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Debts of Honor, a novel by Maurus Jokai |
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Chapter 6. "Fruits Prematurely Ripe" |
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_ CHAPTER VI. "FRUITS PREMATURELY RIPE" At first I was invited to my P. C. uncle's every Sunday to dinner: later I went without invitation. As soon as I was let out of school, I hastened thither. I persuaded myself that I went to visit my brother. I found an excuse, too, in the idea that I must make progress in art, and that it was in any case an excellent use of time, and a very good "entree" to art, if I played waltzes and quadrilles of an afternoon from five to eight on the violin to Melanie's accompaniment on the piano, while the rest of the company danced to our music. For the Balnokhazys had company every day. Such a change of faces that I could scarcely remember who and what they all were. Gay young men and ladies they were, who loved to enjoy themselves: every day there was a dance there. Sometimes others would change places with Melanie at the piano: a piece of good fortune for me, for she was able to then have a dance--with me. I have never seen any one dance more beautifully than she; she fluttered above the floor, and could make the waltz more agreeable than any one else before or after her. That was my favorite dance. I was exclusively by her side at such times, and we could not gaze except into each other's eyes. I did not like the quadrille so well: in that one is always taking the hands of different persons, and changing partners; and what interest had I in those other lady-dancers? And I thought Melanie, too, rejoiced at the same thing that pleased me. And, if by chance--a very rare event--the P. C. had no company, we still had our dance. There were always two gentlemen and two lady dancers in the house party; the beautiful wife of the P. C. and Frauelein Matild, the governess: Lorand and Pepi[40] Gyali. [Footnote 40: A nickname for Joseph.] Pepi was the son of a court agent at Vienna, and his father was a very good friend of Balnokhazy; his mother had once been ballet-dancer at the Vienna opera--a fact I only learned later. Pepi was a handsome young fellow "en miniature;" he was a member of the same class as Lorand, a law student in the first year, yet he was no taller than I. Every feature of his face was fine and tender, his mouth, small, like that of a girl, yet never in all my life have I met one capable of such backbiting as was he with his pretty mouth. How I envied that little mortal his gift for conversation, his profound knowledge, his easy gestures, his freedom of manners, that familiarity with which he could treat women! His beauty was plastic! I felt within myself that such ought a man to be in life, if he would be happy. The only thing I did not like in him was that he was always paying compliments to Melanie: he might have desisted from that. He surely must have remarked on what terms I was with her. His custom was, in the quadrille, when the solo-dancing gentlemen returned to their lady partners, to anticipate me and dance the turn with Melanie. He considered it a very good joke, and I scowled at him several times. But once, when he wished to do the same, I seized his arm, and pushed him away; I was only a grammar-school boy, and he was a first-year law student; still I did push him away. With this heroic deed of mine not only myself but my cousin Melanie also was contented. That evening we danced right up till nine o'clock. I always with Melanie, and Lorand with her mother. When the company dispersed, we went down to Lorand's room on the ground floor, Pepi accompanying us. I thought he was going to pick a quarrel with me, and vowed inwardly I would thrash him. But instead he merely laughed at me. "Only imagine," he said, throwing himself on Lorand's bed, "this boy is jealous of me." My brother laughed too. It was truly ridiculous: one boy jealous of another. Yes, I was surely jealous, but chivalrous too. I think I had read in some novel that it was the custom to reply in some such manner to like ridicule: "Sir, I forbid you to take that lady's name in vain." They laughed all the more. "Why, he is a delightful fellow, this Desi," said Pepi. "See, Lorand, he will cause you a deal of trouble. If he learns to smoke, he will be quite an Othello." This insinuation hit me on a sensitive spot. I had never yet tasted that ambrosia, which was to make me a full-grown man; for as every one knows, it is the pipe-stem which is the dividing line between boyhood and manhood; he who could take that in his mouth was a man. I had already often been teased about that. I must vindicate myself. On my brother's table stood the tobacco-box full of Turkish tobacco, so by way of reply I went and filled a church warden, lit and began to smoke it. "Now, my child, that will be too strong," sneered Pepi, "take it away from him, Lorand. Look how pale he is getting: remove it from him at once." But I continued smoking: the smoke burned and bit the skin of my tongue; still I held the stem between my teeth, until the tobacco was burned out. That was my first and last pipe. "At any rate, drink a glass of water," Lorand said. "No thank you." "Well, go home, for it will soon be dark." "I am not afraid in the streets." Yet I felt like one who is a little tipsy. "Have you any appetite?" inquired Pepi scornfully. "Just enough to eat a gingerbread-hussar like you." Lorand laughed uncontrollably at this remark of mine. "Gingerbread-hussar! you have got it from him, Pepi." I was quite flushed with pride at being able to make Lorand laugh. But Pepi, on the contrary, became quite serious. "Ho, ho, old fellow," (when he spoke seriously to me he always addressed me "old fellow," and on other occasions as "my child"). "Never be afraid of me; now Lorand might have reason to be: we both want what is ready; we do not court your little girl, but her mother. If the old wigged councillor is not jealous of us, don't you be so." I expected Lorand to smite that fair mouth for this despicable calumny. Instead of which he merely said, half muttering: "Don't; before the child..." Pepi did not allow himself to be called to order. "It is true, my dear Desi: and I can tell you that you will have a far more grateful part to play around Melanie, if she marries someone else." Then indeed I went home. This cynicism was something quite new to my mind. Not only my stomach, but my whole soul turned sick. How could I measure the bitterness of the idea that Lorand was paying court to a married woman? Such a thing was not to be seen in the circle in which we had been brought up. Such a case had been mentioned in our town, perhaps, as the scandal of the century, but only in whispers that the innocent might not hear: neither the man nor the woman could have shown their faces in our street. Surely no one would have spoken another word to them. And Lorand had been so confused when Pepi uttered this foul thing to his face before me. He did not deny it, nor was he angry. I arrived at home in an agony of shame. The street-door was already closed: so I had to pass in by the shop door. I wished to open it softly that the bell should not betray my coming, but Father Fromm was waiting for me. He was extremely angry: he stopped my way. "Discipulus negligens! Do you know 'quote hora?' Decem. Every day to wander out of doors till after nine, hoc non pergit.--Scio, scio, what you wish to say. You were at the P. C.'s. That is 'unum et idem' for me. The other 'asinus' has been learning his lessons ever since midday, so much has he to do, while you have not even so much as glanced at them; do you wish to be a greater 'asinus' than he? Now I say 'semel propter semper,' 'finis' to the carnival! Don't go any more a-dancing; for if you stay out once more, 'ego tibi umsicabo.' Now 'pergus, dixi.'" Old Marton during this well-deserved drubbing kept moving the scalp of his head back and forth in assent, and then came after me with a candle, to light me along the corridor to the door of my room, singing behind me these jesting verses:
Henrik was indeed slaving away at the table, and the candle, burnt to the end, proved that he had been at it a long time. "Welcome, Desi," he said good humoredly. "You come late; a terrible amount of 'labor' awaits you to-morrow. I have finished mine: you will be behind with yours, so I have written the exercises in your place. Look and see if it is good." I was humbled. That heavy-headed boy, on whom I had been wont to look down from such a height, whose work I had prepared in play, work which he would have broken his head over, had now in my place finished the work I had neglected. What had become of me? "I waited for you with a little pleasant surprise," said Henrik, taking from his drawer something which he held in his hand before me. "Now guess what it is." "I don't care what it is." I was in a bad humor, I longed to lay my head on the bed. "Of course you care. Fanny has written a letter from her new home. She has written to you in Magyar, about your dear mother." These words roused me from my lethargy. "Show me: give it me to read." "You see, you are delighted after all." I tore the letter from him. First Fanny wrote to her parents in German, on the last page in Magyar to me. She had already made such progress. She wrote that they often spoke of me at home; I was a bad boy not to write mother a letter: she was very ill and it was her sole delight to be able to speak of me. As often as her parents or brother wrote to Fanny, she would add a few lines after opening the letter, in my name, then take it to my mother and read it to her, as if I had written. How delighted she was! She did not know my German writing, so she readily believed it was I who had written. But I must be a good boy and write myself, for some day mother and grandmother would discover the deceit and would be angry. My heart was almost bursting. I pored over the letter I had read, and sobbed bitterly as I had never before done in my life. My dear only mother! thou saint, thou martyr! who sufferest, weepest, and anguishest so much for my sake, while I mix in a society where they mock women, and mothers! Canst thou forgive me? When I had cried myself out, my face was covered with tears. Henrik raised me from my seat upon the floor. "Give me this letter," I panted; and I kissed him for giving it to me. Many great historical documents have been torn up since then, but that letter is still in my possession. "Now I cannot go to bed. I will stay up until morning and finish the work I have neglected. I thank you for what you have written in my stead, but I cannot accept it. I shall do it myself. I shall do everything in which I am behindhand." "Good, Desi, my boy, but you see our candle has burned down; and grandmother is already asleep, so I cannot ask her for one. Still, if you do wish to sit up, go down to the bakehouse, they are working all night, as to-morrow is Saturday: take your ink, paper, and books with you. There you can write and learn your lessons." I did so. I descended to the court, washed my head beside the fountain, then took my books and writing material and descended to the bakehouse, begging Marton to allow me to work there by lamp-light. Marton irritated me the whole night with his satire, the assistants jostled me, and drove me from my place; they sang the "Kneading-trough" air, and many other street-songs: and amid all these abominations I studied till morning; what is more, I finished all my work. That night, I know, was one of the turning-points in my life. Two days later came Sunday: I met Pepi in the street. "Well, old fellow: are you not coming to-day to see little Melanie? There will be a great dance-rehearsal." "I cannot: I have too much to do." Pepi laughed loudly. "Very well, old fellow." His laughter did not affect me in the least. "But when you have learned all there is to learn will you come again?" "No. For then I shall write a letter to my mother." Some good spirit must have whispered to this fellow not to laugh at these words, for he could not have anticipated the box on the ears I would have given him, because he could not for an instant forget that I was a grammar-school boy, and he a first-year law student. _ |
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