Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 60, No. 370, August 1846

"What mean you, Farkas?" cried the young man, in a tone of displeasure.

"Nay! if my lord is angry, I have no more to say," replied Farkas, drawing back.

"Perhaps you are right," said the young man, with a sigh; "although your words were rude." And without further comment, he removed himself from his reclining position, and walked away with hurried steps.

The old domestic followed rapidly, and, as they approached the St Michael's gate, evidently expected that his young master would enter his lodging close by; but, seeing that he still walked on, Farkas paused for a moment, and murmured the words, "He bade me leave him. But he is utterly distraught. He knows not what he says; he has forgotten his command ere now; and who knows what may happen to the poor foolish boy!" And having thus reassured his conscience upon his act of disobedience, he pursued the young man's footsteps at a respectful distance, through the gateway, over the bridge, and along the suburb.

Beyond lay a more open road, skirted by gardens, and enlivened here and there by summer pavilions, belonging to some of the wealthier nobles; and, at about a quarter of a mile from the town, stood, to the left of the wanderers, a stately palace, built in the heavy but ornamented style of the commencement of the same century, and backed by gardens, that stretched out behind it to the foot of that richly wooded and romantic ridge of low mountains which gives so peculiar a charm to the environs of the fine old city of Presburg.

Passing through a side entrance of the court of this palace, which served as a summer residence to the Archbishop Primate of Hungary – at that period the Prince Immeric Esterhazy – and entering the gardens beyond, which the liberality of the wealthy primate opened to public recreation, but which were now empty, the young noble sauntered on, lost in meditation, through statues of heathen divinities, which seemed ill in accordance with the abode of a Christian bishop; and tritoned fountains, and stiff parterres, and huge incommodious stone benches; until, reaching an alley of shady planes and clustering chestnut-trees, he flung himself listlessly down on the mossy bench of a shell and pebble-studded niche. The glow of the last rays of the setting sun faintly penetrated the entrance of the avenue, adding a still richer colour to the rich green shades of the trees, as yet untouched by the influence of autumn; while, in the distant opening of the dark vista, framed, as it were, by the circling trees, appeared a hazy landscape of calm vine-covered hills, dotted with white cottages. It was a spot peculiarly adapted to meditation and repose, the solitude of which was enhanced, rather than disturbed, by its sole occupant – a misanthropic stork, that with its wings folded on its back, like a sulky old gentleman with his arms behind him, placed slowly and deliberately one foot before the other, as it stepped on in lonely thoughtfulness.

For a time the young man sat lost in reflection; and it was not until he at length raised his head to gaze upon a scene congenial to his feelings, that he became aware of the form of old Farkas, standing erect against a tree, like a sentry in his box, at no great distance from him.

"This is a persecution to which I cannot submit," he murmured to himself; and then rising, and calling angrily to his attendant, he cried,

"Did I not bid you leave me, Farkas?"

"Leave you, my lord?" said the attendant, advancing with an air of surprise.

"Yes, leave me. Do you hear now?"

"My duty" – continued the old man, in an expostulatory tone.

"Is to obey me."

"My attachment" —

"Becomes importunate," broke in his master, "if my footsteps are to be thus dogged, and my solitude to be disturbed, fellow."

Farkas tossed his head, with a sigh, that perhaps might be more appropriately termed a grunt, and moved a few steps backwards; but then, as if unable to obey, he again lingered and returned.

"Master Otmar," he said, "call me rude, unmannered, disobedient. Bid me leave you – yes, leave you for ever, if you will. But, out it must, teremtette! in spite of all. I cannot see you thus, and quit you, without a word – you, your father's son. You, Master Otmar, whose heels I was the first to spur, whom I first set on horseback to gallop alone over the Puszta, whom I first taught a good round Hungarian oath. I could not do it, were I to know it were the last word I spoke."

"Speak then! What have you to say?" cried Otmar, in a tone of vexed impatience; but then, as he saw the eyes of the old man fixed in such mournful earnestness and solicitude upon him, he seemed to repent his harshness, and stretched out his hand, which his attendant took and kissed with reverence, according to the custom of the country.

"Speak!" he said more mildly; "I know you love me, although sometimes you show your love after a strange rude fashion, Farkas!"

"Are you a man, Master Otmar," began the old attendant, bluntly, "that you should be thus cast down because you have seen a pretty face that smiled upon you?" The young man showed evident marks of impatience at these words; but Farkas had seized his advantage, and continued, "Is a chitfaced woman's glance, seen only once, to break a man's bold spirit thus? You are in love, you will tell me. That's a boy's answer to all; but" —

"Peace, foolish man! what do you know of love?" said Otmar, impatiently.

"Foolish!" echoed the old man, with a toss of the head, as if he were for a moment inclined to argue which were the more foolish, he or his master. "Be that as it may. Perhaps I understand little of this love, at least now. But I remember the time I understood it better; and, teremtette! that was another sort of thing. When I was in love, I danced and sprang, and drank and swore, and flung up my cap on to the very horns of the young moon! There was some spirit in love then! But you have saved a fair lady from danger, as her unruly devils of horses were about to plunge her travelling coach from the bank into the broad stream of the Danube, and you are as cast down about it as if you had caused her death, instead of saving her from destruction. Eb adta! it is for her to whine and pine, and lament that she sees the bright eyes of her handsome deliverer no more; not for you, boy!"

"And with how sweet a smile! with what a dignity and grace! with what a look of angel brightness, did she hold out her hand to thank me!" muttered the young man to himself, as he again sank down upon the bank.

"Be a man, Master Otmar!" pursued Farkas, with more animation and earnestness. "Call back again your energy and spirit! Where is the bold young fellow, now, who challenged that cursed outlandish rascal, who not long since strove to tamper with his loyalty, and throw doubts upon the rights of our King – God bless her! – and pricked him, too, right through the sword-arm, and did it well, right well?"

"And would again, Farkas!" said Otmar, raising his head proudly.

"Although, to be sure, you would not allow me to cudgel him soundly, and beat his treacherous brains out afterwards," continued the man, with a grim smile; "but, no matter for that, he had half his deserts, and shall have the other half one of these days. An honest man pays his just debts."

"Leave the villain to his fate!" cried the young man with a look of scorn.

"That's right!" pursued his attendant. "Now, you are yourself again. Look you, Master Otmar! I cannot bear to see you thus unhappy and cast down, and all for the look of a bright eye. It goes nigh to break my heart, I tell you." And the old man's voice began to falter with emotion.

"But I am not unhappy," said Otmar, smiling; "I am happy, very happy. Let that re-assure you, Farkas. You tell me, be a man. Can I be a man, and not indulge grave thoughts in these times of strife and trouble?"

The old man shook his head.

"You love me, Farkas," continued the young noble. "Let, then, the assurance that I am far from unhappy suffice you. Now leave me, in all earnest. I shortly will return home – Home!" he murmured to himself, "have I a home now?"

The old attendant still lingered; but, as his master stretched forth his hand, he again kissed it reverently, and, turning up the alley, disappeared from sight.

"No! I am not unhappy," muttered Otmar, when he found himself alone. "Why should I not be happy, when she smiled upon me so sweetly? But should I not see her again? Oh no! Fate cannot be so cruel. And who was he that sat by her side, and took her hand in his, as she again entered the coach? Her husband – her lover, perhaps. I will not believe it. Her brother, may be. No! I am not unhappy. I should be happy that I can place between myself and the dark realities of life a bright barrier of fancy, of poetry, of love – like unto those glorious painted windows in the old cathedral, which spread out, between the inclemencies of the atmosphere without, and the mysteries of the calm sanctuary within, the thousand glories of a thousand colours, a radiant curtain of purple, and crimson, and gold, in such wise that the passing cloud, with all its variations of shade, only develops fresh treasures of harmony and beauty; and if a ray of sun bursts forth – oh then! – it might almost seem as if, in those dazzling showers of light and radiance, a whole celestial choir of angels descended upon the altar! Thrice happy should I be, that, on the sanctuary of my heart, shines such a ray of light! Yes, in the midst of the darkness of my life," pursued the young man to himself, still following up the same images of his poetic fancy, "my thoughts should be as the thousand particles of dust that may be seen to turn, and whirl, and gambol in the golden shaft of light which streams through a peephole into a darkened prison! No, I should not be – I am not unhappy!" And yet Otmar sighed, as he bent his head again to the earth.

From this poetic reverie he was roused, however, by the noise of footsteps; and, as he lifted up his head, he saw that the entrance to the alley was darkened by the forms of three persons who were advancing towards him. That which immediately attracted his attention, and caused him to spring up from his seat as if struck by an electric shock which darted through his heart, was a young female, whose features and expression, as she approached nearer, might be seen, spite of the gathering darkness, to be of singular beauty. She was attired in a dark brocaded dress, the long and slim waist of which was set off by a small hoop, in accordance with the custom of the times; a thick veil, or rather Spanish mantilla, of similar stuff was fastened into the top of her powdered edifice of hair, and covered her neck and shoulders; and from beneath its folds protruded a small hand, the fingers of which rested gently upon the arm of a young man. This second personage was dressed in all the rich extravagance of the French fashion of the day – his long lappeted coat, hanging waistcoat, and breeches, all laced and spangled, and behung with knots of ribands – his three-cornered hat flung under the arm which did not serve as support to the lady – and an embroidered handkerchief, the perfumes of which scented the air even at a distance, ostentatiously flourished in his hand; and if Otmar's heart beat involuntarily at first sight of the female, it was twinged with an equally involuntary pang of painful emotion as his eye wandered to her companion. The group was completed by an aged man, in the plain costume of a Catholic ecclesiastic of the day, to whom the lady turned her head to address some remark, as he lingered somewhat behind the other personages.

The first instinctive movement of Otmar's heart had not deceived him. As the lady approached still nearer, the lingering doubt gave way to full conviction. It was she – she of whom he had dreamt so fondly-she whom he had sought all day so eagerly among the crowds that thronged the city streets! And now that she stood before him, his knees trembled, whilst his feet seemed to be rooted to the ground, and his tongue to cleave to the roof of his mouth. Had she passed him unnoticed where he stood, he could not have moved to claim a look, or framed a word to address her. But, as she drew closer to him, she checked her steps with a slight exclamation of surprise, almost of alarm, at the sight of the half-concealed stranger in the dusk. Her companion moved forward hastily, and, dropping her arm, advanced his hand to his sword; but, before he could say a word, she had in turn come forward.

"Forbear, my friend!" she said; and then, advancing to Otmar, she continued, "I am not deceived. It is my noble rescuer. I have sought you, sir, in vain, to tender you my thanks for your good services, if my poor thanks, indeed, can be a recompense for service so beyond all price."

"Madam, I did but the duty of a gentleman," stammered Otmar; "and for you, who would not – ?"

"I owe you, indeed, more than thanks can pay," interrupted the young female. "You left us so hastily, after accomplishing that deed of courage at the risk of your own life, that I had no time to learn who was my bold deliverer from peril. In the confusion and trouble of the moment, I allowed you to depart; and, believe me, my heart has not ceased to reproach me since for a seeming want of gratitude, that, the Saints of Heaven know, was far from it."

"Oh! I am repaid, fully repaid, fair lady, by these words," interrupted the eager youth in his turn.

"But I may still repair my error," resumed the lady. "Alas! I have little to bestow," she continued, with a sigh, "save empty words of gratitude. But the time may come. Let me know, at least, the name of him who has done me such essential service."

"It were unworthy of your ears, fair lady," stammered Otmar timidly

"Again, I reclaim the favour of your name, sir," said the young female. "You are noble; your mien proclaims it, did not the sabre by your side attest it." And her eyes seemed to rest with satisfaction upon the figure of the handsome youth. "You have more – you have the true nobility of heart. You will not refuse your name to a lady who demands it."

Otmar was about to speak, when the noise of several persons advancing into the alley with rapid steps, caused the heads of all parties to turn in that direction. A troop of five or six men, with drawn swords, and black masks upon their faces, rushed violently upon them.

"Seize her! It is she!" cried a tall man, who appeared the leader of the party, as he darted forward.

A violent scream issued from the mouth of the female – exclamations of alarm, and shouts of rescue from those of her companions. Otmar instinctively drew his sabre with cry of rage, and the next moment all was skirmish and confusion.

"Ruffian!" exclaimed the young Hungarian, attacking the taller mask, who had now seized with rude grasp the hand of the female, and causing him, by the violence of the onset, to let go his hold.

"Ha! he once more! God's curse on him!" cried the leader, parrying the attack as best he might, whilst he endeavoured to regain possession of the lady.

"Let her not escape! let her not escape!" he shouted again to his followers, finding himself hardly pressed upon. "I will dispatch this fellow, on whom I reckoned not." And he, in his turn, attacked Otmar with fury.

Even in the midst of the skirmish, the young man could not resist seeking the lady with his eye; and he could dimly perceive, in the darkness and confusion, that she had taken refuge with the ecclesiastic, whilst her companion was making desperate efforts with his French small-sword, to keep at bay the other assailants. But his unwary solicitude had wellnigh cost him his life. A plunge of his adversary's sword passed through his attila, and slightly grazed his side. The next moment his own sabre descended on to the shoulder of the man with whom he was engaged, with sufficient effect, although the blow was evaded, to disable him for the moment, and cause him to stagger back.

Profiting by this circumstance, Otmar rushed upon the other ravishers, and came up at the very instant when, overpowered by numbers, the companion of the lady had lost all power of any longer protecting her retreat, and preventing their object of seizing on her. Attacking then with fury, and dealing several severe wounds, he succeeded in turning their attention chiefly to himself.