy undertook the role of bride’s man.

And, seeing that in our age anything can be justified by the writer, Mr. Altorjay was getting married because a good piece of fish happened to take the hook, and Korláthy shouldered the role of the bride’s man, because he had had a cherry-red suit of national character made the year before, which would present a fine appearance on that day. On the margin, they were friends, of body and spirit. Which manifested itself not in some over-effusive compliments (as seen in the above foolish novelette), because spoken words fly away, and actions will be forgotten, but scripta manent –their names are written side by side on various letters of exchange, sometimes that of the one’s sometimes that of the other’s above.

Having left the kiosk, they parted at the sculpture of the statue of Saint Christopher (the only figure of ours highly esteemed by all the parties).^[26]

“So, tomorrow! Good bye!”

Peter climbed into a carriage, and drove to the City Park. Mr. Altorjay turned back and harried to the club. But they were having a boring afternoon there. None of the ministers was in. It happens so sometimes. At such times the atmosphere is gloomy, the spacious halls are darkened. The sun is not shining, and the faces are not beaming.

“No ministers today” say mamelukes^[27] rubbing hands together, yawning and giving a look at the door.

Altorjay was also looking for a minister, to tell him the latest peaces of gossip, the newest bon mots and political rumours: the peculiar, piquant dainty morsels from the green conference tables.

“There must’ve been a big dinner party,” the club members are guessing.

“Maybe they won’t come today!” can be heard from here and there in a dreamy, melancholy voice.

And the fair begins to disperse. What is the use of a fair without customers?

Ah, what an age is this in which we live! Young men do not dream that they are walking with a young girl with blond locks on the dewed grass of the shore of a gurgling lake while the moon is shining through the rustling leafage… The young man is dreaming that His Excellency is taking him by the arm, and he is drawing him into a corner. His Excellency is whispering, ‘Take a seat beside me’ which is setting his heart throbbing. And he breaks to him that he wants to talk some matters over with him. From all angles and corners of the hall one hundred mamelukes are giving him an envious look. What a nice shine these eyes have!

Seeing that no card game was being played (because the highest trump is the second most admired thing after the ministers), took his hat and left for his fiancée. After all, this afternoon must be killed somehow or other.

Miss Willner was at home. She is pretty and impish, flaxen haired, brisk, and full of spirit and impishness. It would be better if she were a bit higher, but she is beautiful even so. A real sugar-baby, who could be put on the top of a fancy cake straightaway. As for her snub nose, it was the most adorable nose all over the world.

“How on earth did get here and now?”

“From the club. Maybe my dear Esztike is angry with me for disturbing her?”

“On the contrary, it’s very good you are here. I want to go to the green place. I need a cavalier.”

“I’m at your service. But on one condition.”

“Go ahead, Sir.”

“Not taking the duenna with us.”

Eszti inserted one of her little fingers between two of her teeth, and, clicking her tongue, violently pulled it out teasingly, playfully.

“Take this! You would like to get it, wouldn’t you?”

Mr. Altorjay gave a laugh.

“Well, take a sit and wait until I put on my hat, my little robe and my duenna is ready.

“Oh, it’ll last for ever!”

“It’ll take five minutes, believe me.”

By the time the duenna and Esztike stepped into the small living room ready to leave, the five minutes had become fifteen.

The little white straw hat wreathed with lilac flowers suited her face wonderfully.

“Well, where should we go now? To the Margarita Isle?”

“Oh, forget it! That ferry ride is so boring! Who wants to go to the isle?”

“Dou you want perhaps Zug Parkland?”

“I haven’t the slightest intention,” murmured Miss Esztike.

“Then let’s go to the City Park.”

“Come on! You seem to lack all of the inventiveness.”

“For heaven’s sake! I can’t invent a separate forest for you. We aren’t in the Congo Free State; it also would be possible there. Everything has already been discovered here.”^[28]

“Yes, and I’ve discovered that you’re a bad, taunting man.”

Finally, they went to the City Park. As they were looking at the swans, Mr. Péter Korláthy was coming from the opposite direction.

He cast a glance at the enchanting fiancée, and stepped in front of them, boldly. It could not be avoided to introduce her.

“Mr. Péter Korláthy and…”

“and brides man,” added Mr. Korláthy, with a smile and a deep bow. Miss Willner gave her hand.

‘We were just mentioning your tomorrow’s visit.”

“What a rarity is that what Tomorrow promises, given us by To-day.”

Miss Willner makes a by-the-way remark, playfully, “Notwithstanding, you’re welcome tomorrow.”

“Our line is obedience,” said Mr. Korláthy, with an inclination of the head. Sometimes above, sometimes below the line.”

Mr. Korláthy was a handsome, lanky young man of distinguished appearance. A man with oval face and a thin, curly moustache, congenial, and in addition to all this, full of ideas and coruscations of wit.

“Join us if you are free,” said Mr. Altorjay. There’s nobody in the club, anyway.”

They took a walk around the lake. It was a nice summer sunset. Soft sounds were coming from Drót Isle.^[29] From a distance, the uproar of a Punch and Judy show was intermingled with it, and some boats were gliding softly on the lake.

Miss Willner said she also wanted to go for a row.

“It’s late now,” opened her mouth lady companion.

“We won’t get any hackney carriage”, Mr. Altorjay flew to her assistance.

“There’ll be at least one carriage beyond all doubt,” feigned joviality Mr. Korláthy. “The Charles’s Wain. We’ll ride by carriage home. Mr. Altorjay is saying that only because he cannot row a boat. Choose a boat, Miss Willner, and we’ll cross the lake once. I’ll be your gondolier.”

Eszter chose a light boat with a dainty frame, and Mr. Korláthy and Miss Willner climbed into it.

Mr. Korláthy handled the paddles clumsily at the start, the small boat was swinging hither and thither.

“Woe! I’m afraid,” screamed the mademoiselle.

“What are you afraid of, Miss Willner?”

“But anyone can drown here!”

“But how can you think? I’m protected by immunity, and you are protected by me.”

“Don’t argue! You’d better be cautious… Ah, what magnificent air we have here!”

“And most of all farther in the lake!”

“Well, let’s go farther. The lake is big enough.”

“Only if it was bigger to reach the Mediterranean Sea!”

“But what use would it be for you?”

“Because I would row as far as that. I wouldn’t take you out.”

“He was chattering and chattering until a drunken apprentice who was taking his Dulcinea boating, hit the subtle creature with the bow of his boat.^[30]

“Oh dear!” gave a yell Miss Willner.

In the former novelette the boat would have turned over. Esre… I want to say, Miss Willner, would have fallen into the water; Mr. Korláthy would have pulled the senseless creature out of the water; there would have been a reed-thatched hut on the shore of the lake with an angel-faced, old granny; they would have dried her dress, unbuttoned her little bodice. (I would have described the heaving of her white bosom on a full page in detail). In one word, she would have recovered consciousness with a sigh flying up in the air, ‘Where’s He, saver of my life?’

But, this time, the boat fell to one side, a little water spilled into it, Miss Willner got frightened and, seized by fear, seized Mr. Korláthy’s neck, who got scared and, gripped by fear, let go the paddle.

“You’re an awkward ass!” Miss Willner rapped it out loud, when the boat swinging regained its balance. “Take me out immediately, will you? Right now! I command you!”

Mr. Korláthy was offended, because of the tone, not the words, and did not say a word in his excuse.

“You’ve completely ruined my dress,” grumbled and rumbled Miss Willner.

As a matter of fact, the water that spilled into the boat made her cool purple flower barège^[31] summer skirt damp in a way that it adhered to her knees and made her tempting curves visible.

The lady companion and Mr. Altorjay, who only saw that Miss Willner threw her arms around Mr. Korláthy’s neck, had not the slightest idea what was going on.

Mr. Altorjay looked at the lady companion who, whenever embarrassed, changed the conversation to French.

“I cannot imagine what is going on, Monsieur Altorjay. But much can be explained by the fact that the Miss is a soldier’s lady. An old hussar was rocking her cradle. Then it was he who fondled her and played with her. The old Mr. János,^[32] who lives with us even now. The deceased colonel left some retirement income in his will for Mr. John so that he remained at the place of his daughter until his death. She learned many things from the old hussar that is not chic. She’s a very nice and very good child but she’s very capricious, too. This must be something similar. Oh, if I had been charged with the control of her from the very start…”

“Of course, of course,” repeated Mr. Altorjay absent-mindedly.

Meanwhile, the boat reached the shore; the lovely wet Miss Willner looked charming like a real water-elf.

“Good Heavens, you’ll catch a cold. She’s already shivering with cold. Quickly! Get out the shawl, Madame Lucy! Don’t stand there gaping, but help. What’s happened to you? You’re soaking wet.”

Miss Willner looked daggers at Mr. Korláthy; but her anger mingled with a grain of humour.

“Look! The cause is over there.”

“Ay, never mind. We need a hackney carriage as soon as possible because it mustn’t go like this. Péter, would you be so kind as to get one while we reach the road?”

Miss Willner detailed the misfortune that befall them, and the danger they were in, that the boat had had a narrow escape from turning over, and they from plopping into the water, not making a secret of hanging on to Mr. Korláthy’s neck.

“Ay, it’s nothing to speak of,” Mr. Korláthy consoled her, “we’re past danger, and not much harm done either that you already have a notion of what a shipwreck is. The only thing I am sorry about is that you wanted to arrive in the other world, amongst the angels hanging on Peter’s neck.”

The lovely Miss Willner gave a laugh at the idea, “But in the first moment there wasn’t any other conveyance.”

During this time the carriage arrived but without Mr. Korláthy.

“And what about the gentleman who has sent you?” asked Mr. Altorjay.

“He got into another carriage and drove towards the town.”

“He even didn’t say goodbye. That’s very strange.”

“He was offended,” thought Miss Willner, “He must’ve been offended with me.”

“What did you to him?”

“I lost my temper and called him an awkward ass.”

“He’s definitely a silly ass if he took it badly. However, in your shoes I would feel a bit ashamed of it. The chap should be conciliated somehow.”

“But how?”

“It’ll be found out by your ingenious little head. First of all, your Uncle Dani^[33] should invite him for a midday dinner party tomorrow.”

It did so happen. The next day Uncle Dani (that is, Daniel Szabó, Member of Parliament and sworn lawyer, Miss Willner’s guardian) spoke to Mr. Korláthy in the corridor.

“I hear you’ve got angry with my foster-daughter. She wants to reconcile with you. She charged me with taking you for midday dinner party today. Nota bene, she herself wants to prepare the meal.”

It did so happen. Nota bene, she’s busying herself preparing the meal.”

“But I’ll try what a housewife she will be.”

Chance so ordered that Mr. Altorjay could not go to the party. He was hindered by the holiest obstacle. His voters were there.

“I’m afraid I’ll be a street-porter today, Uncle Dani. Please, excuse me before Miss Willner, for my absenteeism.

However, the voters came at a rather inconvenient time. Miss Willner did her utmost. It was a splendid, delicious dinner: meat-soup with shall-shaped pastry with some splinters of mushroom swimming in it, cowflesh with sauce, and the juice of chopped and fried onions, pike with horse radish, roast pork and vermicelli noodles with dill. The gods on the Olympus might have had such a good tuck-in. As a matter of course, there was ‘nectar’ as well, good wines from Eger and Visonta. Poured it out diligently the old Mr. János.

After dinner Miss Willner fetched the cigarette case and, having offered Mr. Péter Korláthy, making use of his fire, she lit coquettishly a cigarette as well.

“Let’s smoke the peace pipe then.”

Time after time a piece of tobacco leaf strayed on her tiny tongue or the rising smoke irritated her nose; that time she would sneeze and made the most wonderful faces. She was really adorable.

“Come now, put it out!”

“To be sure, I’ll smoke it up for your sake.”

Uncle Dani’s dragon-fly shaped eyes became smaller and smaller, he gave a yawn and complained that the speakers had made him drowsy, while his big head fell onto the table. So Mr. Korláthy was left alone with Miss Willner, because the bellicose governess, whom the loud clink clash of dinner plates made rush out, like an irritated dragon, to quarrel in the kitchen.

The chitchat started. It was about trifles that women most concern themselves with: what is going on in the theatres, who and how much lost in the casino, who pays the bills of a so and so actress for her, what is Bismarck… I mean, the Monaszterli ladies’ outfitter contemplating.^[34]

Mr. Korláthy was dragging his chair nearer and nearer to Miss Willner. A tour around the table, which is not to be sneezed at, and which can result in the most pleasant traveller’s memories.

As a first thing, she kneaded a tiny bread pellet. This was the first armament. Cupid, the antique God of Love, used to work with arrows in his time; the modern Cupid also makes experiments with cannon-balls made of bread.

As she threw the pellet at him, Miss Willner shut her beautiful eyes, and her face relaxed into a smile, “I can see you’re not angry anymore.”

“I wasn’t angry with you, believe me.”

“But why were you so downcast?”

“Because I was angry with me.”

“I wonder why.”

“’Cause you were absolutely right that I had been such an awkward ass.

“Don’t be so mercilessly sincere with yourself.”

“’Cause if I hadn’t been such an awkward ass, when you embraced my neck, I should’ve kissed you.”

“Come now! How could such a foolish idea rush into your mind?”

“I’ll feel bitterness all my life whenever I remember that neglect.”

“Oh, you poor unhappy thing,” bantered playfully Miss Willner. “Would you like some more sugar in your coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Miss Willner took out a sugar cube out of the silver sugar basin, and dropped it into his cup in a kind of mocking and mischievous way.

It was only a matter of a moment. Her beautiful, round arm suddenly became apparent to him, as she was moving it over Mr. Korláthy’s shoulder; his eyes flashed with delight at the sight of the attractive lily-white chick, the scent, the fragrance of the woman’s body stupefied him, and bit into the charming arm.

As a matter of fact, he wanted to kiss her, but, instead of it, bit her like an animal. Miss Willner winced. The man’s teeth enjoyed carnal pleasures of the sweet flesh.

“What’re you doing? Are you crazy?”

“Yes, I am,” said the man, out of breath, with the blood rushing to his face, “I adore you, Miss Willner!”

Frightened, she picked up the bell from the table, and rang it.

Uncle Dani started up from his sleep and murmured, “Let’s vote!”

He thought he was in the House of Representatives, and the chair rang the bell.

The old Mr. János hussar rushed in, asking, “Can I help you?”

The girl’s mouth was working with emotion, Mr. Korláthy cast down his eyes like a delinquent, and feared that Miss Willner would call out in indignation, ‘Mr. János, escort this gentleman down the stairs, would you.’”

Miss Willner hesitated for a minute, not knowing what to do then, having calmed down, said, “Mr. János, pick up the match-holder, please.”

Really, it was good luck that as she suddenly pulled back her arm, brushed the match-holder off the table, and it broke into pieces on the floor.

Uncle Dani was a pettifogger crafty enough to realise at once the suspicious circumstances upon having come to his senses, and having looked around a bit more attentively. Miss Willner’s eyes were flashing with anger, her cheeks red just like a rose, Mr. Korláthy embarrassed, the tablecloth half-slipped down, the match-holder in pieces. What if he saw Miss Willner’s arm with the tooth prints hid behind her back!

“Hey, what’s that?” he flared up jokingly. “Canis mater! What’re you doing, fellows?”

Then he started stating the facts of the case, mumbling to himself, ‘Umph, This Mr. Korláthy… what a rascal he is! He’s tasted the meal of the lady of the house, and now, most likely, wants to taste the lady of the house herself.’

His supposition was strengthened by the fact that Miss Willner, having cast the withering look of the furies back at Mr. Korláthy, run out of the room and, when, on his leaving, he wanted to say goodbye to her, Madame Lucy let him know, talking through her nose, that the Miss had a headache, and could not go out.

‘Her head aches, consequently she is angry. She is angry, but has not betrayed him, so, there is some hope left.’

As early as next day, Mr. Korláthy himself hunted Uncle Dani and pressed him hard: “Listen, dear Uncle! You’ve already given a dinner party for Miss Willner’s sake in order to let her make it up to me. Now you should give one more dinner party for my sake in order to let me make it up to her.”

‘Tee-hee-hee,” laughed the old fox. “Why shouldn’t I give another one? I’ll do it very much. But not so fast, sonny boy! You may easily fall under my suspicion for setting a trap for that pigeon. However, the cage, in which she is being kept, is mine, tee-hee-hee. Further, the pigeon belongs to Pista.^[35] Ahem… nothing is impossible, ahem. And what kind commission do you offer, scoundrel, tee-hee-hee?”

“Permitted frauds in the accounts”, Mr. Korláthy taunts at him, smiling, which the old gentleman found such a capital idea, that even his belly was shaking with laughter.

The extorted dinner party was done not before long, and Mr. Korláthy became a frequent guest at the house, which struck even Mr. Altorjay’s eye.

“Uncle Dani, I’m afraid there’s something wrong with our fellow, Péter. If it goes like this, he might fall in love with my fiancée in the long run. Whenever I come to your house, I find him there. What the hell does he do there?”

The old man laughed and shrugged his shoulders in a jovial way.

Juventus ventus. They’re reconciling themselves, young friend. Don’t bother. I’ve never seen such facetious kids before, they’re on bad terms with each other endlessly, and it’s me who has to step in and solve the problem time and again.”

* * *

Greece had seven wise Men, and they only had one chair for the wisest one to sit into it. Each of the wise men passed on the chair to another. This was a mix-up by itself.

In Hungary, there’re eight chairs––but only one wise man (sometimes none). That is what I call a big mess. Unwise men must also be seated into the chairs.

And these wise men are not at all so modest as the Greek ones used to be; these ones never pass the chair to another one but, on the contrary, they cling to all the eight ones, so as to get them, whether it is possible or not.

This all happened just at a time when ministers were being recruited. The cabinet was being reconstructed. This is great news in the club. The Mameluke army is swarming feverishly. Kaleidoscopical combinations are circulating in the air.

Mr. Altorjay also wanted something. What? How should he know? He only ‘wanted’. Anything may happen, anything may happen anyhow. Volitioners cling to each other, small volitioners to big volitioners, just like luggage vans to the first class carriages. The king carries the cobbler, the cobbler carries the fox, the fox carries the pike…^[36]

He was lounging about in the club; although the wedding day was appointed for the eight day thereafter, he hardly ever devoted more than a few minutes to look in on his fiancée during daylight. What an insensitive, miserable man, wasting his most beautiful treasures! Since the poetic quality of marriage only affects those few days before marriage! The honeymoon is the tree of knowledge; the pre-marriage weeks are the tree of anticipation. They yield the sweetest fruits.

As for Mr. Altorjay, the weeks of anticipation flew away without his anticipation.

On the last afternoon before the wedding day he visited his fiancée. Spent the evening in the club, and slept soundly at night. In the morning he got up, had breakfast and read the daily papers. It is guesswork in progress. (All these newspapers are lying just like a discharged soldier.) Then he started putting on his clothes: pulled on his spurred morocco boots, his garnet buttoned blue velvet hussar’s pelisse, buckled on his sward trimmed with turquoises, and got on the carriage.

According to his clock it was only half past eight p. m. ‘It’s early yet––he said to himself. ‘Esztike is being dressed and the bridal wreath is being fitted on her fair hair only now. I’d be only in the way now. Uncle Dani’s sheding crocodile tears. The old Mr. János’s growling like a bear, the bridesmaids and friends are twittering like swallows.

Let they relieve their feelings, everybody according to their taste.

In the meantime, I will have just enough time to drive to Nagystáció Street to pick up Péter, my brides man.’

The carriage was rolling swiftly on the pavement; the hoes of the horses were throwing tiny, glistening sparks. Human fantasy moulded the roar and rattle of the wheels into clear words: ‘Contented man, contented man’.

Mr. Altorjay arrived.

He went upstairs elastically; his sward was clattering gaily and pertly as if it said this at every step: “Esq. Mr. Altorjay, Member of Parliament is going here.’ He pressed the bell button on Mr. Korláthy’s door. It was screaming happily, “Good morning, good morning!’

A young boy-servant, kind of that of a fashionable dandy, answered the door. “I’m afraid Esq. is out, Sir. He’s out of town.”

“Your mind’s out of town, you callow youth! Do you want to say you don’t know who I am?”

“No, I don’t, Sir. I humbly beg your pardon, Sir. Of course, I know you very well; you’re Esq. Altorjay. However, my master‘s left town.

“That’s impossible! We were together only yesterday.”

“He took off last night.”

“He didn’t leave any messages for me?”

“I’m afraid not, Sir.”

“Well, that’s funny! Unbelievable!”

Shaking his head in disapproval, he left. In front of the gate he jumped on his carriage and drove to his fiancée’s home.

‘By the time I get there, it’ll be nine p. m.,’ he told to himself.

He found Uncle Dani and governess in the sitting room. They were walking excitedly up and down.

“I’m afraid there is a big trouble!” he said, stepping into the room, with an annoyed face.

They both looked at him at once, “Oh, so you know it already!”

“Of course. So he sent a word to you, after all. What’s the matter with him?”

“He didn’t send us a word at all! Not at all!” sad Uncle Dani with a most gloomy countenance. “He didn’t send us a word. I’ll be damned if I had a smell of it! That’s terrible, all the same.”

“Let’s not give a damn to it, Uncle Dani. He must be substituted immediately. Is there anybody at hand?”

The old gentleman stared with astonished eyes at Mr. Altorjay, and pointed at Mme Lucy with an acrimonious humour on his face, “Well, there’s governess at hand. Will she do?”

The governess? As a brides groom? Have you gone mad, Uncle Dani?”

“I’ve grown not to understand you, Pista. I’m afraid you’re not in full possession of your faculties. But no wonder. Who would have thought it? Womenfolk are like this. Born in the rotary dance with the devil.”

“What kind of womenfolk are you talking about?”

“Well, about Eszter.

“By the way! Has she already dressed up?”

“Who?”

“Miss Willner, of course!”

Uncle Dani and Mme Lucy exchanged significant glances, then Uncle Dani shrug his shoulder and rub his hands together as if he was washing them.

The governess came to suspect something. After all, a man of that kind is not a twenty-five-year-old student, who can go out of his mind all of a sudden. ‘There must be some misunderstanding here.’ “So you don’t know that he’s disappeared,” began Mme Lucy.

“Dammit! I’ve already said I know it,” said Mr. Altorjay calmly.

This calmness put another suspicion in governess’s mind. “Maybe you know where has he disappeared?”

“No! I don’t know that, and I don’t bother about it. I don’t care a fig where he is; but one is certain, he’s a nasty man.

“Who?”

“Nobody else but Mr. Korláthy.”

“What you’re saying is beyond me. Why, what did Mr. Korláthy do?”

“By George! Is it not that we’ve been talking about from the word go? He left for somewhere, and lead me nicely up the garden path.”

It all became clear to the governess in a flash. “I’ve got it! I’ve found out what has happened to him.”

“Well?”

“All is clear now!“ she yelled animatedly, “he’s departed with Miss Willner together.”

Mr. Altorjay’s face became pale, his eyes protruded. “with Miss Willner together?” he stuttered. “For the love of God, what’s happened to Miss Willner?”

There was a ring outside. The bridesmaids or the other brides man must have been coming. Uncle Dani run out to meet them. Mme Lucy enlightened the fiancé.

“But we’ve already been talking about it for a quarter of an hour, Monsieur, haven’t we? However, your thoughts have been being captivated by Mr. Korláthy all the time. It’s true enough that Miss Willner disappeared last night. We found her bed untouched in the morning and, would you believe it, the oldster Mr. János left with her. I’ve always kept saying that this man is a gallows bird.”

Mr. Altorjay, pressing his hands on his temples, collapsed into an armchair.

“It’s a rather sad history,” the governess broke the silence in a whimpering tone.

“That’s right,” added Mr. Altorjay in a hollow voice.

“Sure enough, I’m now left without a job in my old age.

Mr. Altorjay did not hear it; his head hummed, the blood could be seen pumping in the veins on his forehead, he got a weird look in his eyes, his lips were moving involuntarily. He was reflecting loudly.

“What a shame, what a shame.” (Instead of “What a grief!”)

“And she took her beautiful moiré wedding costume along with her,” complained the governess. “Oh, oh!”

“What will the world say?” continued Mr. Altorjay, developing the train of his depressing thought. (What his heart was saying was left out of consideration.) His only concern was his shame, the world. What would say the Club, what would say the ministers?”

“Well, they’ll surely laugh.”

“And what will the creditors say?”

“Well, they’ll surely not laugh.”

Uncle Dani, having settled things with the inopportune wedding-guests, made an infuriated rush at Mr. Altorjay. “Well, what’s next, young gentleman? What’s done cannot be undone. You were the clumsy, silly ass, not the other one. Also my eight thousand forint are gone! If you’re such a great politician, the time has come for you, old chap to invent something for us to do.”

“I know what I’ll do,” he said in a low, raspy voice. “I’ll kill that rascal. I’ll find him no matter where he tries to hide.”

* * *

They did not even need to be searched. They got married in Pozsony, spent a few honey days in Vienna, and then, as if nothing had happened, came home to the flat in Nagy Stáció Street.

One day, as usual, Mr. Altorjay went into the club and, walking through the halls of the club, to his great surprise, saw Mr. Korláthy playing Tarot cards there at one of the tables. He had announced juggler’s last trick just then at that second; he was concentrating all of his attention on the game. The old Lord Lieutenant, Sir Gravinczy (one of the partners) was, out of mere policy connected with Tarot, supping the filthy mouthpiece of his cigar pipe, giving utmost care. To begin with, he was cleaning the stem then, craning his markedly long neck upwards, blew off the stump of a Puerto Rico cigar stuck in the pipe towards the ceiling of the hall. This cleaning intermezzo was but a cloak for his hawk-eyes, as a result of the neck operations, to get a glimpse of the other players’ cards, being desperately stuck in the lead, while his partner was counting the points eagerly.

Mr. Altorjay was heading directly for the cards table. Mr. Korláthy noticed it, and gave a start. He was looking into his cards, embarrassed, taking his time until he found out what to do next. Whatever may happen, he would greet him with a smile. It goes without saying; it is better to make a joke of an incident like this. It was nothing else if looked upon correctly.

He reached out his hand to Mr. Korláthy with a cynical laughter, “How‘re you, Pista? Quo modo vales?^[37]

Mr. Altorjay gave him a cold, withering look and, excited, lowered his hand on the shoulder of Sir Gravinczy, Lord Lieutenant. “How could you sit down with this shabby fellow face to face to play cards?” said, pointing at Mr. Korláthy with his other hand.

With this, he walked into the other room.

Mr. Péter Korláthy turned red, and sprang up, slapping down the cards in the middle of the table. “That’s too much! This demands blood!

With this, he ran away flushed with rage to find seconds.

The partners exchanged significant glances. “It’s the same as if we caught his last trick,” one of them said.

(The comrades were not interested in what will happen to him; the most important question was what will become of the last trick.)

“Moreover, he’s lost the deuce,” said the other partner.

“Of course,” marked the Lord Lieutenant. “It must be recorded. Although…”

The words stuck in his throat; he thought it more prudent to keep his opinion to himself.

“What did Your Lordship want to say?”

“That, among ourselves, he would’ve gained everything if he hadn’t slapped down the cards.”

Seconds can be found quickly in the pub. Volitioners want everything so much, that from time immemorial no one from among them has ever wanted not to be a second. It is also some kind of position; at least for a day. It is such as it is, but kind of coming out. Your name will become better known. An abundance profusion of ‘statements’ in the papers will keep it before the public eye sometimes even for days. All the electors in the constituency will read it, and the simple souls will keep saying, presumptuously, ‘Our MP is having his head at a stake working in a matter of life and death,’ or the pothouse politicians say on the stamp, ‘Our MP is rehabilitating his reputation again.“

And how many times it repeats; it can be read again and again. So many days so many cases. The meek fellows in the village may ask themselves: ‘I wonder whether the honour of the lords is made of crock… it breaks so often and it is so easy to be riveted and wired.’

Yes, there will come an abundance of ‘statements’ in the papers soon. One ounce of blood and four pints of ink. This is the result of the duels in Hungary. The one ounce is uncertain but the ink is certain.

The duel took place in the Rákospalota Forest,^[38] where the trees are randomly shot with bullets. Whenever a woodsman is sawing a tree there, a few years after, all of a sudden, one or two bullets will roll out of the tree. Each bullet is a missed man. Mushroom-picking peasant kids also happen to find bullets among the grass leaves. Each is the moral rehabilitation of a man. They would put these ‘pieces of respect’ into the pockets of their little waistcoats, and play with them under the eaves…

Mr. Altorjay made the first shot and missed the target; Mr. Korláthy made the second shot, and hit the target. The bullet only smashed Mr. Altorjay’s collar-bone. The doctors bandaged it up, and said to be not dangerous. Maybe he would not be able to move his right arm for a long time. However, it will not affect his living. After all, it is not your right hand you vote with.

Now it was the turn of the statements. Statements were made by the seconds, saying that the affair had been straightened in a way that honour had been satisfied. Disproving a hoax that Mr. Altorjay’ wound was dangerous to life, declarations were made by the doctors. In order to rectify a piece of news that the principals had not shaken hands after the duel, declarations were made by both principals. It had been completely impossible because Mr. Altorjay’s hand was entirely bandaged up. The owner of the club made a declaration referring to an article under the title ‘Unheard-of Scandal in the Club’. Statements were made by eyewitnesses on how the scene of quarrel had taken its course. Sir Gravinczy, Lord Lieutenant, also an eyewitness, made a declaration, which lead to a side-issue. A local oppositional newspaper, entitled Nagyvarjas Sward, wrote its readers that the Lord Lieutenant had been playing cards in Budapest for weeks instead of detecting the trickeries of the local Superintending Authority of Minors. Thy kingdom come, state’s public administration!

Concerning this matter, the deputy-lieutenant made a statement saying that His Honour the Lord Lieutenant had only been to Budapest in county duties in connection to the local savings bank, concerning which the savings bank made a statement ‘so as to reassure the stakeholders’, saying that the affair was merely administrative in nature, absolutely not affecting the financial situation of the savings bank. Seeing that several malicious hints were flashing their white teeth devilishly from among the trees of the forest of the vicious black letters while the Korláthy-Altorjay affair along with its antecedents was whirling in the press, Mr. Dániel Szabó, MP, “felt an impulse” to make a statement, saying that he had not been aware at all of Mr. Korláthy’s intentions. Which was proven clearly by the fact that he ordered Mr. Altorjay’s family crest to be engraved on the silver-plate–intended to be given to his foster-daughter as a wedding-present–only in the last days. A stork holding a sward in its beak. The stork was evidence that he was innocent.

As a matter of course, the engraver also made a statement. Because this country is, among others, the land of statements. The whole society is confused by statements. Here everything will be cured with statements. Some statements prove that a certain woman is chaste, others, that a certain man is chaste. Lows are improved by statements. Should the government make a mistake, it would make a statement. Even the King himself makes a statement, when he wants to change ill humour into good humour. Here everybody makes statements. Statements are the country’s change. Everything is paid and everybody is fed with it. If someone happens to sprain his ankle in the street, the street sweeper will make a statement, saying that he did not leave any watermelon rinds on the pavement. If the patient recovers his health, he will make a statement that he has the doctor to thank for his life; if he dies, it will be the doctor to make a statement that it was not he who caused his death. The pharmacist will also make a statement. Only the dead person will not make any statements. Finally, a piece of good news.

But, like everything in the world, these statements will also be no more. They will be ousted by new statements. The case will fizzle out, as it is said, and take its normal course.

Mr. Altorjay and Mr. Korláthy will be forgotten, and may disappear among the mass of people. One or two more flexible brains will remember them, and when the fair and beautiful young wife appears somewhere, people will whisper behind her back, “She’s the one who’s changed her fiancé! What a dainty young woman!”

Then the labelling ‘ciancé-changing’ will also be forgotten because it will be ousted by another one: ‘unhappy woman’.

It was said that her husband was a shallow, characterless man; he did not love her. He was on the loose. Ran after actresses, chorus-girls, stood them champagne at the Blue Cat night after night. What a gluttonous animal is that ‘Blue Cat’! Ay, how many people has it eaten already! People and domains.

Mr. Korláthy, of course, did not require any extra effort. It took about two years.

Mrs. Willner’s marriage portion melted down considerably, according to the figures provided by Mr. Dániel Szabó. Miss Willner’s education had cost much, very much money. One would think, he had had the whole Heidelberg University brought here for her.

Mr. Korláthy prosecuted Uncle Dani but, while the proceedings were going on, part of the marriage portion in hand run out. Hardship was already knocking on their door. That gloomy time when family jewellery and silver plates set out on their wanderings.

Mr. Korláthy was intelligent enough to see the inevitable fate. He decided to escape from it to the Other World or the New World.

One evening, on the way home from the club, he took Mr. Altorjay by the arm. That is to say, they had become good friends again. One should respect the rules of decorum.

“Pista, May I ask you a confidential question?”

“Yes, please.”

“Please tell me truly, have you ever really loved Eszter?”

“A curious question. You know I wanted to merry her, don’t you?”

“And how does she seem to you now?”

“Damn it! Pretty, pleasant… I’m not blind.”

Mr. Korláthy leant closer to him, and confidentially said in a low voice, “Why don’t you merry her?”

Mr. Altorjay ducked his head in surprise, “How could it enter your mind to offer your wife to another man? Shame on you! Is this why you’ve been inviting me to your house for some time now?”

“Don’t condemn me. I’m guided by honour. I have to start a new life and a new career or else I’ll blow my brains out. I can start a new life only without her, and if I blow my brains out, she’ll become a widow. I’d like to provide for her whatever may happen.”

“Have you got already so far?” asked Mr. Altorjay with some shade of sympathy.

“Yes. The money has gone, and the snare of debts gets tighter and tighter around my neck. That old villain, Szabó is going to prolong the suit until doomsday. I decided that radical means are needed. Do you take or leave the woman? Please give me an answer.”

“Am I a fool” said Mr. Altorjay, indignant “to let you palm the woman without anything off on me when it was you who had spent her marriage portion?”

‘So! You also wanted only the marriage portion, didn’t you?” Mr. Korláthy answered him pat with biting irony.

So, with biting irony, because judges of morals and morally accused people are mixed up to an extent that either of them may take a role that he prefers at that moment.

Several days after this conversation, Mr. Korláthy was not seen in the city, wickedly leaving his young wife alone.

And he never returned. At first the rumour was spreading only slowly. It was published by a paper subsequently.

“He’s gone to America” said light-minded people, “He did the right thing; for him the game here is over, anyway.”

He stated to some people that he could not live in this reactionary political atmosphere any longer. He said he was discontent with the politics, the trends of ideas; so he decided to leave for a freer country.

“He was the only true democrat!” said the ones who seek political motives behind everything.

“He fled from his debtors,” whispered the cleverer ones.

“He left me alone,” faltered the poor young wife, and she was crying day and night, sobbing her heart out.

She was facing unhappy times. The green of grass-widowhood is even worse than the black of death; grass-widowhood is tougher than widowhood.

Being able at least to find the man she loves, and to find him––even that would have been something. There would be a hillock on the ground and a wooden grave-post beside it. Talking to the grave-post and asking it questions now and then––even that would have offered considerable relief.

But what if whom she loves was nowhere? The ground did not know about him because it had not received him yet. She wanted to ask the clouds, whether he was coming back from there. She wanted to give a word to the clouds––whether he was going there. He could only be found in the looks of the people expressing mockery, malicious satisfaction or compassion. Mockery, malicious satisfaction, and compassion are each a grave! Her husband was buried in three graves!

It was such a relief to her heart to receive a letter with a ‘Hamburg’ postmark on it one month after.

It was not too pleasing. However, she was kissing it, carrying it in her bosom in daytime, keeping it under her pillow at night.

“Do not look for me,“ said the letter. “Forgive me that I left you alone, but I could not choose but do so. I cannot be a poor man where I used to be a gentleman. I have nothing; I had to leave. Be happy, and get married if you have a luck to do so. I will never come back.”

“Do not look for me!“ But she would find him, for all that! She would search for him, even if she should die of it, even if she has to roam over the world. She would find him, how could she not find him? “

“Why, Mr. János, a man isn’t a needle, to get lost easily in the world, is it?”

The old hussar, who was, on the whole, a bit week-minded and kind-hearted fellow, consoled and reassured her, saying, “Naturally, of course. Such a brave, nice-looking man, like our Master, is exposed to view everywhere, wherever he abides; it’ll be easy to find him. Don’t worry; stop crying, my dearest, my darling…

But then, when they wanted to set out, a hitch occurred.

“Well, Mr. János, how can I get money for the travel?

“Quite so! We’ll sell the furniture.”

“But they’re seized for unpaid rent and different other types of debt. “

“God damn those leeches!”

Finally, after a long deliberation, they came to the conclusion that Miss Willner would humble herself, that is, she would look up at Mr. Dániel Szabó; who might give her some money. In the final analysis, he himself is indebted to her.

At Dániel Szabó’s house the servants said that he had left the town.

“When is he coming back?”

“It’s uncertain.”

Then she went there several more times, hoping less and less with time, but the Mister was always on the road. She sent a letter to him but did not get any answer. Miss Willner’s position became more and more desperate. Even local general dealers stopped giving anything on credit to her.

Once Mr. Altorjay visited her. By that time poverty was looking at you from all the pieces of furniture––everything in the one-time beautiful flat, which made the member of Parliament impudent. He was speaking in a stinging and frivolous voice, and he pinched Miss Willner’s cheeks several times.

“Esztike, do you love me?” he asked with some passion of love.

“And what if I did?”

Poverty slowly wore away her charming bloom of youth, which makes plums bloomy and women delicate.

When, upon saying good-bye, Mr. Altorjay said that he would come back again soon, the old hussar started to joke, “Maybe we could return to the old one, Missy.” (He still called her as he used to do in the regiment.) Something begins to dawn on me… Then, maybe, divorce can be carried out.

Mrs. Willner was shaking the head. “He doesn’t need me, because I have no money!”

But from that time on, Mr. Altorjay, somehow or other, was there every day, dogged Miss Willner’ footsteps, flirted with her, swearing repeatedly that he adored her.

The old hussar used to murmur, “I’m worrying, Missy.”

Mrs. Willner pouted her lips, “A fat lot I care for him, since he hasn’t got any money.

Poverty is such a dragon, on the back of which you can travel from one planet to the other almost unnoticed.”

“Ay, that poverty! In fact, we were nearly exhausted.”

“Poverty’s standing at the door, devils are mocking at the windows. They’re creeping behind poverty. And who’s afraid of poverty, calls the devils in to hunt them out. And they’re rather venturesome lads!”

“I need money to be able to leave!” Mrs. Willner said, her patience exhausted. I need money at any price, otherwise I’ll go mad.”

The old Mr. János was racking his brain until he contrived a solution.

“Money, money… Missy, I’ve thought out something, although it is not clear even to myself. When with Esq. Dániel Szabó, not once but a hundred times, I saw how gentlemen made money. What if we gave a try?”

“Go ahead, dear Uncle János.

It’s very simple. I was made to get a blank bill from a tobacco shop for one forint, then Gentlemen Esq. wrote on the bill: ‘one thousand forint’, and it was as just the same sum.”

“And what next?”

“The Gentleman Esq. sent me with it to a bank. I’ve forgotten to say that he signed it.”

“And?”

“And it was paid in the bank without giving it a second thought. I’ll be damned if it isn’t true. “

“Sure enough, dear Uncle János,” said lively Mrs. Willner, “since my dear Péter used to do it the same way… It’s called bill of exchange.”

“Well, this being granted, we should do it,” suggested Mr. János. Fortune favours the bold! We won’t lose anything, even if it is a failure. Missy’s handwriting is as neat as the one of my ceased Master, the Esq Colonel.

“And I can subscribe his name in a way that even Uncle Dani won’t be able to recognise it,” boasted Mrs. Willner. “He himself showed me how to do it. So that, sometimes, when very busy, he made me sign the documents.”

“Said and done; they prepared the bill of exchange, and it was a success; the next day Mr. János brought the money triumphantly from the bank, and Mrs. Willner started on her way to Hamburg that very evening. Mr. Altorjay was looking for her in vain in the empty nest the next day. The pigeon had flown away. The Member of Parliament was upset only because her feathers were not rumpled.

* * *

Our poor little heroin, helpless human being, whom I can call an intelligent young woman as well as a naïve little goose; who could have been good or—in the same way—bad; who could have been happy or—in the same manner—unhappy; whom the wind could have tossed on the green grass among the laughing flowers instead of rolling it about in the mud —where will you come to a stop, our poor little heroin?

Are your tiny feet pacing or the ones of the implacable destiny in its iron hobnailed boots?

But it is all the same, since who will keep an eye on your destiny?

You are in Hamburg, looking for your husband, searching his traces, looking at the departing and arriving ships. The money you took with you is running out fast. ‘What brings the morning?’ you ask, despaired, your heart sink; and you cannot read any answers in the impassionate, indifferent faces of the huge swarms of people.

Or you can, nevertheless. Sometimes one or two young frolic dandies or hoary-headed old sinners will give you a smile; leers at you, waiting for your response. This is the answer to the ‘Morning’, this is the Future!

You have already regretted to come here, have not you?

You had better have remained at home, waiting for the fate.

In this way, you cannot find Péter, as he would not be able to find you, even if he wanted to. Who knows if all his feelings have turned back towards you? Who knows if a letter is waiting at home for you?

Soon after Mrs. Willner was about to go back to Budapest. She had no confidence in Hamburg any more. And she was overcome with homesick.

She wrote a touchy letter to Uncle Dani, picturing her awful situation, and asking him to send him some money, forgive her fault, make a home for her. She offered him to be his constant maid-servant, and asked him to remember his one-time friendship with his father.

She was just taking the letter to the counter clerk in the post office, walking through the premises of the gloomy, old post office building when her eyes cast upon the window, where, as usual, the ‘unclaimed’ letters were displayed. There were always groups standing and laughing while reading the quaint and simple-minded addresses. In a big city every sort of treat attracts a large public.

Having cast a glance there, the following address struck her in the eye written in Hungarian on an envelope:

“Good Lord! This is from János. It’s a letter to me.“

With a trembling heart she went in for it. The clerk gave it to her without saying a word, and she was reading, as follows:

The letter was trembling in Mrs. Korláthy’s hands; her little beautiful face, on which were red roses were blooming at home, was full of deadly cadaverousness now. She was grasping to the window railings, so as not to collapse.

“I’m pursued, I’ll be arrested…“ The last straw was broken. Mechanically, she tore the letter to Mr. Dániel Szabó to pieces.

“It’s all over!”

This being granted, what hopes has she, what’s to be done? How can she sustain her existence? There are so many trades in the world… Which one does she know? Whom should she consult?

Well, the shop windows, which reflect her image. These large panes of glass will tell the desperate existences, what to do. They sand the tired and weakening proletarian: ‘Go, madman, for there’s the water, the sea will make you a soft bed; they tell to the muscular tramp, tormented with hunger: ‘Though without money, don’t be helpless. You’re strong enough to take it from the ones who have it.’ And, reflecting her dainty shape, her snow-white and tender complexion, the sweetly plaintive look in her eyes, the shop windows are whispering to her, ‘You’re beautiful, you’re wonderful; what more do you want? Where to turn? What means to resort to? Why? Why don’t you resort to your beauty?’

That’s right. But in which way? It cannot be done so easy. Steps lead down as well.

The British Parliament’s power is usually characterised by the sentence, ‘They can make anything they want––save for a maiden from a woman’. Distress is even mightier––it can make even a maiden from a woman. The pane of glass whispered to Mrs. Korláthy, that she could turn into, for example, a dainty flower-girl.

And the first step on the descending stairs is not frightening. In the contrary, it is pure and lovely. Selling flowers––what is wrong with it? Why? In second consideration, it is a real poetic profession; the fittest one to a beautiful female creature.

It is true that while doing it, one must keep smiling. Never mind. The merchants all smile at their buyers. The Swift Mercury distributed Smiles among her adherents gratis, saying, “the yard-stick may be shorter, you may stick a small unjust weight made of wax or tar to the bottom of the balance pan, but do not be stingy with smiles.’ Smiling is a rather harmless thing, and fits to flowers. Smiling is the flower of the lips and the eyes, just as flowers are smiling of Mother Earth.

So Mrs. Willner became a flower-girl. She was bustling about with her neat little basket at the public places, on the seashore, on the promenades, where the biggest crowd is swarming, having learned from the other flower-girls their charming allures, the kind and facetious grimaces, the naive roguishness, the tempting, lively movements; in one word, everything that belongs to her profession. For it does not go in any other way but like this: the girl offers the flowers and the flowers offer her…

She buried the past completely. Put on a short skirt and let down her hair loathing her girlish appearance. She did not look more than sixteen years old. Even changed her name to Mari Wild.

She was alluring, sexually appetizing, young men’s eyes were arrested on her, and her ‘complexion’ soon became sensitive enough to perceive instantly from where a gaze was almost as a scorching light shining on her. And neither they nor she asked, tearing the tree leaves or the petals, ‘Does he love me?’, ‘Does he heartily?’, ‘A little?’, or ‘Not a bit?’

The Past was haunting her only by nights. At daylight, she would whisk it away like a molesting horse-fly, ‘Shoo you fly with your sting.’ Almost everything had faded already away, when one day, towards evening, as her faint eyes were roving over the mast forest on the sea, all of a sudden a female voice spoke to her in perfect English, “Miss, you have very nice flowers.”

She gave a start, and turned towards the lady standing arm-in-arm beside a man, wearing a pair of cream coloured gloves and searching with her fingers in her basket.

“Here you are, Madame,” spoke she, in French, in a shy voice. These girls feel always awkward when they are spoken by someone of their gender. She dropped her eyes, and did not dare even to lift up here eyes from her basket.

The Lady selected several tea-roses and a bunch of gillyflowers.

“Pay it, my dear friend!” she said to her chaperon.

It was only that time Mrs. Willner recognised the gentleman and, having cast her eyes upon him, turned pale and screamed: “Péter! Oh, Jesus, that’s you?”

His limbs shuttered and his arm, on which the Amazon-built Lady’s hand was fastened, fell down involuntarily. “Is that you, Eszter? Is that true?”

But he soon overcame his surprise and, governing his temper, he used a natural voice. Hush! For God’s sake, don’t make a scandal!

“What’s going on?” asked the English Woman, shocked.

“What type of creature is this on your arm?” burst out Mrs. Willner, scanning the skeleton, which was rolled in laces, from head to foot already courageously and with challenging mockery.

Mr. Korláthy, standing between the two women, was embarrassed beyond measure; he had to calm down and answer them in two languages at the same time. The one did not speak English, the other Hungarian. Notwithstanding, as he was listening to them speaking, he found both languages very similar to the hiss of snakes.

“Dear Emmy, she’s one of my fellow-countrymen. I want to exchange a few words with her,” he said to his dame.

“Let me explain, my dear,” he reassured Mrs. Willner. “I have to take this lady to her inn. Let’s meet in an hour. But where?”

“Let’s leave, Sir!” urged the Miss (or Mrs.) him with a dignified face.

“Once having happened to find you, I won’t let you off,” insisted Mrs. Willner, putting one arm akimbo.

“We’re leaving, my Lady, right away,” Mr. Korláthy gaggled. “She’s from my village, and was about to tell me some interesting news about my relatives. Don’t make yourself ridiculous, Emmy. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Then he changed into the Hungarian language at once. “Esztike, my dear, don’t argue for the sake of arguing. After all, I’ve been looking for you everywhere, and now, that I’ve found you, you’re going to lose me because of your imprudent behaviour. I swear that we’ve got a special common interest which is the only reason for escorting this woman back. Follow us, keeping a distance, to the inn, and wait for me at the gate until I come back down again.”

Mrs. Korláthy yielded; she was so excited, all this happened so unexpected, that her silly, helpless heart was leaping in her chest. One for the sorrow, one for the joy. What was it affected by actually?

She followed her husband slowly, at a distance. On the way he was delivering long speeches to the Miss, to which, in turn, a flood of longish and irritated replies fell back upon him, until finally the golden lattice gate of the hotel engulfed them.

Mrs. Willner was waiting for Mr. Korláthy, impatiently, tensely; she reached twice the point of breaking into the building, following them.

“I’m all yours now,” recited Mr. Korláthy with pathos, when he came down at last.

“Forever!” added Mrs. Willner.

That’s right, from tomorrow on. But now, let’s go somewhere else, my dear, where we can have a short chat.”

“But where to?”

“Let’s go, for instance, to your lodging.”

“But it’s only a mansard room.”

“But it’s your nest.”

(Oh, what a nest! It is hard to depict how the blood rushed her face.)

Mr. Korláthy took her by the arm. It was just the moment when the night has fallen upon the humming and swarming city. On the way through the narrow alleys he was cuddling and questioning her, “Tell me, darling, how you got here? How is that you’re blooming here along with the other flowers? “

And Mrs. Willner told him everything sincerely. How she had lost everything she owned, step by step; how she had got the money for the journey to Hamburg, with the aim of seeing him. While narrating, she was both laughing and crying. And, most of all, when the turn came for the letter from Uncle János. Well, it had been a really irresistibly funny letter. And, most of all, its orthography! (So help me, I’m very sorry for failing to preserve it for you.)

Mr. Korláthy felt more and more like being in fine feather. “Well, I imagine what the letter from Mr. János was like. But you’d better know, you little silly, that you are wanted by the police according to that back in Hungary.”

“Of course, but what do I care? Now I’ve got you, you’ll protect me. And, as you see, I had the good sense, without taking anybody’s advice, to assume another name; now my name’s Mari Wild here.”

“Give me a kiss, then, dear Mariska!”

“Not a half until we arrive home and you admit your sins there in my room.” Then she added in a flirtatious voice, “until Mr. Korláthy confesses what kind of woman is he rumbling with, and why, and until I give him complete forgiveness of his sins.”

Mr. Korláthy burst into a laugh. “Oh, you daydreamer! All was very simple. I went to America from here and, as you know, I used to be a medical student, I utilized this knowledge of mine. In America, everybody lives as he can. I conducted a wide publicity campaign, and got my first patients soon too. Miss Tompson, a millionaire, placed herself under my care, asking me to escort her to sea resorts as her own personal doctor. Miss Tompson’s my simple patient.”

“Ha-ha-ha! Am I to understand you’re curing Miss Tompson?”

Well, yes,” said Mr. Korláthy with a gloomy face.

“And with what success?” Mrs. Wild asked stingily. “I hope she enjoys good health.”

“Her complaints have lessened considerably.”

“Well, I hardly think so, because very few women recover from that kind of disease.”

“From what kind of disease?” Mr. Korláthy stammered in embarrassment as a contrast to Mrs. Willner’s immensely sarcastic voice.

“From very old age.”

“Come now, don’t joke around! I’m going to let her go home tomorrow morning, healthy, only taking the fees from her in a friendly way. It’ll be just enough for us to do something with it.”

“Aren’t you deceiving me, Peter?”

Mr. Korláthy lifted two fingers to the sky.

“I don’t need your finger. Do with them as you please but don’t take an oath. I need your hearth. –– Look, here we are, at home.”

There in the obscure corner of the attic they spent a romantic lover’s tryst. There was nothing there only a chair. “Come sit down here, in my lap, honey!” Mrs. Willner found only a small candle-end, but no lighter. –– “Why are you looking? To what end, my dear little wife?”

“Why, you can’t even see me.”

“Your lips are enough for me. Why don’t you offer them? Come let me taste my one-time honey on them… Honey’s sweet in the darkness, too … Hay, my dear little wife, has it not been pilfered since that time?”

(I see! Somebody is happy now that that candle has not been lit up.) Making plans for the future, billing and cooing, twitting words followed by sweet words; in the meantime a kiss resounds, which gives rise to red patches on the cheeks, like tiny wheels… Time does tend to roll fast on these wheels.

Mr. Korláthy had to leave soon.

“Well, what time are you coming tomorrow?” sighed Mrs. Willner.

“At noon, or even earlier,” whispered Mr. Korláthy, intoxicated with love.

“I’d rather not being kept waiting; tell me an exact time to make sure you won’t be late.”

“I’ll be here exactly at noon.”

“Mrs. Willner, having accompanied him down the stairs a part of the way, run up back to her room, opened the windows, and waited until Mr. Korláthy got down on the street. At that moment she grabbed her basket, and poured all her flowers upon his head. It was with what she said good-bye to her trade.

But it was not before long that it cut to her heart, ‘Maybe it was too early’!

She could not get sleep that night because of this thought. Various monsters were streaming out of the small tin-stove; black buffaloes with three horns, vast snakes with bat-wings, laughing demons, compassionate dwarves, as if all shouted to her, ‘T‘was too early! Too early!’

She put on her most beautiful dress at dawn. The minutes were passing slowly, enormously slowly; she could hear each and every beat of the clock. ‘Tick-tack… tick-tack,’ the clock rattled, ‘is coming.. isn’t coming’.

Finally, the clock was striking the twelve in the church tower. All the bells started to peal forth throughout Hamburg.

‘Hush, nasty bells!” As if she could hear steps on the stairs approaching the attic. ‘There’s no doubt any more. These are man’s steps. He’s coming!’

Her cheeks started glowing with joy, swiftly leapt to her little mirror to cast a last (satisfied) glance at herself. Then, laughing and singing to herself, ran to answer the door.

But it was already opening close in front of her, and a policeman stepped in through the door. “Madame, you’re Mrs. Willner from Budapest, aren’t you?”

Mrs. Willner, was staring at him in dumbstruck; everything swam before her eyes.

“I arrest you in the name of the law. Follow me, Madame.”

* * *

I take up the tread of my own narrative again, when a year passed in the story in order to avoid lack of ending.

One day Mr. Altorjay, Lord Lieutenant, Esq., chanced to come to Budapest from his own county (with Slovak-speaking population) and, having not enough card-partners to make up a table in the National Casino, he was spending time chatting, asking his old acquaintances about where So and So had got to, what So and So was doing.

“Ay, what’s become of the beautiful Mrs. Korláthy? Who’s heard anything about that well-rounded pigeon?”

“The pigeon’s in the cage at present,” said Mr. Gravinczy, Lord Lieutenant.

“How come?”

“She was arrested in Hamburg for that certain forged bill.”

“I guess it was a very cruel thing to do,” sighed Mr. Altorjay.

“Even the devil wasn’t after her any more; obviously, she must have been denounced by a rascal of some sort.”

“And how is Mr. Korláthy doing? Is he still alive?”

“Why, certainly. He is living and governing. He’s staying here with an English female, and throwing money away by the handful.”

“By gum, if only I could see him!”

“Nothing easier than this, because he’s in the Casino right now, in one of the inner rooms. “

Mr. Altorjay jumped up out of his seat to see his old friend at that very time.

“Don’t disturb him but wait until he comes out.” Mr. Gravinszy warned him. “Some court of honour is discussing an issue inside and, as a matter of fact, he’s the president of it.”

“Mr. Altorjay stared at Mr. Gravinczy; but surely there couldn’t be seen any irony on his face. He took it granted that Mr. Korláthy was the president of some court of honour. He looked round in the hall, and neither of the others was surprised.

It was only ‘the greatest Hungarian’, István Széchenyi’s forehead on the painting hanging on the wall that displayed rigorous, sinister wrinkles. But he was not more peevish than one or two days before.

Ay, what if he nevertheless steps out of the frame, shakes himself, and shouts at them in his stentorian voice, “Let me have my glass, quickly! Let me crumble the Memorial Cup that you venerate as relic, to pieces, so as you won’t be able to drink from it from now on!”

* * *

Thus the story has come to its end. The pigeon is sitting in the cage; the hawk is sitting in the casino as President of a Court of Honour.

It would be a breach of good taste to continue it and let out everything. It is enough to surmise without knowing the outcome. Who denounced Mrs. Willner? What were the consequences thereof? Who was Miss Tompson, and who was she of Mr. Korláthy? Did she recover completely? (She probably has recovered from her millions.) But all these questions have become subsidiary now.

There is only one thing left for me to disclose, for every decent writer has a surprise in store for the end of his narration. By the way, I did not keep it a secret even at the beginning of it.

The Reader thinks that he read two novelettes by me. It is just the surprise. You pleased to read only one but twice one after the other.

The same tale with people of four hundred years back and those of the present day. The former give their own fiancée as a present to each other, the latter seduce each other’s fiancée; the former give back them along with their marriage portions, untouched, the latter fling the marriage portion out of the window, and take the woman down a peg or two.

What is the use of this stuff? I do not know myself. As a matter of fact, I seem to regret it. I wanted to make a laughingstock of the old writers, the old readers and the old books and, by doing so, opposing and preferring the modern writers etc. to them. I enjoyed presenting you both the old and the modern people in the same situation. It is up to you decide who were more hot-blooded.

I admit that it was, on my part, kind of ostentation and seem to hear your sharp remarks, as type of punishment, “What? Blood? That was only ink, just as this one, nothing else. And there’s no blood in ink, not a drop.

Others may say, “Stuff and nonsense! Creative nature put more blood into a flea, than all the writers in all their heroes.

And that is true.

Simpletons will be taken in by the reasoning. Maybe they will remark, ‘So-so, tales don’t change, only people.’

But philosophising people will shake their head, saying, ‘No, no, it’s not people but tales that change’.

Upon which critics will make a nervous move, ’By no means! Neither tales nor people change but literary fashions.’

And, owing to the bulk of potential remarks, having lost courage before the goal, I stand before you and ask you to draw an inference from the two contrasting story variants.

No, No! I would sooner draw back everything as trample underfoot the venerable artificial flowers that used to decorate our grandmothers’ hats––although they had nothing in common with the real flowers at all.

Notes

1. „I used to write novelettes by scamping two or three themes together;” – K. Mikszáth refers to his novels and novellas written at the end of the 1870s and in the beginning of the 1880. ↑

2. „deceptive drawings” – Illusion wall pictures made from accordion-fold papers with two different (usually contrasted) pictures painted or pressed on their sides were highly popular in the 19th c. Hungary. The pictures appeared depending on the angle from which it was viewed respectively. ↑

3. Drawings portraying Garibaldi – In the absolute monarchy, Giuseppe Garibaldi’s revolutionary army became legendary among Hungarian people because they were waiting for him as their potential liberator. That is why Garibaldi’s portraits could be seen that time in many Hungarian houses. ↑

4. Balduinii de Burgo Gervasius. Source: Nouvelette 171, Gesta Romanorum, 2nd half of 13. c. ↑

5. Rhodope – a huge Mountains in Bulgaria. Mikszáth alludes to the famous rose-plantations in Bulgaria. ↑

6. „Jupiter appeared before Numa” – The story of Jupiter and Numa is known from the Fasti by Ovid. Its meaning: as Jupiter could be satisfied with a bulb of onion instead of a human head, one may feel free to offer a sacrifice of inferior value in place of a precious one. ↑

7. „Gálocs and Verpelét” – The two Hungarian villages Mikszáth alludes to were well-known for their tobacco growing. ↑

8. I drew the core of the mortuary scene and, in generally, some of the framework on the Tripartite Book (Hármaskönyv in Hungarian) by Haller. (Footnote by Kálmán Mikszáth.) ↑

9. Venice nobility – the Venetian Patriciate. ↑

10. Sbire – the French version of the Italian word sbirro. Police constable, cop. ↑

11. Guinea – Anachronism. Guinea was minted in Great Britain only from 1663. ↑

12. „chily pepper dramas” – A hint to dramas, in which the jealous woman sprinkled grinded chili into the eyes of the loving couple found in flagranti. ↑

13. Váci Street – A street in Pest (Budapest) leading to a town named Vác. (Hereafter: „Kerepesi Road” – A road leading to the village named Kerepes. ↑

14. Szentmihályfalva – ’St. Michael Village’ in English. ↑

15. Kock – Paul de Cock (1794––1871) French writer. ↑

16. Szikszay’s Restaurant – A restaurant used to be on the corner of the Rákóczy Road and the Múzeum Boulevard. ↑

17. English Queen’s Inn – Orig. Angol Királynő szálló. A hotel with restaurant that used to be on the corner of the Apáczai Csere János Street and Deák Ferenc Street in Budapest. ↑

18. Ferenc Deák (1803 –– 1876) – Hungarian politician, lawyer, board judge, statesman, Member of Parliament and Minister of Justice of the Batthyány government. ↑

19. The National Casino was established by István Széchenyi Esq. following the example of English clubs in 1827. The „citadel” of the aristocracy, a symbol of prideful separation, was located at 5 Kossuth Lajos Street. ↑

20. The Rémi kiosk – It used to be in front of the Vigadó (Redoute) in Budapest. ↑

21. István (pronounced ’ishtvaan) – Stephen, Steven in English. ↑

22. Altorjay – (pronounced altoryay). Hungarian proper name. The same as „a man from Altorja”. ↑

23. Eszter (pronounced ester). – Esther in English. ↑

24. For the meaning of „unscrupulously ambitious person” Mikszáth coined the Hungarian noun „akarnok” from the verb „akar” (will), which is literally „wilful”, „self-willed person” or „volitioner” in English. His coinage proliferated and has become part of Hungarian word-stock. (As for the word „volitioner”, see Peter C. Collins, Modality across World Englishes: The modals and semi-modals of prediction and volition. In: Functional Perspectives on Grammar and Discourse (ed. Butler, Downing, Lavid), J. Benjamin Piblishing Co. Amsterdam/Philadelpia, 2007. p. 454) ↑

25. Asztalnok – from the Hungarian word asztal („table”). „Carver to the King” in English. ↑

26. Saint Christopher – The huge statue was standing on top of the building on the corner of Kristóf Square and Váci Street in Pest (Budapest). ↑

27. Mamelukes – The slave-bodyguards of the eastern principals. At the turn of the 19th-20th centuries, mameluk (following the French example) used to be a nickname for staunch pro-government representatives. ↑

28. „We aren’t in the Congo Free State” – reference to H. M. Stanley’s expeditions into Africa in the 1870s and 1880s. ↑

29. Drót Isle – Part of the City Park in the vicinity of the Zoo in Pest (Budapest). ↑

30. Dulcinea – allusion to Don Quichotte’s ideal woman; the adored lady. ↑

31. Barège – a lightweight, sheer union fabric made of silk and wool. ↑

32. János (pronounced /jaanosh/) – Hungarian equivalent of „John”. ↑

33. Dani (pronounced /dʌnny/) – the same nickname for Daniel as in English (Danny). ↑

34. Monaszterli – The Monaszterly & Kuzmik women’s fashion company was the first venture of this kind in Budapest in the 1990s. ↑

35. Pista (pronounced ’pishta) – A nickname for Péter just as Steve in English. ↑

36. „The king carries the cobbler” – Reference to an anecdote taken from a Hungarian noveller, Mór Jókai, who had it taken in turn from an Arab fairy tale. – It goes like this: a pike took hold of a fishing fox’s mouth, neither wanting to let go. A cobbler walked there, took hold of the fighting animals, and took them to King Matthias. The door-keepers secured the halves of his reward beforehand respectively. After the cobbler had got his personal reward, asked for an extra reward of one hundred strokes with a stick, which he made sure was delivered to both door-keepers in perfect order. ↑

37. Qoumodo vales (lat.) – How are you? ↑

38. The Rákospalota Forest – the most common duel scene in the turn-of-the-century.

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