by Mór Jókai
THE SZEKELY[78] MOTHER.
[Footnote 78: Szekely (Szekler in German), the inhabitants of theborder districts in Transylvania, said to be one of the most ancienttribes of the Magyar race, who came over still earlier than Attila.]
The cannons were silent, the battle was over--the brave had fallen.
The field, which so lately had been the scene of wild and desperatecontention, was now silent as the grave; only the thunder of heavenand the moaning of the breeze were to be heard, while the luridlightning gleamed across the plain, as if the spirits of the dead hadbegun a new and inexorable strife on high, to guard the gates ofheaven, as, an hour before, they had defended the frontiers of theircountry against their foes.
In the churchyard, before the gates of Kezdi-Vasarhely, the Szekelywomen anxiously awaited, not the return of the beloved, but the newsof the victory.
They sat in groups on the gravestones and green mounds, listening allday to the cannon, and trying to distinguish the distant sounds.
"That is ours--that is Gabor Aron[79]--and that the enemy--and now thethunder of heaven."
[Footnote 79: A common rustic, who, at the beginning of the late war,astonished his countrymen by his skill in founding cannons, and in theart of gunnery.]
And, when the cannon had ceased, they waited with beating hearts tohear of defeat or victory.
And all--mothers, young girls, brides, wives, breathed the samefervent wish--that if the beloved should return, it might be withglory; but that if the day were lost which was to decide the fate oftheir country, none might return to tell it!
On the threshold of the chapel, by the crypt-door, sat an old man: hewas past eighty--his eyes were dim and lustreless, and his voice faintand trembling: he, too, had come out to the churchyard to wait theissue of the battle, for he could not rest at home; beside him sat acripple, who had one leg shrunk up, but although the body was weak andsickly, every thought of his heart was in the battle-field, and hefrequently exclaimed, in bitterness of spirit, "Why cannot I too bethere?"
The cripple knelt beside the old man, and read to him out of theBible. The passage was in Samuel, about the battles of Israel--theholy war, in which thirty thousand had fallen guarding the ark of God.
"Why cannot I be there?" sighed the unhappy youth, and read:
"'And the ark of God was taken; and the two sons of Eli, Hophni andPhinehas, were slain.
"'And there ran a man of Benjamin out of the army, and came to Shilohthe same day, with his clothes rent, and with earth upon his head.
"'And when he came, lo, Eli sat upon a seat by the wayside watching:for his heart trembled for the ark of God. And when the man came intothe city, and told it, all the city cried out.
"'And when Eli heard the noise of the crying, he said, What meaneththe noise of this tumult? And the man came in hastily, and told Eli.
"'Now Eli was ninety and eight years old; and his eyes were dim, thathe could not see.'"
The cripple could read no more; he looked at the old man, his heartsickened, and his eyes filled with tears.
"Why do you not continue?" asked the old man.
"It is dark; I cannot see the words."
"That is false; I feel the last rays of the sun on my face; why do younot read on?"
The cripple wiped the tears from his eyes, and again began to read:--
"'And the man said unto Eli, I am he that came out of the army, and Ifled to-day out of the army. And he said, What is there done, my son?
"'And the messenger answered and said, Israel is fled before thePhilistines, and there hath been also a great slaughter among thepeople, and thy two sons also, Hophni and Phinehas, are dead, and theark of God is taken.'"
But here he could no longer contain himself, and, sobbing bitterly, heleant his head on the old man's knee, and hid his face in his hands.
The latter did not insist on his reading any more; but repeated, in alow voice, the well-known verse:
"'And it came to pass, when he made mention of the ark of God, that hefell from off the seat backward by the side of the gate, and his neckbrake, and he died.'"
* * * * *
Beneath an acacia tree, at a little distance from the rest, stood twofemales.
The eldest might have been six-and-thirty; her features, though sternand severe, were still beautiful, and her dark lustrous eyes glowedwith the fire of enthusiasm. She was very pale, and the lightningwhich glimmered around her gave a still more livid hue to herfeatures.
Judith--for so she was called--was a true type of the Szekely women;one of those unfading forms who retain to an advanced age the keenexpression of countenance, the brilliancy of the large dark eye, thethrilling and musical tones, and slender but vigorous form; while themind, instead of decaying, grows stronger with years.
Round her majestic figure, a slight girl of sixteen twined her arms,clinging to her like the gentle convolvulus to the stately pine.
Aranka was a lovely blue-eyed maiden, with bright golden locks, and aform so fragile, that it seemed to bend like the lily to the breeze.
She was betrothed to the son of that proud matron to whom she clung,and the eyes of the mother and the bride sought the beloved, as theygazed eagerly through the dim apace.
"Do you not see a form approaching there?" asked Judith, pointingtowards the plain.
Aranka drew still closer, that she might see the object pointed out;her head rested on Judith's shoulder, but she could not discernanything, for the starry beam of the blue eye cannot pierce thedistance, like the more fiery ray of the black eye.
In a few minutes the form became more distinct, and the timid blush oflove flitted over the young girl's cheek, while a deep flush of angermantled on the mother's.
"It is he, my beloved!" murmured Aranka, pressing her small hand onher heart, as if to still the little flutterer.
"He has no arms!" cried Judith with horror, as she turned away herhead, and covered her eyes with her hand; for, though still indistinctto others, the gentle girl recognised her lover, and the mother hadseen her son's disgrace.
With slow and uncertain steps the figure approached; his head hungdejectedly on his breast, and he appeared to move with pain.
On seeing the women assembled in the churchyard, he bent his stepsthither.
They all now recognised Judith's son, and surrounded the mother as heapproached.
The churchyard moat lay between the mother and her son. Unable tocross it, the young man sank on the ground before it. His clothes weretorn and covered with blood, and his hand endeavoured to conceal awound in his breast.
"Where have you left your arms?" cried his mother in a stern voice,advancing from among the crowd.
He would have replied, that he had left it in his enemy's heart; buthe had not strength to speak, and the words died on his mouth.
"Speak! is the battle lost?"
The youth made a sign of the affirmative.
"And why did you not fall with the rest? Why did you leave the fieldfor the sun to rise on your disgrace? Why have you come hither?"
The youth was silent.
"Wherefore should you desire to outlive your country? And, if you havecome to be buried here, better far to have sought a grave where it hadbeen glory to have died--on the battle-field. Away! This churchyardhas no place for you--you can have no part among our dead--leave us,and deny that you were born here! Live or die, but forget us."
The youth looked in his mother's face with an imploring expression,and then at the women who surrounded her; but he encountered noglance--no trace of sympathy--his eyes sought his bride, his heart'sbrightest hopes, the blue-eyed maiden; but she had fallen on her kneesat his mother's feet, hiding her face in Judith's dress, to concealher sobs.
The youth still hesitated--still waited to see if any one would bidhim stay; and when he saw that none spoke, not even his bride, heraised himself slowly and silently from the earth, still holding hishand across his breast, and, with tottering steps, turned once more tothe tr
ackless plain, and wandered into the woods beyond, where he sanknever to rise again.
One or two of the Szekely youths returned afterwards from the lostfield, but the women refused them admittance.
"Seek another home," they said, "than the one you could not defend!"
And the few who survived wandered into distant countries, for nonedared return who had outlived his country's ruin.
* * * * *
Bitter were the sounds of weeping and lamentation in the churchyard ofKezdi-Vasarhely--the cry of the Szekely women rose to heaven.
The old man at the crypt-door asked, in a feeble voice, the cause ofthe weeping.
"Szekely-land is lost!" they cried; "your son and your grandsons havefallen on the field with their leader, and Gabor Aron; and all theircannon is taken!"
The old man raised his hands and sightless eyes to heaven. "My God!"he exclaimed, and, sinking to the earth, he ceased to be blind; forthe light of eternity had risen on his spirit.
The old man was dead.
The Szekely women surrounded the body with deep reverence, and bore itin their arms into the town.
The cripple followed slowly on his crutches, repeating bitterly tohimself, "Why could not I have been there too? why could not I havefallen among them?"
In all Kezdi-Vasarhely there was not a man to be seen; the brave hadfallen, the deserters had been turned away, and the last man they werenow placing in his coffin, and he was an old man past eighty, andblind.
Only women and children now remained--widows and orphans--who weptbitterly round the old man's bier, but not for the dead.
The cripple knelt unheeded at the foot of the coffin; and hid his facein his hands, as he heard them say that the _last_ man was dead; theydid not consider him as one!
The house was quite full, as well as the court--for the old man'sgrandchildren and great-grandchildren formed a large congregation; andall those to whom he had done good during his life, whom he hadassisted with his counsel or supported in their sorrow--how many therewere! and yet the greater part was absent, covering thebattle-field!--and among all his sons and grandsons, only that onecripple was present, and he was not considered as a man!
They had all their dead to mourn--all their peculiar sorrows, but nonemore than the high-minded Judith, and the poor cripple,--and yet theyalone wept not. A restless fever burned within them, and, instead oftears, sparks of fire seemed to burst from their eyes.
In the midst of the weeping and lamentation, Judith beckoned thecripple aside.
"David!" she exclaimed, taking the youth's damp, cold hand, "yourgrandfather lies stretched out before you, and yet you stand besidethe coffin without shedding a tear! what are you thinking of? Lastnight I heard you sighing and tossing on your bed--you neverslept--what were you thinking of then, David?"
The cripple hung his head in silence.
"David, if you were a strong, sound man--if you could hold a sword ora lance, instead of those crutches--would you hang your head insilence as you do now?"
The cripple raised his glowing face, and his large, dark eyes metJudith's with such a gleam of enthusiasm, it seemed as if the ardentspirit had forgotten for a moment the weakness of its mortal dwelling.
"And you will never be happy," she continued; "no joys await your lotin this life, and yet who knows how long that life may be. Speak!should death appear before you in its most brilliant form--moreglorious than on the battle-field--and bid you cast away your crutchesand embrace the weapons of destruction, giving you all you loved onearth as a funeral pile to perish around you, that none should remainto whom your thoughts might return from the other world"--
"I do not understand you."
"You _will_ not, perhaps. The world is still fair to you, even amidstruins, and blasted by dishonour; unfortunate as you are, life is stilldear--even your crutches are not to be exchanged for wings!"
"Oh! speak not thus; how often would I have given the life I abhor forthe death I envy!" exclaimed the unhappy youth; and added, in a lowertone, "for the death of glory!"
"And what death would be more glorious than yours? on a battle-fieldin which the elements themselves should join, where you would stand inthe midst, high above all, like the angel of death, proclaimingresistance to the last, in a voice which would be heard above thebattle-cry; and, when all had fallen, when there remained none tohelp, you alone would snatch the victory from the enemy's hand, andbear it with you--not to the grave, but to heaven!"
"O that I could!" sighed the cripple; "but what is my voice? it wouldnot be heard in battle; and my arm could snatch the victory fromnone!"
"Listen to me! The victors will arrive to-day or to-morrow; butneither repose nor enjoyment shall await them here--they shall findevery door closed, and our weapons shall be the reply to theirs. Ifthe men of Kezdi-Vasarhely have fallen in defence of their country,the women shall not be unworthy of them! We shall lose--for the arm ofwoman is weak, though her heart is strong--we have neither the weaponsnor the force to resist, only the will; and therefore our aim is notvictory, but an honourable death. You will go up to the tower, andwhen you see the enemy approaching at a distance, ring the bell; wewill then carry out the dead to be buried, and await the hated foebeside his grave; and wo to them if they try to enter by force, weshall defend every house to the last--despair will teach us to fight;and should fear or hesitation overcome our weak hearts for an instant,the voice of your bell will revive our courage, and inspire us withnew strength. And you must not cease one moment till the combat isover; then take the wreaths of tarred pine, which you will find in aniche of the tower ready prepared, and when the enemy have takenpossession of the town, throw them down on the roofs of the houses!Thus you will regain the town from the enemy, and, amidst smoke andflames--the funeral-pile of all you love on earth--you will bearvictory along with you to heaven!"
The cripple listened with increasing agitation to Judith's words; andwhen she had finished, he dashed away his crutches, and, falling ather feet, embraced her knees, and murmured some unintelligible words;but the enthusiasm which glowed in every feature told how the spiritrejoiced to meet the death she had portrayed in such brilliantcolours.
"Will you have courage?" asked Judith.
"Oh! I shall rejoice in it! I shall no longer be a cripple--no longerunhappy; I shall die like a hero! and when the flames are burstingaround me, I shall sing with the prophet, 'Cry out, ye gates, cry out,O city, for the terrible day of the Lord is come!'"
And the cripple trembled violently with agitation, and his witheredarm was raised to heaven.
Judith gazed at him in silence, as he still knelt, with his hands andeyes upraised, as if inspired.
"Come with me!" she exclaimed, after a few moments' pause, raising himfrom the ground.
David took up his crutches and followed her, with such joyful alacritythat his feet scarcely seemed to touch the earth; he appeared alreadyto possess wings instead of crutches.
As they passed the chamber of the dead, he approached hisgrandfather's coffin, and, kissing the cold face and hands, murmured,with an expression of unwonted joy, "We shall meet soon!"
The women looked at him with surprise; they had never seen him smilethus before, and thought that grief had estranged his mind. Judithleft the room, telling them she would soon return, and herselfconducted the cripple to the tower, while he followed with a vigour hehad hitherto never displayed;--the spirit seemed actually bearing upthe fragile body.
When they reached the top, Judith kissed the cripple's brow, andpressed his hand in silence.
David locked the door after her, and threw the key out of the windowalong with his crutches.
"I shall want them no more," he cried, as Judith passed below thetower. "I wish to be certain that I shall not fail in the hour oftemptation."
He then placed himself at the window, and looked out towards themountains.
* * * * *
Judith returned to the house of mourning, a
nd found the women stillweeping round the bier.
She motioned to them to dry their tears--her majestic form, calmfeatures, and commanding eye, seemed formed to be obeyed. The womenwere silent, and Judith addressed them in a clear, steady voice:
"Sisters!--widows and orphans of Kezdi-Vasarhely!--Heaven has visitedus with great and severe trials; we have outlived all that wasgood--all that we loved on earth; there is not a house in which somebeloved one was not expected who will never now return! However longwe may live, no happiness awaits us in this world! we may grow old andgray in our deserted homes, but the best part of our lives liesbeneath the sod; and this is not the heaviest stroke which awaits us.Instead of the beloved, those who have shed their heart's-blood willcome--we shall see them take possession of the places which ourbeloved ones have left; instead of the familiar voices, we shall hearthe harsh tones, and meet the unfeeling gaze of strangers--of ourbitter enemies! Shall we await that time? Death gives back all thatlife has taken away--and death can take nothing but life! If I did notknow that I am among Szekely women, I would take leave of you, andsay, I go alone to die! but I know you all--where I am you will bealso; you will act as I do, and be worthy of your dead. Go home toyour houses, conceal everything you value; make fires in every stove,and boil water and oil in every vessel. At the first sound of thebell, let every one of you assemble here; we will then carry out thedead to the gate of the town, and dig his grave across the road beforeit, and with this moat the town shall be closed--none shall pass fromwithin alive! Haste! put your houses in order, and return here at thefirst sound of the bell!"
The women dispersed--with the calmness of despair they went home, anddid as Judith desired, and collected all the weapons they could find,but not another tear was shed.
* * * * *
The bell of the tower had begun to toll; it was the only bell left inKezdi-Vasarhely; the rest had all been founded into cannon. Clouds ofdust were seen to rise far off on the winding mountain-path, abovePredialo, and the tolling of the bell announced the approach of theRussian troops. Two companies marched towards the gates ofKezdi-Vasarhely; one from without, the other from within the town. Onewas formed of hardened soldiers, the other of women and girls. On oneside the enlivening sound of military music was heard, and coloursfloated on the breeze; on the other, the dismal tones of the funeralsong arose, and mourning veils fluttered round the bier.
A troop of Circassian horsemen paused before the gates. Their dress,their features, their language--all seemed to recall a strange imageof the past, of those ancient times when first the Magyar peoplesought a home in the unknown world--for even then, persecuted by fate,they wandered forth in millions, driven from their own country; andsome found a home among the wild mountains of the Caucasus, otherswandered still farther, and the parted brethren never met, or heard ofeach other more, till, mingled with the surrounding nations, both hadchanged; and when, a thousand years later, the world's caprice oncemore brought them together, and they met as foes, both were struck bysome strange sympathy, some sad chord which touched each alike, andtheir hearts felt oppressed, and their arms sank, they knew notwherefore.
The leader of the troop was a young chief, whose oval face, handsomesunburnt features, and dark eyes, bore great resemblance to theSzekely Magyar, and if he had worn a dolmany, none would havedistinguished the one from the other; but his dress was not that ofthe present Magyar, and yet the crimson-bordered toque, the shortlinen vest, beneath which flowed the long coloured kaftan, the curvedsword--even the manner of girding it on--all recalled some well-knownobject, like a portrait once seen, the name of which we haveforgotten, or the impression caused by some dream, or bygone scene ofchildhood, and we sigh to be unable to speak to them, or understandtheir language, to ask if they are happier among their mountains thantheir brothers on the plain, or if they, too, weep like us; and bidthem, when they return, and sit in the evenings at the threshold oftheir mountain homes--those which they so bravely defended, speak ofus to their children, and point to where the setting sun gilds thehome of the Magyar, and breathe a prayer for their suffering brethren.
The grave was dug, and the women stood before it chanting theirmournful dirges, while the measure was now and then interrupted bysobs, and the solemn bell tolled the knell of death--the death of thetown.
The leader of the troop alighted from his horse, his comrades followedhis example, and taking their csalmas from their heads, they claspedtheir hands and stood beside the grave in silent prayer. Who wouldhave thought that these were enemies?
After a pause of a few minutes, the leader made a motion to approachthe women on the opposite side of the grave, but Judith calmlyadvanced, and waved him back. "Approach not," she exclaimed--"thegrave is the boundary between us; there is nothing to seek in thetown--none but women and children inhabit it--the widows and orphansof those you have killed; and here, in this grave, lies the last manof Kezdi-Vasarhely, a holy man, whom God permitted to liveeighty-nine years, to be the friend and counsellor of the whole town,and has now called to Himself, because the town has no more need ofhim: his spirit fled at the first news of the lost battle, for he wasblind ten years: had he not been blind, the steel and not the news ofthe battle would have killed him, as it killed the rest. The women ofKezdi-Vasarhely have buried him here, that none may enter the town.They wish to live in solitude, as becomes widows whose husbands havefallen in battle; and therefore, blessed be the grave which shuts usout from the world, and accursed be he who steps over it, both beforeand after his death!"
The Circassian drew a white handkerchief from his bosom, and placingit on the end of his spear, spoke to the Szekely women in a languageunknown to them, although the tone, and even the accent, seemedfamiliar. He wished to tell them that he had brought peace to theirtown; that they had nothing to fear from him; that he only desiredadmittance. The women understood his intention, but motioned arefusal. "In vain you bring peace!" they exclaimed; "as long as thereis a living breath here, there must be war between us and you; onlydeath can bring us peace. Seek quarters for your troops elsewhere; theworld is large enough--there is no rest for you here; grief reignsalone in this town, where the ghosts of the grave wander through thestreets, women bewailing the dead, and driven by despair tomadness--depart from here!"
The action of the women, the unknown yet familiar tones, awakened astrange sad echo in the heart of the young Circassian, as he stoodsupported on his lance, looking on the mourners before him.
Brought up in the stern exercise of military duty, he was accustomedto fulfil the word of command, without regard to circumstances; butnow his strength seemed to fail him, and he hesitated to force his waythrough a party of weak women.
"Take the white handkerchief from your lance," cried Judith, "andsteep it in our heart's blood--then you may enter our town;" and as heleapt into the saddle, several of the women threw themselves beforehis horse's feet, causing the animal to rear and neigh.
But the Circassian remembered that he had a beloved mother at homewhose words so much resembled those of that proud matron--and sisters,and a young bride, beautiful as those young girls who had thrownthemselves before his horse's feet--with just such dark glorious eyes,sad features, and light forms; and his heart failed him. He turnedquickly aside, that the women might not see the tears which filled hiseyes; and then, dashing his spurs into his horse's side, he once morewaved his white handkerchief to the kneeling women, and galloped fromthe gate. His comrades hastened after him; their lances gleamedthrough clouds of dust, which soon concealed them from view; butneither the Szekely nor the Circassian women saw that young chieftainmore.
He was summoned before a military tribunal for transgression of duty,and suffered the stern fate of the soldier.
Troops of a different nature were sent next against the town, whosehorses trampled down the grave, and whose bayonets forced open theclosed doors.
It was a weary strife, without the glory of war; one by one each housewas taken, defended as they were b
y women and children; the contestwas renewed in every street; the infuriated inhabitants pouringboiling water and oil over the heads of their enemies, while thefearful tolling of the bell, heard above the cries and the clang ofarms, excited them to still greater desperation.
The combat continued till night, when the song of triumph was heardin the streets--the town was in the hands of the enemy. Suddenly, asif it had descended from heaven, fire burst from the roofs of thehouses, and in an instant, the wind coming to the assistance of theflames, carried the fiery embers from one end of the town to theother. Cries of despair arose amidst the howling of the blast, butdense clouds of smoke concealed all but the flames which dartedthrough them, devouring as they passed; and high above, the roof ofthe tower blazed like a gigantic torch, while the solemn tolling stillcontinued, the voice of battle, of fire, of tempest, and of death: afearful crash was heard, and all was still--the bell had fallen.
* * * * *
The two elements remained joint masters of the field. The wind and theflames contended over the ruins of Kezdi-Vasarhely.