by Stefan Zweig
It was not to be wondered at that we should have caused a considerable sensation and also have aroused prodigious respect all along our route. The princely four-in-hand had not been seen in the district for decades, and to the peasants its unexpected reappearance seemed to herald some almost supernatural event. They probably thought we were driving to Court, that the Emperor had come, or that some other quite incredible event had occurred, for wherever we appeared hats flew off as though mown down with a scythe, and bare-footed children followed us all the way with shrieks of delight. Whenever we met another vehicle, a cart laden with hay or a ponytrap, its driver would jump nimbly from the box and, doffing his hat, pull in his horses to let us pass. We were the undisputed masters of the road; to us belonged, as in feudal times, the whole lovely, luxuriant countryside with its waving cornfields, its men and beasts. Our rate of progress in the ponderous vehicle, it is true, was far from rapid, but on the other hand, it afforded us all the more opportunity of looking round us and making merry, an opportunity of which the two girls in particular availed themselves to the full. Novelty always delights the young, and all these unaccustomed excitements—our strange carriage, the obsequious awe displayed by the people as they beheld us driving along in our anachronistic equipage, and a hundred-and-one other little incidents — raised the spirits of the two girls to such a pitch that they seemed almost as though drunk — drunk on sun and fresh air. Edith in particular, who had scarcely been out of the house for months, lent a brightness to this marvellous summer’s day with her unrestrained gaiety and high spirits.
We made our first halt at a little village where the bells were just being tolled for Mass. We could see the last stragglers making their way towards the village along the narrow strips between field and field; all that was visible of them above the tall stooks of corn was the flat black silk hats of the men and the gaily embroidered caps of the women. From every direction long lines of people moved forward like dark caterpillars through the waving gold of the fields, and just as we drove through the — not altogether clean — main street, scattering in alarm a flock of cackling geese, the droning of the bell ceased. Mass was about to begin, and surprisingly enough, it was Edith who impetuously demanded that we should all get out and attend it.
The fact that so incredible an equipage should pull up in their unassuming market-place, and that the land-owner whom they all knew from hearsay should, accompanied by his family — for they apparently assumed that I was a member of it — wish to attend Mass in their little church, occasioned intense excitement among the honest country-folk. The sacristan came running out just as though the former Kanitz were the late Prince Orosvár himself, and informed us obsequiously that the priest was going to hold up the service for us; their heads bowed reverently, the people made way for us, obviously overcome by emotion when they noticed Edith’s infirmity, for she had to be supported and helped into the church by Josef and Ilona. It is always simple people who are most shocked at the realization that misfortune sometimes does not shrink from laying a grim hand even on the rich. There was a rustling and a whispering, and then some women came bustling up with cushions so that the crippled girl — who was, of course, put in the front pew, which had been hurriedly vacated — should have as comfortable a seat as possible. And then, when the service began, it almost seemed as though the priest were celebrating Mass with ritual solemnity for our especial benefit. I myself was deeply moved by the touching simplicity of this little church; the clear singing of the women, the rugged, somewhat self-conscious voices of the men, the naïve piping of the children, seemed to me to betoken a purer and more direct faith than the far more sophisticated services I was used to in the Stefanskirche or the Augustinerkirche in Vienna. But I was distracted from my own devotions when I chanced to glance at Edith, who was sitting next to me, and noticed with positive alarm with what burning fervour she was praying. Never yet had I come across anything at all to indicate that she had had a religious upbringing or was religiously inclined; now I perceived that her praying was quite different from that of most people, to whom praying becomes in time a mere matter of habit; her head bowed as though she were walking in the teeth of a storm, her hands tightly clutching the front of the pew, her whole being withdrawn, as it were, into itself, so that she murmured the responses mechanically, her whole attitude betrayed the tense excitement of one who is concentrating and rallying all his forces in a supreme effort to obtain his heart’s desire. From time to time as I knelt beside her I could feel the dark wooden pew vibrating, as though something of the trembling fervour and quivering ecstasy of her praying were being communicated to the rigid wood. I realized that she was asking God for some definite thing, that she wanted something of Him, and what this crippled, sick girl wanted was not difficult for me to divine.
When, too, the service over, we had helped Edith back into the carriage, she remained for some time lost in thought. She did not utter a word, and no longer gazed about her on all sides with wanton curiosity. It was as though that half-hour of fervent wrestling had exhausted and wearied her spirit. And we, of course, also preserved a discreet silence. It was a silent and drowsy party which, shortly before midday, arrived at the stud-farm.
There, to be sure, a special welcome awaited us. The lads of the vicinity — obviously apprised of our visit — had just rounded up the wildest horses on the farm and came riding bareback towards us at a furious gallop, in a kind of Arabian fantasia. They were a joy to watch, these sun-burned, exultant young fellows with their open shirts, wide white cowboy trousers, and low-crowned hats from which streamed long coloured ribbons. They charged down upon us like a horde of Bedouins as though to run us down. Our own horses were by now pricking up their ears uneasily, and old Jonak, tautening his legs, was about to pull sharply at the reins, when suddenly, at the sound of a shrill whistle, the wild band dexterously formed into a closed column and proceeded to escort us in triumph to the bailiff’s house.
There, as a cavalry officer, I found all kinds of things to interest me. The two girls were shown the new foals, and were beside themselves with delight at the timid, inquisitive animals with their clumsy, gawky legs and stupid mouths, which were as yet quite incapable of nibbling at the lumps of sugar held out to them. Whilst we were all so pleasantly occupied, the kitchen-boy, under Jonak’s careful directions, had laid a magnificent spread for us out of doors. Soon the wine proved to be so potent and so good that our hitherto subdued merriment became more and more unrestrained. We chattered away more garrulously, more unconstrainedly than ever, and just as during all those hours never a cloud darkened the silken-blue sky, so never once was my mind clouded by the thought that hitherto I had known this slender girl, who was now laughing more merrily, more loudly, more happily than any of us, as a suffering, despairing, afflicted creature, or that this old man, who was examining and patting the horses with the skill of a veterinary surgeon, joking with all the stable-lads and slipping them tips, was the same man who two days previously, in a frenzy of anxiety, had waylaid me in the middle of the night like a sleep-walker. I scarcely recognized myself either, so free were my movements, so supple were my limbs. After the meal, while Edith was made to take a little rest in the bailiff’s house, I tried out several horses one after another. I raced a few of the young lads over the fields, and as I gave my horse his head and galloped along I was conscious of a feeling of freedom such as I had never yet known. Oh, if only I could stay here for ever, be at no one’s beck and call, be free for ever in the open fields, free as air! My heart sank somewhat when, after having galloped some considerable distance, I heard from afar the sound of the hunting-horn, warning me of our imminent departure for home.
For the sake of variety the experienced Jonak had chosen another road for our return journey; presumably, too, because it led for some time through a cool, refreshing little wood. Everything had gone off splendidly on this successful day, and to crown all there now awaited us one last surprise, the best surprise of all. As we entered a homely
little village of about twenty houses we found our road — the only road in this out-of-the-way spot — entirely blocked by a dozen or so empty carts and carriages. Oddly enough, too, there was no one about to clear the way for our vast and bulky coach; it was as though all the people of the district had been swallowed up by the earth. This state of more-than-Sunday desolation, however, was soon explained when Jonak cracked his enormous whip in the air with a sound like a pistol-shot and a number of people came running up in alarm. It transpired that the son of the richest peasant in the district was celebrating his wedding with a poor relation from another hamlet; and from the end of the village street, where a barn had been cleared for dancing, there now came rushing up, purple in the face, the somewhat corpulent father of the bridegroom to bid us an obsequious welcome. Perhaps he really thought that the illustrious lord and master of Kekesfalva had had the four-in-hand harnessed for the express purpose of honouring him and his son with his presence at their wedding-feast; perhaps it was only out of vanity that he took advantage of our happening to drive past to raise his standing with the other villagers. At any rate, bowing profusely, he begged that Herr von Kekesfalva and his party would, while the road was being cleared, do him the favour of drinking the health of the young couple in a glass of his own Hungarian home-grown wine. We for our part were in far too merry a mood to refuse his kindly request. And so Edith was carefully lifted out of the carriage, and we marched off like conquering heroes through a gaping, chattering crowd of respectful village-folk to the improvised dance-hall.
On two sides of the barn a dais, made of loose planks placed on empty beer-casks, had been erected. On the dais to the right the relatives of the family and the inevitable notabilities, the parish priest and the commandant of gendarmerie, were seated in state round the bridal couple at a long table decked with a white linen cloth and covered with an abundance of food and drink. On the opposite dais the musicians, four moustachioed, romantic-looking gypsies, had taken up their position: violins, bass-viol and zither. Guests thronged the dance-floor in the middle of the barn, while a number of children who had been unable to gain entry to the overcrowded room peeped in at the door or sat perched with their legs dangling from the rafters.
Some of the less exalted relatives were obliged to move from the table of honour to make room for us, and they were all visibly astonished at the condescension of the grand ladies and gentlemen who mingled without a trace of embarrassment with the worthy villagers. Reeling with excitement, the bridegroom’s father himself fetched an enormous pitcher of wine, filled up the glasses and raised his voice in a toast ‘To the health of the noble gentleman!’ which was echoed enthusiastically in a shout that could be heard in the street. Then he dragged forward his son and the bride, a shy, somewhat broad-hipped young woman, who looked very touching in her gay, festive costume and white myrtle wreath. Crimson with confusion, she curtsied awkwardly to Kekesfalva, and respectfully kissed Edith’s hand. Edith was visibly agitated, for the sight of a wedding always has a disturbing effect on young girls; at such moments a mysterious sense of solidarity with their own sex takes possession of them. Blushing, Edith pulled the bashful young bride to her and embraced her; then, struck by a sudden thought, she took a ring from her finger — a slender, old-fashioned, not very costly ring — and gave it to the bride, who was utterly taken aback by this unlooked-for gift. She looked up anxiously at her father-in-law, as though to ask if she should really accept such a grand present, and no sooner had he proudly nodded his consent than she burst into tears of sheer joy. Once more we were engulfed in a wave of enthusiastic gratitude. From all sides the simple, unsophisticated folk thronged around us; we could tell from their expressions that they longed to show us some special mark of recognition but that no one dared even to address a word to the ‘grand gentry’. The old peasant-woman, the bridegroom’s mother, staggered like a drunkard from one to another with tears in her eyes, utterly dazed by the honour that had been accorded her son’s wedding, while the bridegroom in his embarrassment kept goggling first at his bride, then at us, and then at his heavy, polished top-boots.
At this moment Kekesfalva did the wisest thing possible to check this display of reverence, which was by now becoming somewhat embarrassing. He shook hands cordially with the bridegroom’s father, the bridegroom and some of the notabilities, and begged them not to let our presence interrupt their splendid wedding-feast. The young people, he said, should go on dancing to their hearts’ content; they could give us no greater pleasure than by continuing to enjoy themselves. At the same time he beckoned to the leader of the orchestra, who, his fiddle tucked under his left arm, had been waiting on the dais, his back bent, as it were, in a permanent bow, threw him a note and signalled to him to begin. It must have been a note for some considerable amount, for, as though galvanized into activity, the obsequious fellow rushed back to his dais, and the next moment the four musicians fell to as only Hungarians and gypsies can. At the first note of the zither all reserve was thrown to the winds. In a trice couples formed, and the dancers whirled away more wildly, more extravagantly than before, for all the lads and lasses were fired with ambition to show us how real Hungarians could dance. In a moment the room that had but now been wrapped in awed silence was transformed into a riotous maze of swaying, leaping, stamping bodies; at every beat all round the room the glasses shook and clattered, with such wild abandon did the enthusiastic young people throw themselves into the tumultuous rhythm of the dance.
Edith gazed with flashing eyes at the happy, noisy crowd. Suddenly I felt her hand on my arm. ‘You must dance too,’ she commanded. Fortunately the bride had not yet been drawn into the whirling throng; she was staring as though in a trance at the ring on her finger. When I bowed her an invitation to dance, she blushed at the undue honour that was being paid her, but willingly allowed herself to be led off. Our example inspired the bridegroom, too, with courage. At an urgent sign from his father he requested Ilona to dance with him, and now the zither-player hammered away at his instrument more frantically than ever, and the leader of the orchestra fiddled away like a black-moustachioed Mephisto. Never before or after, I fancy, was there such bacchanalian dancing in the village as on that wedding-day.
But the cornucopia of surprises had not yet been emptied of its contents. Tempted by Edith’s extravagant present to the bride, one of those old gypsy women who are never absent from such festivals had pushed her way on to the dais and was using all her arts to wheedle Edith into having her fortune told. Edith was visibly disturbed. Genuinely curious on the one hand, she was on the other hand ashamed of lending herself to such quackery in the presence of so many spectators. I quickly stepped into the breach by gently edging Herr von Kekesfalva and the others away from the dais, so that no one should overhear a word of the old woman’s mysterious predictions, and the curious were reduced to looking on in amusement from a distance as the old woman, mumbling all kinds of gibberish, knelt before Edith and studied her hand. Everyone in Hungary is only too familiar with these old wives’ age-old dodge of telling their clients the most agreeable things possible about their future, so as to reap a rich reward as the bearers of good tidings. But to my astonishment what the old crone whispered to Edith in wheezy, insistent tones seemed to throw the young girl into an extraordinary state of agitation. That twitching at the nostrils began which was the inevitable precursor of violent emotion. Bending down lower and lower, she listened intently, now and again looking round anxiously to make sure that no one was listening. At last she beckoned her father to come to her, and whispered something imperiously in his ear, whereupon, compliant as ever, he felt in his breast-pocket and handed the old gypsy a bundle of notes. The amount must, according to village notions, have been simply terrific, for the greedy old woman fell on her knees as though mown to the ground, kissed the hem of Edith’s skirt like one possessed, and with incomprehensible mutterings and mumblings feverishly stroked the crippled girl’s feet. Then she bounded away as though afraid the money might b
e taken back again.
‘Let’s go now,’ I whispered quickly to Herr von Kekesfalva, for it struck me that Edith had turned very pale. I fetched Piszta, and he and Ilona helped Edith back to the coach. Immediately the music stopped, for none of the good folk wanted to lose the opportunity of giving us a triumphant send-off. The musicians stood round the coach to sound one parting fanfare, and the whole village shouted and yelled ‘Three cheers!’ Old Jonak had considerable difficulty in controlling the horses, which were no longer accustomed to such a warlike din.
I continued to be a little anxious about Edith, who was sitting opposite me in the coach. She was still trembling from head to foot, and seemed to be in the grip of violent emotion. And suddenly she burst into convulsive sobs. But they were sobs of happiness. She cried and laughed by turns. The artful old gypsy had quite obviously prophesied a quick recovery for her — and no doubt other agreeable things into the bargain.
But ‘Let me be, do let me be!’ the sobbing girl protested impatiently. She seemed to take an entirely new and odd pleasure in this emotional outburst. ‘Let me be, do let me be!’ she kept on repeating. ‘I know, I know the old woman’s a humbug. Oh, I know that myself! But why shouldn’t one be foolish once in a while? Why not for once let oneself be thoroughly taken in?’
