Part 34 (2/2)

”What sort of a cuira.s.sier?”

”A senior lieutenant.”

”What does he want with me, I wonder?”

In the fifties the visit of an officer was tantamount to a challenge.

Those were the days of the famous political duels in which Coloman Tisza,[90] Julius Szapary,[91] and Francis Beniczky fought with the delegated officers.

[Footnote 90: The late Prime Minister of Hungary and leader of the Liberal party there.]

[Footnote 91: The present Prime Minister.--Since this note was written, Szapary has given way to Weckerle.]

”Admit him!”

”Call me, please, if necessary,” said clerk Coloman confidentially, making at the same time a significant movement with the paper-knife.

Then the visitor entered.

In figure he was half a head taller than me at the very least. He was a strong, broad-shouldered fellow. His bony face wore quite a stony expression by reason of a powerful eagle nose and a broad double chin.

On the other hand this sternness was somewhat contradicted by a pair of honest, bright-blue eyes, a little mouth, and offensively light hair, though his eyebrows, moustache, and whiskers were even lighter.

My visitor, as he advanced from my door to my writing-table, took those three short mazurka steps which, with men, are generally the preliminaries to a military salute; he held, close pressed to his thigh, his beautiful helmet, with the golden lions and the black-yellow plumes; and when he stood in front of me, he clashed his spurs together and introduced himself in Hungarian.

”I am Wenceslaus Kvatopil, senior lieutenant of dragoons.”

He had the peculiar habit of accompanying every word with an explanatory movement of his hand, so that a stone-deaf person could have understood perfectly what he meant. The deprecatory movement of his hand meant--Wenceslaus Kvatopil; the indication of the twin stars on his collar meant that he was a lieutenant; the slight elevation of his helmet signified that he was a dragoon, and the simultaneous sweep of the hand towards his breast gave me to understand that he was _not_ a cuira.s.sier.

”I am glad to see you,” I said; ”how can I be of service?”

”I should like to have a long conversation with you, sir, if you will let me.”

At this I would have offered him a chair, but on no account in the world would he suffer me to do so, but helped himself to one, and then once more apologised for the trouble he was giving before he sat down opposite to me.

I begged him to address me in German, as I was quite capable of making myself understood in that tongue.

”No! no! En _akarom_ magyariul beszelni”[92]--and at the same time he made as though he were ducking the head of a refractory urchin in a basin of soapsuds.

[Footnote 92: ”I want to talk in Hungarian.”]

”_Akarok_,” I good-humouredly corrected him.

”No! no! _Akarok_ is the _indefinite_ mood, _akarom the definite_ mood; and I want to speak Hungarian _definitely_.”

I was forced to acknowledge to myself that his logic was stronger than his grammar.

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