"I a.s.sure you it is not my practice."
"And you won"t put my stupid story into a novel or a romance, eh? At least not while I"m alive?"
"Never! Put your mind at rest on that point."
"No; don"t say never. Let it be only as long as I"m alive. But when I die, wherever it may be, you shall receive a letter from me, which I will write to you at my last hour, authorizing you to write all that you know of me."
"My dear friend, death is written much more plainly on my brow than on yours."
She shuddered. Twice she shuddered. Then she threw her basket over her arm, and took her leave. I would have escorted her to the door of the ante-chamber, but she held me back.
"Stay where you are. I do not wish any one to see you paying attention to a country wench."
When I was by myself again and thinking over the whole scene, it seemed to me as if a golden thrush were piping derisively in my ear again--
"Foolish fellow! Foolish fellow!"
For the second time I had let slip the opportunity of pilfering Paradise, conceded to me by a special and peculiar favour of the G.o.ds. I candidly confess that I am no saint.... I am a true son of Adam, of real flesh and blood. No vow binds me to an ascetic life. Let temptation come to me again in the shape of that pretty woman to-day and she shall see what I am made of!... All day long these feverish imaginings haunted me.
In the drawer of my writing-table was the portrait which I once wrested in knightly tourney from her bridegroom, and which she herself had given me to put to rights. I went again and again to my writing-table in order to take out that portrait and have another look at it. But that other portrait lay there on my table and would not allow it. It was much better to leave the house. I occupied the whole day in strolling about the town. Perhaps I may meet her somewhere in the street.
Late in the evening I returned home.
I was alone. My lackey only came to me in the morning.
I had scarcely lighted my lamp when I heard a knocking at my door. I certainly had forgotten to shut the door of my ante-chamber, and so my visitor had managed to penetrate so far. Who could it be at such a late hour? "Come in!"
The blood flew to my head when the door opened.
_She_ had come back!
Then she was here again!
She did not come in, however, but stood with the door-latch in her hand, as if she were afraid of me.
"It is not nice of me, I know," she stammered, with a faltering voice, "to come here so late. I have been here three times, but you were out. I must tell you what I"ve heard. Don"t be angry."
I begged her to come in, and took her by the hand. My heart beat feverishly.
"The lawyers received me very well. They were both at home. They took up my case and a.s.sured me that it was bound to result in my favour, and that they would pay the preliminary expenses. They behaved like gentlemen. Then the conversation turned upon you. They asked how long we had been acquainted. I told them as much as was necessary, and wound up by saying that you were the one thoroughly disinterested friend that I possessed. Then one of the advocates, the tall dry one I mean, said, with perfect good-nature: "Well, if you are kindly disposed towards our young friend, just tell him that _the path along which he is now rushing so impetuously leads straight to the gallows_," whereupon the blonde, ruddy-faced man added, "_or else to suicide._" I felt I must tell you that."
And with these words she stepped back from the door.
An icy shudder would have run down the shoulders of any other man at these words, but the message regularly set _me_ on fire. It was my pet idea they wanted me to give up, the idea which I adored even more than my lady-love, the idea of my youth--the idea of liberty. If any one offends my lady-love I will shed his blood, but let not even my lady-love interfere with my principles, as for them I am ready to pour out my own blood to the last drop.
"Be it so!" I cried pa.s.sionately; "that has nothing to do with you;" and I shut the door in her face. Every fibre of my body quivered with rage.
They threaten me with the gallows, or with the suicidal dagger of a Cato! I fear them not.
My poor chiefs! Half a year later they were rushing along the self-same path, at the end of which so many monsters were lurking. I only lost my hair in the hands of these monsters, but they lost their heads. Their own prophecy was fulfilled on them both.
From that day forth I was very wrath with the lady with the eyes like the sea.
CHAPTER IX
THE WOMAN WHO WENT ALONG WITH ME
And now we"ll go back to the day which forms so remarkable a turning-point in the life of the Hungarian nation, the 15th March, 1848.
It did not come without due preparation. The emanc.i.p.ation of the people, a free press and a free soil, equality of taxation and equality before the law--all these splendid ideas had been fought for during the last ten years by those great minds which towered above their fellows. The time had now arrived, the process had been decided, the judgment lived in the heart of every honest patriot. The great sacrifices which the metamorphosis required were not demanded, but volunteered. We debated about them in the Diet, party against party, with all the fervour of conviction.
A melancholy example was before us, which, like that _fata Morgana_ of the ocean, the phantom galley overturned, warns the seaman of the danger that is hovering over his head. I allude to the events in Galicia the year before.
The Polish gentry of Galicia demanded their liberties, and emphasized their demands by force of arms. There was no need on the part of the authorities to set in motion an army corps against this new confederacy, the peasantry did the work for them instead. The Galician peasants[45]
crushed the Polish gentry. The censorship had prevented the Hungarian newspapers from making known the details of this rebellion, but when the Diet met, it was impossible to prevent the fiery deputy for Comorn, the youthful Denis Pazmandy, from raising his mighty voice on behalf of the Poles, and making known the shocking particulars of the b.l.o.o.d.y ma.s.sacre to the Hungarian nation. There are many sad pages in the history of the Polish nation, but none so sad as this. And the hand which wrote that page could easily glide over to the next page also, and that next page was the history of the Hungarian nation. Here half a million of gentry stand face to face with fifteen millions of serfs which serve, suffer, pay, carry arms, and are silent. Then the Paris Revolution broke out.
The French nation overthrew the throne. (By the way, a tatter from the canopy over the French throne was brought home by one of our young writers, Louis Dobsa, as a present for Petofi. Dobsa fought on the February barricades.) Serious debates were held in the Hungarian Diet.
But Pressburg[46] was much too cold a field for such things. They wanted a.s.sistance from Pest. We didn"t say Buda-Pest then, Buda[47] was not ours.... Meanwhile the Vienna Revolution broke out. The streets of Vienna resounded with the watchword "Freedom," and were painted with the blood of the heroes that had fallen for it.
[Footnote 45: They were mostly Ruthenians, and racial and religious differences had much to do with their antagonism. This inveigling of the peasantry against the gentry, generally attributed to Metternich, is one of the darkest blots in Austrian history.--TR.]
[Footnote 46: The old coronation city of Hungary, but more of a German than a Magyar city then.--TR.]
[Footnote 47: It was an Austrian fortress.--TR.]
"_So these Vienna people whom we blackguard so much show that they know how to shed their blood for freedom while we glorious Magyars sit at our firesides!_" cried Petofi bitterly. "Let us send no more pet.i.tions to the Diet," he added, "it is deaf! Let us appeal to the nation: it will hear!"
Then he wrote his "Talpra Magyar!"[48]
[Footnote 48: "Up! Magyar, up!"]
Early in the morning we a.s.sembled in my room by lamplight. There were four of us--Petofi, Paul Vasvary, Julius Bulyovszky, and myself. My companions entrusted me with the drawing up of the Pest Articles in a short popular form intelligible to everybody. While I was thus occupied, they were disputing about what should happen next. The most violent of them was Paul Vasvary, who had the figure of a mighty young athlete. In his hand was a sword-stick with a horn handle, which he was flourishing about in a martial manner, when, all at once, the jolted stiletto flew from its case, and turning a somersault, flew through the air over my head and struck the wall.
"A lucky omen!" cried Petofi.
The proclamation was ready. We hastened into the street. We said nothing to Madame Petofi. Every one of us had arms of some sort. I pocketed the famous duplex pistol already mentioned.
Every one knows _ad nauseam_ what followed--how the human avalanche began to move, how it grew, and what speeches we made in the great square. But speech-making was not sufficient, we wanted to _do_ something. The first thing to be done was to give practical application to the doctrine of a free press. We resolved to print the Twelve Articles of Pest, the Proclamation, and the "Talpra Magyar" without the consent of the censor.
The printing press of Landerer and Heckenast was honoured with this compulsory distinction. The printers were naturally not justified in printing anything without permission from the authorities, so we turned up our sleeves and worked away at the hand-presses ourselves. The name of the typesetter who set up the first word of freedom was _Potemkin_.
While Irinyi and other young authors were working away at the press, it was my duty to harangue the mob that thronged the whole length of Hatvani Street. I had no idea how to set about it, but it came of its own accord.
My worthy and loyal contemporary, Paul Szontagh, occasionally quotes to me, even now, some of the heaven-storming phrases which he heard me say on that occasion; _e.g._, "... No! fellow-citizens; he is not the true hero who can _die_ for his country; he who can _slay_ for his country, he is the true hero!"