The Nameless Castle

by Maurus Jokai

  Then she turned toward De Fervlans, and whispered, holding the lorgnette in front of her lips:

  “Mama leaves her money-chest in my care”—adding, with naïve sarcasm, “which means that she has left me to battle with her creditors.”

  PART II

  THE HOME OF ANECDOTE

  CHAPTER I

  The entire population of Fertöszeg was assembled on the public highway to welcome the new proprietress of the estate. Elaborate preparations had been made for the reception. An arch of green boughs—at the top of which gleamed the word “Vivat” in yellow roses—spanned the road, on either side of which were ranged twelve little girls in white, with flower-baskets in their hands. They were under the superintendence of the village cantor, whose intention it was to conclude the ceremonies with a hymn of welcome by these innocent little creatures.

  On a sort of platform, a bevy of rosy-cheeked maids were waiting to present to the new-comer a huge hamper heaped to the brim with ripe melons, grapes, and Ostyepka cheeses of marvelous shapes. Mortars crowned the summit of the neighboring hill. In the shadow of a spreading beech-tree were assembled the official personages: the vice-palatine, the county surveyor, the village pastor, the district physician, the justice of the peace, and the different attendants, county and state employees, belonging to these gentlemen. The vice-palatine’s assistant ought also to have been in this company, but he was busy giving the last instructions to the village beauties whose part it was to present the hamper of fruit and cheeses.

  These gentlemen had wives and daughters; but they had stationed themselves along the trench at the side of the road. They did not seek the shadow of a tree, because they wished people to know that they had parasols; for to own a parasol in those days was no small matter.

  Preparations were making in the market-place for an ox-roast. The fat young ox had been spitted, and the pile of fagots underneath him was ready for the torch. Hard by, on a stout trestle, rested a barrel of wine. In front of the inn a gypsy band were tuning their instruments, while at the window of the church tower might have been seen two or three child faces; they were on the lookout for the new lady of the manor, in order that they might be ready to ring the bells the moment she came in sight. There was only that one tower in the village, and there was a cross on it; but it was not a Romish church, for all that. The inhabitants were adherents of Luther—Swabians, mixed with Magyars.

  The municipal authorities, in their holiday attire of blue cloth, had grouped themselves about the town hall. The older men wore their long hair brushed back from the temples and held in place by a curved comb. The young men had thrust into the sides of their lambskin caps gay little nosegays of artificial flowers. They proposed to fire a grand salute from the pistols they had concealed in their pockets.

  Meanwhile, the dignitaries underneath the umbrageous beech-tree were passing the time of waiting pleasantly enough. Maple wine mixed with mineral water was a very refreshing drink in the intense heat; besides, it served as a stimulant to the appetite—appetitorium, they called it.

  Three wooden benches, joined together in a half-circle, formed a comfortable resting-place for the committee of reception, the chief of whom, the vice-palatine, was seated on the middle bench, drawing through the stem of his huge carved meerschaum the smoke of the sweet Veker tobacco. His figure was the living illustration of the ever true axiom: “Extra Hungariam non est vita,”—an axiom which his fat red face by no means confuted,—while his heavy, stiffly waxed mustache seemed to add menacingly: “Leave the Hungarian in peace.”

  He shared his seat with the clergyman, whose ecclesiastical office entitled him to that honor. The reverend gentleman, however, was an extremely humble person, whom erudition had bent and warped to such a degree that one shoulder was lower than the other, one eyelid was elevated above its fellow, and only one half of his mouth opened when he gave utterance to a remark. His part in the festive ceremony was the performance of the beneventatio; and although he had committed the speech to memory, he could not help but tremble at thought of having to repeat it before so grand a dame as the new mistress of the manor. He always trembled whenever he began his sermons; but once fairly started, then he became a veritable Demosthenes.

  “I only hope, reverend sir,” jestingly observed the vice-palatine, “that it will not happen to you as it did to the csokonai, not long ago. Some wags exchanged his sermon-book for one on cookery, and he did not notice it until he began to read in the pulpit: ‘The vinegar was—’ Then he saw that he was reading a recipe for pickled gherkins. He had the presence of mind, however, to continue, ‘—was offered to the Saviour, who said, “It is finished.” ’ And on that text he extemporized a discourse that astounded the entire presbytery.”

  “I shall manage somehow to say my speech,” returned the pastor, meekly, “if only I do not stumble over the name of the lady.”

  “It is a difficult name,” assented the vice-palatine. “What is it? I have already forgotten it, reverend sir.”

  “Katharina von Landsknechtsschild.”

  The vice-palatine’s pointed mustaches essayed to give utterance to the name.

  “Lantz-k-nek-hisz-sild—that’s asking a great deal from a body at one time!” he concluded, in disgust at his ill success.

  “And yet, it is a good old Hungarian family name. The last Diet recognized her ancestors as belonging to the nobility.”

  This remark was made by a third gentleman. He was sitting on the left of the vice-palatine, and was clad in snuff-colored clothes. His face was covered with small-pox marks; he had tangled yellow hair and inflamed eyelids.

  “Are you acquainted with the family, doctor?” asked the vice-palatine.

  “Of course I am,” replied the doctor. “Baron Landsknechtsschild inherited this estate from his mother, who was a Markoczy. The baron sold the estate to his niece Katharina. You, Herr Surveyor, must have seen the baron, when the land was surveyed around the Nameless Castle for the mad count?”

  The surveyor, who was seated beside the doctor, was a clever man in his profession, but little given to conversation. When he did open his lips, he rarely got beyond: “I—say—what was it, now, I was going to say?”

  As no one seemed willing to-day to wait until he could remember what he wanted to remark, the doctor, who was never at a loss for words, continued:

  “The Baroness Katharina paid one hundred thousand florins for the estate, with all its prerogatives—”

  “That’s quite a handsome sum,” observed the vice-palatine. “And, what is handsomer, it is said the new proprietress intends to take up a permanent residence here. Is not that the report, Herr Justice? You ought to know.”

  The justice had an odd habit, while speaking, of rubbing together the palms of his hands, as if he were rolling little dumplings between them.

  “Yes—yes,” he replied, beginning his dumpling-rolling; “that is quite true. The baroness sent some beautiful furniture from Vienna; also a piano, and a tuner to tune it. All the rooms at the manor have been hung with new tapestry, and the conservatory has been completely renovated.”

  “I wonder how the baroness came to take such a fancy to this quiet neighborhood? It is very strange, too, that none of the neighboring nobles have been invited here to meet her. It is as if she intended to let them know in advance that she didn’t want their acquaintance. At any other celebration of this sort half the county would have been invited, and here are only ourselves—and we are here because we are obliged, ex officio, to be present.”

  This speech was delivered over the mouthpiece of the vice-palatine’s meerschaum.

  “I fancy I can enlighten you,” responded the doctor.

  “I thought it likely that the ‘county clock’ could tell us something about it,” laughingly interpolated the vice-palatine.

  “You may laugh as much as you like, but I always tell what is true,” retorted the “county clock.” “They say that the baroness was betrothed to a gentleman from Bavaria, that the wedding-
day was set, when the bridegroom heard that the lady he was about to marry was—”

  “Hush!” hastily whispered the justice; “the servants might hear you.”

  “Oh, it isn’t anything scandalous. All that the bridegroom heard was that the baroness was a Lutheran; and as the matrimonia mixta are forbidden in Vienna and in Bavaria, the bridegroom withdrew from the engagement. In her grief over the affair, the sposa repudiata said farewell to the world, and determined to wear the parta[2] for the remainder of her days. That is why she chose this remote region as a residence.”

  Here the bell in the church tower began to ring. It was followed by a roar from the mortars on the hilltop.

  The gypsy band began to play Biharis’s “Vierzigmann Marsch”; a cloud of dust rose from the highway; and soon afterward there appeared an outrider with three ostrich-plumes in his hat. He was followed by a four-horse coach, with coachman and footman on the box.

  The committee of reception came forth from the shade of the beech and ranged themselves underneath the arch. The clergyman for the last time took his little black book from his pocket, and satisfied himself that his speech was still in it. The coach stopped, and it was discovered that no one occupied it; only the discarded shawl and traveling-wraps told that women had been riding in the conveyance.

  The general consternation which ensued was ended by the agent from Vienna, who drove up in a second vehicle. He explained that the baroness and her companion had alighted at the park gate, whence they would proceed on foot up the shorter foot-path to the manor. And thus ended all the magnificent preparations for the reception!

  A servant now came running from the village, his plumed czako in one hand, and announced that the baroness awaited the dignitaries at the manor.

  This was, to say the least, exasperating! A whole week spent in preparing—for nothing!

  You may be sure every one had something to say about it, audibly and to themselves, and some one was even heard to mutter:

  “This is the second mad person come to live in Fertöszeg.”

  And then they all betook themselves, a disappointed company, to their homes.

  The baroness, who had preferred to walk the shorter path through the park to driving around the village in the dust for the sake of receiving a ceremonious welcome, was a lovely blonde, a true Viennese, good-humored, and frank as a child. She treated every one with cordial friendliness. One might easily have seen that everything rural was new to her. While walking through the park she took off her hat and decorated it with the wild flowers which grew along the path. In the farm-yard she caught two or three little chickens, calling them canaries—a mistake the mother hen sought in the most emphatic manner to correct. The surly old watch-dog’s head was patted. She brushed with her dainty fingers the hair from the eyes of the gaping farmer children. She was here and there in a moment, driving to despair her companion, whose gouty limbs were unable to keep pace with the flying feet of her mistress.

  At the manor the baroness was received by the steward, who had been sent on in advance with orders to prepare the “installation dinner.” Then she proceeded at once to inspect every corner and crevice—the kitchen as well as the dining-room, astonishing the cooks with her knowledge of their art. She was summoned from the kitchen to receive the dignitaries.

  “Let there be no ceremony, gentlemen,” she exclaimed in her musical voice, hastening toward them. “I detest all formalities. I have had a surfeit of them in Vienna, and intend to breathe natural air here in the country, without ‘fuss or feathers,’ with no incense save that which rises from burning tobacco! This is why I avoided your parade out yonder on the highway. I want nothing but a cordial shake of your hands; and as regards the official formalities of this ‘installation’ business, you must settle that with my agent, who has authority to act for me. After that has been arranged, we will all act as if we were old acquaintances, and every one of you must consider himself at home here.”

  To this gracious speech the vice-palatine gave utterance to something which sounded like:

  “Kisz-ti-hand!”

  “Ah!” returned the baroness, “you speak German?”

  “Well, yes,” replied the descendant of the Scythians; “only, I am likely to blunder when speaking it, as did the valiant Barkocz. When our glorious Queen Maria Theresa recovered from the chicken-pox, she was bemoaning the disfiguring scars left on her face, when the brave soldier, in order to comfort her, said: ‘But your Majesty still has very beautiful leather.’ ”

  “Ha, ha, ha!” merrily laughed the baroness. “You are the gentleman who has an anecdote to suit every occasion. I have already heard about you. Pray introduce the other gentlemen.”

  The vice-palatine proceeded to obey this request. “This is the Rev. Herr Tobias Mercatoris, our parish clergyman. He has a beautiful speech prepared to receive your ladyship; but he can’t repeat it here, as it begins, ‘Here in the grateful shadow of these green trees.’ ”

  “Oh, well, your reverence, instead of the speech, I will listen to your sermons on Sundays. I intend to become a very zealous member of your congregation.”

  “And this, your ladyship,” continued the master of ceremonies, “is Dr. Philip Tromfszky, resident physician of Fertöszeg, who is celebrated not only for his surgical and medical skill, but is acknowledged here, as well as in Raab, Komorn, Eisenburg, and Odenburg, as the greatest gossip and news dispenser in the kingdom.”

  “A most excellent accomplishment!” laughingly exclaimed the baroness. “I am devoted to gossip; and I shall manage to have some ailment every few days in order to have the doctor come to see me!”

  Then came the surveyor’s turn.

  “This, your ladyship, is Herr Martin Doboka, county surveyor and expert mathematician. He will measure for you land, water, or fog; and if your watch stops going, he will repair it for you!”

  “And who may this be?” smilingly inquired the lady, indicating the vice-palatine’s assistant, who had thrust his long neck inquisitively forward.

  “Oh, he isn’t anybody!” replied the vice-palatine. “He is never called by name. When you want him just say: ‘Audiat!’ He is one of those persons of whom Cziraky said: ‘My lad, don’t trouble yourself to inquire where you shall seat yourself at table; for wherever you sit will always be the lowest place!’ ”

  This anecdote caused “Audiat” to draw back his head and seek to make himself invisible.

  “And now, I must present myself: I am the vice-palatine of this county, and am called Bernat Görömbölyi von Dravakeresztur.”

  “My dear sir!” ejaculated the baroness, laughing heartily, “I couldn’t commit all that to memory in three years!”

  “That is exactly the way your ladyship’s name affects me!”

  “Then I will tell you what we will do. Instead of torturing each other with our unpronounceable names, let us at once adopt the familiar ‘thou,’ and call each other by our Christian names.”

  “Yes; but when I enter into a ‘brotherhood’ of that sort, I always kiss the person with whom I form a compact.”

  “Well, that can also be done in this instance!” promptly responded the baroness, proffering, without affectation of maidenly coyness, the ceremonial kiss, and cordially shaking hands with the vice-palatine. Then she said:

  “We are now Bernat bácsi, and Katinka; and as that is happily arranged, I will ask the gentlemen to go into the agent’s office and conclude our official business. Meanwhile, I shall make my toilet for dinner, where we will all meet again.”

  “What a perfectly charming woman!” exclaimed the justice, when their hostess had vanished from the room.

  “I wonder what would happen,” observed the doctor, with a malicious grin, “if the vice-palatine’s wife should hear of that kiss? Wouldn’t there be a row, though!”

  The heroic descendant of the Scythians at these words became seriously alarmed.

  “The Herr Doctor, I trust, will be honorable enough not to gossip about it,” he said mee
kly.

  “Oh, you may rest without fear, so far as I am concerned; but I wouldn’t say as much for the surveyor, here. If ever he should succeed in getting beyond ‘I say,’ I won’t answer for the safety of your secret, Herr Vice-palatine! When your wife hears, moreover, that it is ‘Bernat’ and ‘Katinka’ up here, it will require something besides an anecdote to parry what will follow!”

  CHAPTER II

  When the baroness appeared at the dinner-table, she was attired simply, yet with a certain elegance. She wore a plain black silk gown, with no other ornamentation save the string of genuine pearls about her throat. The sombre hue of her gown signified mourning; the gems represented tears; but her manner was by no means in keeping with either; she was cheerful, even gay. But laughter very often serves to mask a sorrowful heart.

  “Thy place is here by my side,” said the baroness, mindful of the “thee-and-thou” compact with Herr Bernat.

  The vice-palatine, remembering his spouse, sought to modify the familiarity.

  “I forgot to tell you, baroness,” he observed, as he seated himself in the chair beside her own, “that with us in this region ‘thou’ is used only by children and the gypsies. To those with whom we are on terms of intimacy we say ‘he’ or ‘she,’ to which we add, if we wish, the words bácsi, or hugom, which are equivalent to ‘cousin.’ ”

  “And do you never say ‘thou’ to your wife?”

  “To her also I say ‘she’ or ‘you.’ ”

  “What a singular country! Well, then, Bernat bácsi, if it pleases ‘him,’ will ‘he’ sit here by me?”

  Baroness Katinka understood perfectly how to conduct the conversation during the repast—an art which was not appreciated by her right-hand neighbor, Herr Mercatoris. The learned gentleman had bad teeth, in consequence of which eating was a sort of penitential performance that left him no time for discourse.