Part 22 (1/2)
”Never mind. I am sure it does not hurt me now. Don't fret, Janosh; and tell me what you were going to say.”
”Oh, I was going to tell you, sir, that the weather is very bad.”
”Indeed!” said Akosh.
”Yes, sir; and the potatoes which they are lifting to-day are done for.
They won't be good enough for the pigs to eat.”
”Indeed!”
”Ay! and I hope none of the gentlemen will hunt on our fields. It will spoil the crops. But,” said Janosh, brightening up as if a sudden thought had struck him, ”I do beg and entreat you, sir, don't grieve at it.”
”At what?” said Akosh, astonished.
”Don't be sulky at the wound. It's a mere trifle. I can't say it does one good; no, indeed, I myself had a taste of it in the battle of Leipzig, and afterwards in France. But it doesn't do harm noways. You see there are no bones broken.”
”Why, you old fool! you don't think, surely, I fret about my wound?”
”What else have you to grieve for?” said the hussar. ”I know that you gentlemen feel every thing worse than we do. When we were on the march, our young gentlemen were as delicate as ladies. They lamented and cried out at the least hurt, and some of them were always a-going to the hospital. But they got used to it; ay, indeed they did, sir. We are all equal in war; and bullets and sabres have no respect for gentle flesh and blood. Officers and men must do with little food or none, as the case may be; and when they get something to eat, they share it like brethren. You'd never believe it, sir, what doings there are in war.”
Akosh smiled; but his face regained the whole of its former gloom as he said, ”Believe me, Janosh, were it but for this trifling wound, I should not be sad. There are other sorrows to----”
”Other sorrows--ay, so there are! How could I possibly forget it?”
replied the old hussar, with a broad grin, for the purpose of making his master understand that his sorrows were known and appreciated--”isn't it about the notary's little Vilma? Oh! I know all about it. It's the same with love as with new tobacco, which makes your eyes run with tears from the mere looking at it. But do you know, sir, what I'd do if I were in your place?”
”What is that?”
”Why, to tell you the truth, I'd marry her.”
”You big fool! So I would if _I_ had the last word to say in the matter.”
”But who else has?” said the old man, shaking his head. ”You won't be a cripple, sir, from this here little wound; and I am sure Vilma wouldn't take a man with three hands to your one. I'll be a cat, if Vilma will ever be any other man's wife than yours!” Saying which, he left the room, shaking his head and muttering.
”The old fellow has. .h.i.t the mark,” said Kalman. ”You are in no danger of losing Vilma's love. You have no cause for sorrow.”
”Nor do I grieve on that account,” replied Akosh, energetically; ”Vilma's love is not so lightly lost as all that. But I am anxious in my mind because I'm uncertain about her future and mine.”
”You're not accustomed to lie in bed. It makes you fanciful,” said Kalman.
”No, I tell you, no! Never was man more inclined to look at the bright side of things than I am. I beat Vandory hollow; and in his own line too. But ever since that accident happened to me, I am altogether altered. My mind is filled with dark thoughts and bodings. I feel as if the hand of fate were upon me, and I would fain flee if I knew but whither.”
”You've lost a precious deal of blood.”
”No, it's not that!” said Akosh, shaking his head. ”When I pressed Vilma to me, when I felt the beating of her heart, and when I was more happy than I ever thought it possible in my nature to be, it was then, Kalman, the thought struck me, whether this was not my last joy, as it was my greatest. Hitherto my thoughts of Vilma were all of hope; but since I was thus rudely waked from my dream of bliss, I have examined my position more narrowly. I cannot say that it gives me much comfort. A man cannot make his wife happy unless he places her in a proper position, in which she can respect herself and claim the respect of others. If he fails in that, the utmost he can do is to share her grief, and become a partner of her sorrows; but he will never come to make her happy. Now that's _my_ case. Vilma's father is at daggers-drawn with my parents.”
Kalman sighed.
”Can I hope for my parents' consent? I don't mean a mere formal consent, which people give because they cannot help it, but a real, ready, hearty blessing, for it is that which I want for Vilma's happiness. Love scorns sufferance; it asks for sympathy; and if that is denied it, and from one's nearest relations too, my heart is lonely in spite of all love; though it may cling to the beloved object, it is in sorrow, not in joy.
Mutual love is enough for bliss; but for that quiet happiness which we look for in marriage, a great deal more is wanted than two mere loving hearts.”