by Mór Jókai
CHAPTER VI
AN ODD DUEL--THE FATEFUL LETTER J.--I ALSO BECOME A PETER GYURICZA
Emericus Vahot had discovered a youthful humorist whom he attached tothe staff of his newspaper. Ultimately he became a most eminent writer,but at first he was quite a savage genius. He knew no languages butHungarian and Latin. He was really after all a very worthy young fellow.He, too, took his place amongst us at the "Table of Public Opinion,"and even brought a pair of friends with him. One of the friends was awry-shouldered critic, who judged the stage from a philological point ofview, but the other was Muki Bagotay. He was not a writer, but a merefigure head. As, however, he drank with us, he considered himself as oneof us.
One afternoon the humorist and Muki fell out. Muki had thought good toboast of a certain conquest of his, the humorist had made a joke of it;a squabble ensued, and from words they came to blows. I was not there,but I heard all about it from those who were. There could not be a doubtthat the end of it would be a duel. Late in the evening, just as I waspreparing to go to bed, the wry-shouldered critic rushed into my room.His face was even more portentous than usual.
"I have to communicate a secret to you, but you must give me your wordas a gentleman not to let the matter go any further."
"I give you my word upon it."
"Our friend is going to fight Muki Bagotay to-morrow, I am his second."
"That's all right."
"Would you be so good as to lend us the weapons?"
"My friend, I only possess one pistol, and that is a double-barrelledone."
"That will just do!"
"What the deuce? I suppose one of them will fire with it first, and ifhe does not hit his man he'll hand it over to the other, and he'll fireback with it?"
"Precisely!"
The crooked critic said this with such a solemn face that it wasimpossible not to believe him. This was quite a novel mode of duelling,and not a bad idea either.
Early next morning, before I had got up, the second again appearedbefore me. He brought back the fatal pistol.
"It is over," said he, with mournful dignity.
"What was the result?"
"Our poor friend was hit!"
"Dangerously?"
"The bullet penetrated his arm. But it has been taken out now."
The news excited all my sympathy.
I threw on my clothes and made my way to the Pillwax coffee-house. Ifound my good friends already at the "Table of Public Opinion," andevery one of them shared my compassion. The critic related the mournfuldetails to us.
All at once two of our comrades, Degre and Lauka, rushed excitedly intothe coffee-house. "The whole duel was a swindle!" they cried. "There wasno harm done to any one. He was not even wounded. He is lying in bedwith his arm tied up, and a bloody shirt; they are giving him icecataplasms--the whole thing is a pure farce!"
The second, however, solemnly maintained that his principal had beenwounded.
"We will convince ourselves of the fact."
"Surely you would not want them to tear the bandages from the gapingwound?" This I also resolutely opposed, and, taking the part of mycolleague, devised another expedient.
"Who was the doctor who bound up the wound?"
The critic mentioned the doctor's name.
"We'll go to the doctor, then."
Dr. K----y was a worthy, honest, high-spirited fellow, who well deservedthe public respect.
We rushed upon him in a body.
"Tell us, now," we said, "is there a wound on the arm of the humorist?"
"There is," replied the doctor.
"Is it true that you took a bullet out of it?"
"It is true."
"On your professional reputation?"
"On my professional reputation."
With that my friends were bound to be satisfied. No further inquiriescould be made.
When, however, my two friends had withdrawn, I remained behind with thedoctor, and I said to him, "My dear doctor, you have answered thequestion, did you take a bullet out of our friend's arm? but now answerme this question, who put that bullet in?"
"Egad! egad! egad!" growled the doctor, "you imaginative people arereally sad scamps!"
The fact was that our humorist and Muki Bagotay had fought an Americanduel: whoever drew the black ball had--well, not to die, but to get Dr.K----y to make a wound in his arm. The doctor, with his lancet, made anincision about two centimetres in length and four millemetres in depth,in the epidermis just below the biceps; into this wound he insinuated abullet, then took it out, sewed up the wound, and so wounded honour wasamply satisfied. And I'll not say a single word against this being themost correct mode of procedure imaginable.
Then I went home to my native town, ostensibly to advertise my legaldiploma, but really to look once more upon her from whom I had been solong absent.
I was very well received in the bosom of my family; the whole clan cametogether for dinner at my mother's, and for supper at the house of mybrother-in-law, Francis Valy. The two Calvinist ministers were alsoinvited, and one of them toasted me as "the ward of one guardian and theguardian of two wards" (an allusion to my father's profession and my newdrama, _The Two Wards_); it was the first toast that made me blush.
The next day was the meeting of the county board, at the end of which,with open doors, my diploma was promulgated. On that self-same day mydear mother gave me my father's silver-mounted sword, and the corneliansignet-ring, with the old family crest engraved upon it, which he usedto wear. Democrat as I am, I frankly confess that to me there was asoul-steeling thought in the reflection that with this sword my worthyancestors, who were much better men than myself, had defended theirnation, country, laws, and constitution of yore, and that thissignet-ring had put the seal upon their covenanted rights for all time.According to ancient custom, the sword and signet-ring of the fatherbelonged of right to the _younger_ son; my father had given my elderbrother a ring and sword of his own when he brought home _his_ diploma.
After that, I had to pay visits of ceremony to the county and municipalauthorities; I called upon my principal also, and a pretty little girlwas there whose features I had perpetuated in a portrait; she still wentto the convent school. This little girl, I may add, never had herromance; she died young, and thus found her true bliss.
It was only in the afternoon that I was able to get to Bessy's.
Among all earthly joys, is there one that can be compared with thatheart-throbbing which a young man feels when he again approaches, aftera long absence, the woman whom he idolises, with the thought that shealso has been dreaming of him all the time? It is true that our partinghad been somewhat abrupt, and a hill of thorns had risen up between usperhaps in consequence; but, on the other hand, my absence had had adefinite, deliberate aim--I went to win for myself name and fame, and aworldly position. And lo! but six months had passed and all this wasalready accomplished. I was an author. I had the right to speak ofmyself in the plural "we," like a king; nay, I had even a _better_right, for the king can only lay the peasantry under contribution, but Icould make the gentry pay up as well, and that right was also "_Deigratia_." I fancied the whole world was mine, and that triumphs would gobefore and follow after me whithersoever I went.
I was dressed according to the latest fashion. The famous firm oftailors, "Martinek and Korsinek," had performed a masterpiece upon me:my feet were shod with varnished dress-shoes, I had a whale-bone canewith a gold-headed handle, I wore Jaquemar gloves. I no longer singed myhair with heated hair-tongs as in the days when I was a patvarist, but ahairdresser had twisted it into ringlets; and now, too, I had a sprucelytwisted moustache and a beard.
I really must make the most of all these glories to emphasize thedramatic climax.
I found Bessy's mother and her aunt in the well-known reception room;the companion was on a visit to her relations. After the ceremonialkissing of hands, my first question was, "And Miss Bessy?"
"She is in her own room, yonder."
"May I go there?"<
br />
"Oh, by all means!"
It was that memorable room in which I had painted her portrait.
The girl was alone, seated by her little table, and was bending over herembroidery frame. She really must have been very much absorbed in herwork, as otherwise she must certainly have seen through the window thatI was coming to her. It was a sort of pearl embroidery that she was busyover, meant apparently for the cover of a portfolio. On perceiving meenter, she hastily covered it with her handkerchief, but for all that,my eyes caught a momentary glimpse of a large letter "J." on theembroidery. What else could it be but the initial letter of my surname?I was confirmed in this belief by the circumstance that on the samelittle table stood my portrait of her on a gorgeous stand.
She greeted me kindly, but I could detect a certain hostile sentiment inher smile. It is only in the eyes that one can read such things, andpractised swordsmen always can tell from the expression of theiropponents' eyes how they are going to lunge.
She questioned me about everything, and I replied with great precision;but these questions and answers were mere feints: the points of theswords were so far only twirling around each other.
All at once she lunged straight at my head with her sword.
"And pray what is the _amiable little sapling_ doing?"
In my first amazement I absolutely did not know what she was alludingto.
"What sapling?"
"Why, that darling little stage fairy, of course, who kindled you tosuch enthusiasm."
So it turned up again now! Even here they cast it in my teeth! Was itnot enough to have smarted once in my life for pretty Lilla's sake? Invain did I assure her that never in my life had I seen the young artisteexcept on the stage; that there indeed she had earned my admiration, butthat I had never felt any tender sentiment either for her or for anyother mortal maiden in the whole of Buda-Pest.
"Let that go, then!" said Bessy mockingly. "We are well informed ofeverything that goes on. How about your landlord's three prettydaughters?"
"Pardon me, but the eldest of them is only nine years old."
"And your gay neighbours, the flower-garden ladies?"
Well, this was simply appalling. How could I tell her the whole story?And yet I was the very person who had got them removed.
"Whom the Town Captain was forced to interfere with? Oh, we know allabout it! My little finger has whispered it to me."
I was quite confused. Who could have been tittle-tattling about me so?
And all the time her eyes were flashing sparks at me!
But I was not to remain in doubt long. A new visitor arrived, his voicewas already heard in the ante-chamber. It was Muki Bagotay.
It was plain to me now that it was he who had whispered all these thingsto Bessy.
Into the room he rushed. He certainly was infamously handsome. My headof curls was quite dwarfed by his. His dress was much more fashionablethan mine. And what a cocksure air he had! I dared not so much as pressBessy's hand, while he knelt down before her and laid his hat--togetherwith his heart--at her feet.
"Go away with you--don't be silly!" said Bessy, by way of correction,pointing at me.
"Your servant, comrade," cried Muki, becoming aware of my presence.
Then he occupied himself with me no more, but turned towards Bessy andtried to remove the handkerchief from the embroidery, which attemptBessy resisted with all her might.
"It's mine, after all, you know," insisted Muki.
"Then wait your turn, and you shall have it on your birthday."
His birthday! A thought flashed through my brain. Muki's name was Janos.That initial letter was _his_, not mine.
A dramatic climax. How instantly Muki became the sensible fellow and Ithe blockhead! At that moment I must have cut a somewhat queer figurethe very type of gaping confusion.
By way of explanation Muki seized Bessy's hand and raised it to hislips, and said to me as a matter of form, "Bessy is my betrothed."
And it was for this, then, that all these Sardanapalian accusations hadbeen piled upon my head. The sapling of the stage, the flower-garden,and my landlord's young ladies were the golden bridge for a retreat.
It was only then that I hit upon more sensible ideas and hastened tocongratulate them.
And now I made it a point to remain where I was. They shall see that thewhole matter is of the utmost indifference to me.
"You know, I suppose," said Muki, "what was the cause of my last duel?"
"That famous duel of yours, eh?"
"Yes, it was pretty famous, I think. That poor young fellow whom I shotwas a worthy comrade, but had he been my born brother I would have shothim for his disrespectful allusions to my bride."
"Go along with you, you bloodthirsty man!" cried Bessy, with coquettishself-satisfaction.
And he had the cheek to say all this before me who knew the wholehistory of the duel! How ridiculous I could have made him look, if I hadtold how it had happened! But do it I wouldn't, because I felt that theywere a worthy pair. I merely said: "I must admit, friend Muki, that inthe way of imagination you are much greater than I."
"And greater in other things also," said Muki, half drawing his sword.
"We'll see about that one of these days in the fencing-school."
"What! That swindling fencing! Wrestling is the thing to test a man'smettle. That fashionable gymnastic rubbish is a mere farce. I shouldlike to see a fellow do what I can do when I go out on my _puszta_.[23]I have a stout _gulgasy_[24] there, Peter Gyuricza, with whom I am wontto wrestle. A stalwart fellow, hard as a stone; he can keep the upperhand over a hundred steers. Twice out of three bouts have I flooredPeter Gyuricza, and Peter Gyuricza has only floored me once."
[Footnote 23: The Hungarian steppe or great plain.]
[Footnote 24: Neat-herd, peculiar to Hungary.]
"A pretty pastime, certainly."
"It is not to be learnt by pen-scribbling or brush-daubing, anyhow."
That I had to let pass, for there's no getting over the truth. It is notonly true that I was no Samson, but it is also true that, compared witha hundred oxen, my poor Pegasus was but a sorry beast of draught. ButMuki Bagotay was not even content with this triumph, he wanted toabsolutely trample me beneath his feet; and as if he had only justobserved for the first time the picture of Bessy painted by me, he choseto make _that_ the bone of contention.
"Meanwhile, till I possess the original, I appropriate this picture."
Bessy protested. "No, no, I will not part with that."
But Muki thereupon took the picture from the table and held it aloft, sothat Bessy could not get it out of his hand. She begged, implored,raved, but Muki only laughed and said he meant to stick to the picture.
It was then that my ill-humour got the better of me.
"Sir," said I, laying my hand on his shoulder, "put down that portrait!I did not paint it for you."
How scornfully he looked at me over his shoulder! "_You_ would needs tryconclusions with me--_you_, a mere poet!"
And he flung himself upon me with the pious resolve of forcing me out ofBessy's boudoir into the ante-chamber. When he saw that I resisted, hethrew both his arms round my body. I also hugged him, and to work wewent straightway.
Muki was furious because I would not allow my frame to be smashed soeasily. Bessy began shrieking, and took refuge in the bow window.Suddenly I rallied all my strength and pitched Muki on to the sofa withsuch violence that the back of it cracked and came off.
"I also am a Peter Gyuricza!" I cried.
I would not have exchanged that triumph for all the glory in the world.
At the noise of this great scuffle, the mother and the aunt rushed intothe room, and great was their indignation when they saw me kneeling onMuki's breast.
"Let me get up, fellow!" said my antagonist.
All that I wanted to do was to take the portrait from the hands of itsunlawful possessor. Meanwhile the poor portrait had got terribly mauled.During the struggle it had fallen to the ground, an
d the pair of us hadleft the impression of our heels upon it. Bessy burst into tears whenshe saw the wreckage of her own portrait, but her mother lamented overthe broken sofa.
I comforted Bessy with the assurance that I would make the damagedportrait all right again--there were special colours for that.
"But she must not sit again," hastily intervened her mother. She wasafraid I should begin coming to the house again and spoil the goodmatch.
"And I haven't got that dress either," said Bessy.
It certainly was a pretty dress. Would that she had never had it!
I assured them, however, that I would be able to put the picture torights at home, all by myself. And with that I put it in my pocket. Inever went back there again.
The mother and the aunt ostentatiously occupied themselves with Muki,expressing all the time their regretful sympathy, at which he was besidehimself for fury.
I beat a retreat without any attempt to say good-bye. But Bessy ranafter me, and, overtaking me in the doorway, seized my hand, andwhispered in an ardent voice, "You'll put _me_ to rights, won't you?"
"The _portrait_? oh yes!"
* * * * *
An hour afterwards I was sitting on the steamer and gazing at thelingering smoke which hid my native town from my eyes. It was just as ifI were returning from a funeral.