Part 17 (1/2)

And the whole ”czimbalom” playing is such a jest, so grotesque; the player's arms jerk and wave continuously; his whole shoulder and head are in perpetual motion; whereas, with the piano, the five fingers do all; the artist's relation to the piano is that of my lord to his children, whom he addresses from a far-off height; the czimbalom-player is ”_per tu_” with his instrument.

But the young lady had the grace of one born to the instrument. As she took the sticks in her hands and struck a chord upon the outstretched strings, her face a.s.sumed a new expression; so far, we must confess, there had been much ”naivete” in it, now she felt at home; this was her world.

She sang two songs to the guests, both taken from what are called in our country ”Parliamentary airs;” they used to break forth in ”juratus”

coffee-houses, during the sitting of Parliament, when there was more spirit in the youths of the country than now.

The one had a fine impa.s.sioned refrain: ”From Vienna town, from west to east, the wind hath a cold blast.” The end of it was that the Danube water is bitter, for at Pressburg many bitter tears have flowed into it, ”Which the great ones of our land have shed, because Ragalyi was not sent to be amba.s.sador.” Now patriots are more sparing with their tears; but in those days much bitterness was expressed with the air of ”Vienna town.”

The other air was ”Rose-bud, laurel,” which had also a pretty refrain; it is full of such expressions as ”altars of freedom,” ”angels of freedom,” ”wreaths of freedom,” and other such mythological things. How the strings responded to the young woman's touch, what expression was in her refrain! It was as if she felt the meaning of those beautiful ”flosculi” best of all, and must suffer more than all for them.

Then she introduced a third parliamentary song, the contents of which were satirical; but the satire was purely local and personal, and would not be intelligible to people of modern days.

Topandy was inexpressibly pleased by it: he asked for it again. Someone had ridiculed the priests in it, but in such a manner that no one, unless he had had it explained could understand it.

The magistrate was quite enraptured by the simple instrument; he would never have believed that anyone could play it with such masterly skill.

”Tell me,” he asked her ladys.h.i.+p, not being able any longer to conceal his astonishment, ”where you learned to play this instrument.”

At these words her ladys.h.i.+p broke into such a fit of laughter, that, if she had not suddenly steadied herself with her feet against the czimbalom stand, she would have fallen over. As it was, her hair being, according to the fas.h.i.+on of the day, coiled up ”a la Giraffe” round a high comb, and the comb falling from her head, her two tresses of raven hair fell waving over her shoulders to the floor.

At this the young lady discontinued laughing, and not succeeding at all in her efforts to place her dishevelled hair around the comb again, suddenly twisted it together on her head and fastened it with a spindle she s.n.a.t.c.hed from the spinning wheel.

Then to recover her previous high spirits, she again took up the czimbalom sticks, and began to play some quiet melody on the instrument.

It was no song, no variations on well-known airs; it was some marvellous reverie; a frameless picture, a landscape without horizon. A plaint, in a voice rather playful over something serious that is long past, and that can never come back again, avowed to no one by word of mouth, only handed down from generation to generation on the resounding strings--the song of the beggar who denies that he has ever been king:--the song of the wanderer, who denies that he ever had a home and yet remembers it, and the pain of the recollection is heard in the song. No one knows or understands, perhaps not even the player, who merely divines it and meditates thereon. It is the desert wind, of which no one knows whence it comes and whither it goes; the driving cloud, of which no one knows whence it arose, and whither it disappears. A homeless, unsubstantial, immaterial bitterness ... a flowerless, echoless, roadless desert ...

full of mirages.

The magistrate would have listened till evening, no matter what became of the neighbor's dinner, if Topandy had not interrupted him with the sceptical remark that this lengthened steel wire has far more soul than a certain two-footed creature, who affirms that he was the image of G.o.d.

And thus he again drew the attention of the worthy gentleman to the fact that he was in the home of a denier of G.o.d.

Then they heard the mid-day curfew, which made the black c.o.c.k, with fluttering wings, begin his monotonous clarion, for all the world like the bugle call of some watch-tower, whose _taran-tara!_ gives the sign to its inhabitants.

At this the lady's face suddenly lost its sad expression of melancholy; she put down the czimbalom-sticks, leaped up from her chair, and with natural sincerity asked,

”It was a beautiful song, was it not?”

”Indeed it was. What is it?”

”Hus.h.!.+ that you may not ask.”

The lawyer had to call the magistrate's attention to the fact that it was already time to depart, as there was still another ”entertainment”

in store for them.

At this they all laughed.

”I am very sorry that it was my fortune to make your acquaintance, on such an occasion as the present,” said the young officer of the law, as he bade farewell, and shook hands with his host.

”But I rejoice at the honor, and I hope I may have the pleasure of seeing you again--on the occasion of the next 'execution'.”