Читать книгу Pretty Michal - Mór Jókai - Страница 4

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Wherein is shown how the evil dragon brought to naught all the sage devices of our reverend friend.

The Rev. Professor David Fröhlich had a very particular favorite, who can also be said to have deserved that rare distinction. The name of this young man was Henry Catsrider—a very curious name, certainly, yet the bearer thereof had very little ridicule to fear in consequence, for his big, strong frame inspired his fellow-scholars with respect. For the noble art of wrestling (commended of old, remember, by no less a person than Aristotle) had never been neglected in our schools, and in the art of wrestling no one could vie with Catsrider except a young Calvinist from Kassa called Valentine Kalondai. The latter, however, could well hold his own, even against Catsrider, and a very pretty sight it was to see them contending together on the village green, each hugging the other closely and planting his chin firmly on his opponent's shoulder. Catsrider had long, coarse, light hair, twisted up into a knot on both sides of his head, and a waxed and pointed mustache.

Unhappily, although the Hungarian lad was quite a match for the Zipser in all corporeal exercises, in mental contests he was far inferior to him. There, indeed, Catsrider stood without a rival. He was always eminent-issimus in every science, while Valentine Kalondai was constantly at the bottom of his class.

Ex moribus—in morals—there was also all the difference in the world between the two students. Valentine Kalondai was no despiser of wine and music. He even lived on friendly terms with folks like the Silesian Simplicissimus, whom everyone else looked down upon as a loafing vagabond, who could do absolutely nothing but blow the trumpet; while Catsrider was the model of a well ordered youth. It was now ten years since he had come, a poor boy, to Keszmár, and all that time he had conscientiously supported himself by the labor of his hands. He meant to take orders, and therefore diligently studied theology; but, besides that, he served in the house of the Rev. David Fröhlich and assisted that gentleman in his Museum Physicum, wherefore the professor loved him dearly, and long ago destined him to be pretty Michal's consort in her journey through life.

Valentine Kalondai, indeed, had no need to appropriate a very great amount of learning. He had a rich widowed mother at Kassa, from whom, when he came of age, he was to take over his patrimony. He had only been sent to the Keszmár Lyceum to pick up as much knowledge as might be necessary for a citizen of Kassa who hoped one day to be elected sheriff of his native town; he only required to learn as much Latin as his late father of blessed memory, who likewise had held that dignity, and part of whose office it had been to pronounce over delinquents the capite plectetur, or the more merciful harum palczarum, and correspond with pen as well as with cannon with the Imperialist generals, though it certainly must be admitted that he could give a better account of himself with the cannon than with the pen. Valentine therefore had no call to learn absolutely more than he chose.

Henry, on the other hand, was obliged to turn night into day in order to cut a decent figure at the examination which preceded his ordination; and, to do him justice, he passed through it with the utmost distinction. He was immediately afterward presented to the living of Nagy-Leta—which fortunately happened to be vacant at that very time—naturally on condition that during the year of grace, conceded as usual to the widow of the late incumbent, he was to make no claim whatever upon the resources of the benefice. On that solemn day, the Rev. David Fröhlich invited the new pastor to dinner to meet the superintendent and the presbyters.

After the meal was over, pretty Michal was also allowed to appear at table, first, to be complimented by the superintendent on account of the banquet they had all enjoyed so much—whereupon her face, ruddy enough already from the kitchen fire, grew ruddier still—and secondly, that she might just moisten her lips with a little wine in honor of her father's guests.

When the guests had all withdrawn, pretty Michal had the tables cleared away by the maids, and very carefully put all the soiled napkins and tablecloths into the cupboard, and all the old ancestral pottery and glazed earthenware upon the dresser. When all this had been done, the professor bade his little daughter remain in the room. He had something to say to her.

The learned gentleman was in a very good humor, not only in consequence of the exhilarating drinks he had drunk, and the lively table-talk he had freely indulged in, but also on account of something else besides.

He lit his pipe and began to smoke, although he was still wearing his reverende, which ought, properly speaking, never to betray the faintest odor of tobacco.

"My daughter Michal," said he at last, with a sly assumption of gravity, "we did not finish our pensum to-day. And the rule is: 'Nulla dies sine linea!' What does that mean?"

"One should never let a day pass without doing one's allotted task," answered Michal.

"Then bring hither your exercise-book."

The damsel dutifully obeyed. In the kitchen all that it was necessary to do had already been done, so the voice of science could be listened to without self-reproach. She sat her down therefore and took up her pen, or, as our ancestors would then have said, her calamus.

"It is wholesome to exercise the mind after a long meal," said the learned gentleman from the midst of the clouds of smoke which enveloped him, "but it would not be well if every day was spent in such junketing: 'Qui amat vitam longam, amet mensam brevem!' Write that down in your book and translate it."

Michal wrote and translated at the same time: "Let him who would see many days keep a spare table!"

"The Italians say: 'La cucina piccola fa la casa grande, la tavola e un ladrone segreto!' Write that down also and tell me what it means."

The damsel recited as she wrote: "A small kitchen enlarges a house, but a liberal table is a secret thief!"

"That is what Petrus Novus said to Hugotius Fagiola when the latter lost two cities because of a single banquet. Write: 'Plures interierunt vinolentia quam violenta!' How would you construe that?"

"More men have perished through wine than through violence."

"Very good! Nevertheless on extraordinary days extraordinary things must happen, and to-day has been no ordinary day, for it has seen a clergyman ordained and a maiden sued for."

In an instant every trace of color had vanished from pretty Michal's face.

The learned gentleman puffed away tremendously, and quoted these saws in the midst of volumes of smoke.

"What saith Dubravius? 'Si qua voles nubere apte, nube pari!'—Wilt thou marry well, so marry within thy station! Again Ambrosius, in answering the question what one should look for in a consort, saith: 'Ammorem, morem, rem'—Love, morals, means."

A good maxim, truly, but for all that the damsel did not write it down in her exercise-book.

"And here we have a wooer who possesses all three. He brings love with good morals and has somewhat besides. His station in life indeed is not very illustrious, for, like me, he is only a parson. But Macrobius saith, 'Amores sunt sicut flores'—Maidens are like flowers, that is to say, they soon wither; and as Drexelius Trismegistus hath it, 'Sæpius ima petet melius qui scandere novit'—He often sinks into the depths who seeks the heights. Write that in your book, my daughter, 'tis a golden precept! Nor be appalled at your suitor's poverty. Cyprian saith: 'Paupertas dura sed secura et sine cura'—Poverty is hard, but hardy, and has naught to care for. Write that down also, my daughter Michal!"

But pretty Michal did not record these golden maxims, either in the original or yet a translation. On the contrary she laid her pen aside and said: "I don't like him!"

The reverend gentleman gave a great start of astonishment. "That is a paradox. To love no one—that is possible; but not to love a particular person—that is absurd. Have you then any idea what love is? 'Amantes sunt dementes'—Lovers are demented. What don't you like about him? His red hair, eh? 'Homo rufus rare bonus, sed si bonus valde bonus'—A red-haired man is rarely good, but if good then very good indeed. Or perhaps you don't like him because he belongs to another nation? Nay, but mark what the wise Queen Christina used to say: 'There are only two kinds of nations on the whole earth, the god-fearing and the godless.' If you don't like him now, you'll learn to like him by and by. The Italians say: 'Amore noné senza amaro'—Love is not without bitterness. Every good girl has to be shoved out of doors by her parents, because she would much rather stay at home than go away; but later on she is very grateful to them for getting her off their hands."

But pretty Michal, thanks to her much learning and her long domestic sway, had grown up with such a stout heart that in this one thing she even dared to gainsay her father and all his philosophic authorities to boot, for she said to the reverend gentleman:

"Nevertheless, I can't like him who desires my hand from you because I don't like him, and I don't like him because I like another."

On hearing these words, the scholar let his pipe fall from his mouth.

"That is indeed an argumentum ad hominum," said he. "You love another, eh? Where on earth did you pick him up? Where did you set your eyes upon him? When have you spoken to him?"

The maiden cast down her eyes and said nothing.

This was too much. The learned professor rose from his chair straightway, and said in an austere, dictatorial voice: "Write in your book, 'Virginitas dum aspicitur, inficitur'—Where maidenhood is concerned mere inspection is infection. Whom have you allowed to look into your eyes?"

"No one," answered Michal.

"No one! Where then have you spoken to anyone?"

"Nowhere."

"But if you have spoken to no one, neither with your eyes nor yet with your mouth, how could you possibly have fallen in love with anyone? Make a clean breast of it. You know that the smallest lie is a greater sin than the greatest crime honestly confessed. In what way have you been carrying on this intrigue?"

"By writing."

"Has anyone written to you then?"

"Yes, and I've replied."

"But how is that possible? My house is barred and bolted night and day. You cannot even look out upon the street. You were never allowed to go anywhere without me. The garden is protected by a moat. A suspicious character could not possibly get in here unless he flew down from the sky."

"It came down from the sky."

"It! What do you mean by it?"

"The dragon."

At first the professor's mind wandered off to the dragon which St. George had scotched, but perhaps not quite killed; but he bethought himself and asked, "A paper dragon,[1] I suppose?"

[1] Sárkany, like its German equivalent Drache, means a kite as well as a dragon.

"Yes. They were flying a dragon in the market-place, and I was watching it for a long time. Suddenly it fell into our garden, and remained hanging on an apple tree. I went to take it down, and when I had it in my hand I saw that it was covered all over with verses addressed to me, and they were so lovely that I cannot find words to describe them."

"Lovely! pshaw! profane scribble I call them. Does not Macrobius say: 'Ignibus iste liber quod ipse ignibus liber!'—Into the flames with that book if thou wouldst escape the flames thyself! And what makes you think that these shameless verses were addressed to you?"

"They were no such thing. Had they been shameless verses I should have thrown them away. They were beautiful, true-hearted verses, with my name written over every one of them, for there is no other girl here called Michal. I tried to answer them."

"To answer them! How?"

"I fastened what I wrote to the dragon with the written side turned inward, then, with the help of the pack-thread which still remained attached thereto, I let it mount up again."

"But suppose he to whom it belonged never got it?"

"He most certainly got it, for the next day he sent me the answer."

"Again by means of the dragon?"

"No. The next day he wrote me by the balloon."

The balloon in question was a large inflated box bladder, covered over with calf skin. The youth of the town used this balloon in their athletic exercises, knocking it into the air with their fists, and otherwise disporting themselves therewith.

"I see it all now. The rascal placed his letter inside the balloon, and threw it into our garden. You took out your letter, stuck in your reply, and pitched the balloon back again."

To think that neither Theophrastus nor Trismegistus should have foreseen such a case: an aërial correspondence, carried on without the intervention of the post-office!

"And how far has this precious correspondence proceeded?"

"We have both sworn eternal fidelity to each other."

"There we have it! What is the use of bolts and bars and all human wisdom? So you have pledged away your hand without your father's consent. Don't you know that among the Protestants the consent of the parents is requisite to a marriage; without it, no betrothal is valid and no wedding can be solemnized?"

"Then has he who demands my hand from you brought with him the written consent of his father to his marriage with me?"

"He has no father; he is an orphan."

"You said just now that the smallest lie was a greater sin than the greatest crime honestly confessed. And I say that he, my suitor, has lied. He has a father who is a rich man of high degree."

"Who told you so?"

"The dragon and the balloon. He boasted of it to a friend, and the heavenly posts have brought me tidings thereof."

Now, indeed, the reverend gentleman was as fairly caught as ever the devil was by a witch's foot. To this reply there was absolutely no rejoinder.

"I'll take him to task for it to-morrow," said he, "and meantime I postpone the inquiry. After it is over, however, I shall require the name of this rascally seducer. And now, my daughter Michal, proceed to your chamber and consider yourself in arrest there for the next four and twenty hours."

And thus ended the festive day on which Henry Catsrider was ordained a priest.