CHAPTER X
A LOVE IDYLL
After this, gaiety became decidedly more boisterous; the men-servants were kept constantly busy, filling and re-filling the glasses and the bottles out of the great casks, one of these having already run dry. The czigány were not allowed, even for a moment, to stop the music, and, hot and panting, they kept up the lively csárdás with much spirit. The good Hungarian wine was getting into the heads of some of the noble Hungarian Barons there, and a quantity of wine in their heads, invariably produces the most passionate fondness for the national songs of their country.
“Here, czigány!” said Géza Vécsery, a man of vast property in the county of Zemplén, of which he was Lord Lieutenant, “play me that favourite song of mine, ‘Káka töven költ a rucza!’ Play it so that you draw every tear from my eyes, and every florin from out my pockets.”
And Binecz Markó began with tender tones on his instrument to bring forth the melancholy sounds of that sweetest of Hungarian songs.
While everybody talked as merrily as ever, Géza Vécsery had drawn a chair close to the czigány band, and, sitting astride upon it, with a half-empty bottle of wine in his hand, he gave himself over to the delights of listening to his favourite tune, letting his head beat time to the quaint rhythm. For fully half an hour he sat there, forcing the czigány to repeat the same tune over and over again, while, to testify to his intense enjoyment, tears flowed thick and fast down his cheeks, for truly “Sírva vigad a Magyar!” (The Hungarian weeps whilst he makes merry).
He evidently had quite forgotten the end of the dinner, for he took no further heed of anything round him, his enthusiasm seemed to grow at every repetition; his “Ujra!” (Encore!) waxed louder and more imperative.
“Slower!” he shrieked at times; at others “Faster!” or “Louder!” “Do not go to sleep, you lazy dog!” or “What has happened to that cursed fiddle of thine? It has no tone! Ah, I understand,” he added, rising excitedly, “it is thirsty, it wants to drink, and this wine is a drink fit for angels; here, czigány, fiddle! drink! drink! it will revive you! drink, I say!”
And, not very steady on his feet, the Lord Lieutenant rose, and taking the fiddle out of the leader’s hand, he laughingly poured the whole contents of the bottle he was holding into its body.
Nobody took much notice of his playful antics; the gipsy very calmly let him amuse himself with his fiddle; he well knew that good compensation would follow the destruction of the instrument.
“Try that now, czigány,” said Géza Vécsery, handing the man his fiddle back; “I am sure it will play a great deal better for having drunk good Hungarian wine.”
Unfortunately, however, the fiddle utterly refused to give forth any sound under the circumstances. The gipsy, with absolute stolidity, made one or two attempts at scraping the catgut. The sounds which he drew from it amused the Lord Lieutenant hugely.
“Try again, czigány,” he roared. “Here, you don't know how to do it; let me show you!” and he pulled the instrument out of the man’s hand. But this time, either his hand was more clumsy, or the swarthy musician turned the fiddle over on purpose, anyhow the inevitable catastrophe occurred, and the wine flowed out freely, and deluged the noble lord and the gipsy practically from head to foot.
“Ho! what waste of good wine!” said Vécsery, laughing. “Ah, well, it is an ungrateful fiddle. Here, czigány, you will want something to wipe its mouth dry!”
And he took several bank notes out of his pocket, and stuffed them into the fiddle with as much delight as he had poured the wine into it previously; then he allowed the gipsy to have his instrument again. He had had enough fun for the present.
Moreover everyone seemed to be rising, to adjourn to different parts of the house for smoking or for strolling in the garden.
Feri had tried to remain close to Ilonka, but this was distinctly not proper, for all the young men were together smoking, while all the girls, like a veritable bevy of gay plumaged, chattering birds, put their pretty heads together, and whispered of things which only have interest for those dainty bits of femininity.
That day was perhaps the happiest one which two young people at any rate experienced. Ilonka, throwing all prudence to the wind, and wilfully defying mama’s blackest looks, gave herself over to the delights of her day-dreams. As a child, playing with an absolutely novel and fascinating toy, quite unable to understand that it is brittle, and only made for momentary pleasure, she coquetted and flirted with this pleasant emotion, which a handsome young officer’s ardent words had kindled in her heart.
All day she dreamt of what she so little understood: of a man’s passion, of marriage, and blissful life with one whom it was paradise even to listen to, when he whispered so often, and, oh! so ardently, “I love you, Ilonka!”
In the evening, during the long waits of the cotillon, during the cosy moments of supper, during the inspiriting hour of the csárdás, Madách Feri was close to her. As he sat near her, he could feel the dainty muslin frock against his knee, and, trembling, his hand would seek the soft fabric, and stroke it tenderly, or crush it nervously, as his passion grew stronger and stronger every moment, for this exquisite type of lovely girlhood.
And, as innocently as a child, she would return his ardent gaze, not comprehending what it was that brought a warm blush to her cheek, and made her own little hand tremble and her heart palpitate. She felt as it were shut off from the gay world, of those around her, walking through the figures of quadrille or cotillon, not heeding other hands she touched, other eyes she met, or listening to other words, save those few, she had now heard so often, and yet which seemed to gather an infinity of sweetness, as they were repeated again and again: “I love you, Ilonka!”
Love! What did the child know of love, of the strength of the torrent she, with her own dainty hand, had unchained? She had known Madách Feri all her life; when, a veritable queen of four years old, she had lorded it over the handsome boy some five years her senior, he had said, “I love you, Ilonka!” He had said it then, he whispered it now, and as her heart had responded then, it re-echoed now, childlike, sweet, and innocent.
And the young man, though with more knowledge of the world, and a dim foreshadowing of the inevitable ending to this happy day-dream, gave himself over to the happiness of the moment. He could not say much to her, for there were too many there, who might overhear the words, so sweetly foolish, that love in its infancy babbles to one ear alone, but he could, from time to time, pick up her fan or handkerchief, and, in handing them back to her, feel for one instant her tiny finger against his hand. He could, when no one was looking, and all the mamas were intent in watching some intricate figure of the dance, lean forward and look for a brief moment, right into those blue eyes, which she had a playful habit of keeping irritatingly cast down.
All this and more, he could and did do, talking but a few most commonplace topics with her, forced to avoid what lay so near his heart, but gazing at her all the time, drinking in every line of that graceful girlish figure, the bit of white neck that peeped out slily from out the soft folds of white muslin, the tiny pink ear, half veiled by stray golden curls, the heavy, drooping lashes, that cast a glowing shadow on the soft peach-like cheeks.
Ah! she was divinely pretty, this dainty product of a rich fertile land, a bit of exquisite jewellery, set in a framework of semi-barbaric surroundings, and hemmed in by an impenetrable wall of conventionality, which had cramped her budding character, and was threatening to shape this perfect work of the Creator into one of the thoughtless, soulless dolls, that those of her kind and breeding all gradually become: a pretty ornament to the great, hospitable castles of which they all ultimately become mistress: a respectful wife to their husbands—the head of the house: content to follow the traditions that have existed for hundreds of years: dressing perhaps a little differently to what their grandmothers, or great-grandmothers did, decking their dainty bodies with perhaps differently-shaped garments: but allowing their minds, their souls, to remain on the self-same level, without any attempt at cultivating mental gifts, which they persist on looking on as bourgeois, and unworthy their long line of ancestry, who had fought, and made their country great, without reading a book, or writing a letter.
“I love you, Ilonka!” whispered the young man at every interval, between the figures of the cotillon.
And Ilonka’s ears were agreeably tickled by those tender and passionate words, that, in her youth, her innocence, her warped education, she understood so little. How could a young girl understand? brought up, as she had been, kept away, till she was “out” from every society, save that of her father and her mother, never reading a line that did not pass under the rigorous censorship of her mother’s eyes, taught and shown nothing, which might lead her to understand the depth of a human heart, the passions that fill a man’s soul.
Poor little girl! what did she know of love? save that it was so pleasant to hear about it from this one being who danced the csárdás so divinely, and looked so handsome in his volunteer’s uniform; she allowed herself and him to dream this day-dream, not accustomed to look at the future, accepting the present, which was so fair, never guessing that such dreams ever ended, and that there was such a thing as a world which was not made up of muslin frocks, of cotillons, and handsome volunteer officers, where harsh words often took the place of softly whispered “I love you!” where reality with remorseless fingers scattered the poetic imaginings of young girls to the four winds, leaving them often sadder, sometimes hardened, always disillusioned, for no reality, however golden, can come up to those visions born in the brain of a girl of seventeen.
When everyone had gone to bed, after hours of dancing, amusement and excitement, to dream of more excitements, more amusements, more dancing, Ilonka well knew that her mother’s entrance into her room, at that unaccustomed hour, meant a very serious lecture. She had the whole of the day thrown prudence to the winds, and, in spite of mama’s black looks, and whispered comments of the older ladies, had singled out Madách Feri for her most special favours.
The Countess Irma had no intention of being unkind. In her inmost heart she firmly believed that she was devoted to her daughter, and only considered her happiness, when she tried to instil into her that love of birth and estates, in which she herself had been brought up. She so firmly believed that every description of misery would be the result of poverty or of a mésalliance, that she would have considered herself a most unnatural and culpable mother if she did not in good time draw a picture of those evils before Ilonka, in such a way as to make her shun the attentions of a “detrimental,” and repulse them if they came her way.
“I came to tell you, Ilonka, that I was extremely displeased with you,” she began drily.
“With me, mama?”
“Your conduct with that penniless Madách is positively indecent.”
“Oh, mama!”
“Everyone remarked on it to-night. I assure you I blushed for you the whole evening.”
“Mama!”
Poor little girl! she was so appealing, so sorrowful; she felt a little guilty certainly, but she had had such a very enjoyable day. Two great tears were already trickling down her cheeks: mama always had the power of making her unhappy.
And “mama” embarked on the usual lecture; of how a young noble girl should behave, how she should never allow one young man, more than another, to pay any attention to her, unless her parents have previously authorised her to do so; that conduct such as Ilonka’s to-night was unmaidenly. and that, if it was not mended the next day, she would have to spend the rest of the time, that the guests were in the house, in her own apartments, by herself.
“Mama” was exceedingly eloquent, and Ilonka very, very unhappy. When her mother finally left her, after half an hour’s steady preaching on children’s obedience, and maidenly reserve, the poor little girl threw herself on the bed in a passionate flood of tears. Never in all her long, seventeen-year-old life had she been so unhappy. A most delicious bit of romance had come in that life, and caressed her young mind with poetic dreams, such as she hardly understood herself; stern reality, wearing “mama’s” best silk gown, had, with be-ringed, aristocratic fingers chased those day-dreams away. Hers was a child’s grief who sees its most cherished toy taken away from it, without understanding the reason of the cruelty, but is there anything in its way more pathetically hopeless than a child’s grief? There seems such a total want of hope in it, for the child mind only understands the present, it cannot conceive that there may be a future, capable of alleviating its sorrows.
Ilonka cried till she fell asleep, and in her sleep she once more dreamt such dreams that made her forget the realities, her stern mama, the midnight lectures, and once more brought, floating before her mind, visions of a handsome young face, with a pair of dark eyes, which, somehow, always made her blush, when they met her own, and to her ear the softly-whispered words, sweeter than song of birds, or chorus of angels: “I love you, Ilonka!”