On the arrival of these distinguished guests, the brown musicians blew a threefold flourish with their trumpets, and the principal jurors measured the racecourse, at one end of which they stationed Mr. Varju with a red flag: this was the goal. At the other end the horsemen were arranged in a row, having previously drawn their places by lot, and so that the gentry might survey the race from their carriages in the most comfortable manner possible. The course was a thousand paces in length.

Master Jock was just about to signify, by a wave of his gold-headed cane, that the mortars were to be fired—the third report was to be the signal for the race to begin—when far away on the puszta a young horseman was seen approaching at full tilt, cracking his whip loudly, and galloping in the direction of the competitors. On reaching the two jurors—and he was not long about that—he reined up, and, whipping off his cap, briefly expressed the wish to compete for the Whitsun Kingship.

"Don't ask me who or what I am. If I am beaten I shall simply go on my way, but if I win I shall remain here," was all that the jurors could get in answer to their questions. Nobody knew the youth. He was a handsome, ruddy young fellow of about six and twenty, with a little spiral moustache twisted upwards in betyar fashion, flowing curly locks gathered up into a top-knot, black flashing eyes, and a bold expressive mouth, slight of build, but muscular and supple. His dress was rustic, but simple almost to affectation; you would not have found a seal on his white bulging shirt, search as you might, and he wore his cap, with a tuft of meadow-sweet in it, as gallantly as any cavalier.

Wherever he might have got the steed on which he sat, it was a splendid animal—a restive Transylvanian full-blood, with tail and mane long and strong reaching to the ground; not for an instant could it remain quiet, but danced and pranced continually.

They made him draw lots, and then placed him in a line with the rest.

At last the signal-guns were fired. At the first thundering report the steeds began to rear and plunge; at the second they grew quite still, alertly pricking up their ears; one or two of the old racers slightly pawed the ground. Then the third report sounded, and the same instant the whole row plunged forward into the arena.

Five or six immediately forged ahead of the rest. These were the more impetuous horsemen, who are wont to spur their horses to the front at the outset, only to fall behind afterwards: among them was the last-comer also. The Whitsun King was in the centre group; now and then he snapped his fingers, but as yet he had not moved his whip. Only when three hundred paces had been traversed did he suddenly clap his spurs to his horse's flanks, lash out with his whip, utter a loud cry, and in three bounds was ahead of the others.

Then, indeed, began a shouting and yelling and cracking of whips. Every horseman lay forward on the neck of his horse, caps fell, capes flew, and in mid-course every one fancied he was going to win. One steed stumbled beneath his rider; the rest galloped on.

From the carriages it was easy to see how the Whitsun King was galloping along among the rest, his long chaplet of flowers streaming in the wind behind him. One by one he overtook those who were galloping in front of him, and as often as he left one of them behind he gave him a crack with his whip, crying derisively, "Wire away, little brother!"

By the time three quarters of the course was traversed he had plainly left them all behind, or rather all but one—the stranger-youth.

Martin hastened after him likewise. His horse was longer in the body, but the other's was as swift as the wind. And now only two hundred paces were between them and the goal. The youth looked back upon his competitor with a confident smile, whereupon the gentlemen in the carriages shouted, "Hold fast!" which warning applied equally to both competitors. Master Jock actually stood up to see better, the contest had now become exciting.

"And now he's laying on the whip!" cried he. "Something like, eh! And now he gives his horse the spur! One lash, and it flies like the storm! What a horse! I'd give a million for it; and how the fellow sticks on! Well, Martin, it will be all up with your Whitsun Kingship immediately. Only a hundred paces more. 'Tis all over; he'll never be able to catch him up!"

And so, indeed, it proved. The stranger reached the goal a whole half-minute before Martin, and was already standing there in front of the flag when he came up. Martin, however, as he came galloping in, quickly snatched the flag out of Mr. Varju's hand, and cried triumphantly to the youth—

"Don't suppose, little brother, that you have won; for the rule is that whoever seizes the banner first, he is the Whitsun King, and you see it is in my hand."

"Indeed!" said the youth, serenely; "I did not know that. I'll take care to remember that at the second race."

"Really, now," cried Martin. "You appear pretty cock-sure that you'll get in before me again. I tell you, you'll not. You only managed it this time because my horse got frightened and shied. But just you try a second time, and I'll show you who is the best man."

Meanwhile the other competitors had come up, and Martin hastened to explain how it was that the stranger had got in quicker than himself. He had a hundred good reasons for it at the very least.

The stranger allowed him to have his say in peace, and, full of good humour, returned to take his place again in the ranks of the competitors. His modest self-reliance and forbearance quite won for him the sympathy of the crowd, which was disgusted at the arrogance of Martin, and in the carriages of the gentry wagers began to be laid, and the betting was ten to one on the stranger winning all three races.

The mortars were again loaded, the youths were once more placed in a row, and at the third report the competing band again plunged forward. Now also the two rival horses drew away from the other competitors. In the middle of the course they were a length ahead of the foremost racers, and side by side urged their steeds strenuously towards the goal. Almost to the very end of the course neither was able to outstrip the other; but when they were scarce fifty paces from the flag, the stranger suddenly gave a loud smack with his whip, whereupon his steed, responding to the stimulus, took a frantic bound forward, outstripping Martin's steed by a head, and this distance was maintained between them unaltered to the very end of the race, though the Whitsun King savagely laid about his foaming horse with his whip-handle. The stranger was at the banner before him, and so vigorously tore it out of the hand of Mr. Varju, that that gentleman fell prone from his horse.

Martin, beside himself with rage, lashed at the ravished flag with his whip, and made a great rent in its red centre. Useless fury! The umpires hastened up, and, removing the floral crown from the head of the Whitsun King, who was quivering with passion, placed it on the head of the victor.

"I don't want that!" cried the vanquished horseman, huskily, when they offered him a cap. "I mean to win back my wreath."

"You had better let it rest where it is," came a voice from the carriages.

"No need of that," replied Martin, defiantly. "Neither I nor my horse is tired. We will run, if we die for it. Eh, Raro?"

The good steed, as if he understood what was said to him, pawed the ground and arched his head. The sworn umpires placed the youths in line again. Most of them, however, seeing the uselessness of competing with these two horsemen, fell out of the line and mingled among the spectators, so that scarce six others remained on the ground with the two rival heroes. All the more interesting, therefore, the contest; for there will be nothing to distract the attention of the onlookers.

Before engaging in the contest for the third time, the stranger-youth dismounted from his horse, and cutting a supple willow sapling from a tree in the cemetery, stripped it of its leaves, and thrusting it into his whip-handle, mounted his horse again. Hitherto he had not once struck his steed.

But now, when the noble animal heard the sharp hiss of the thin willow wand, it began to rear. Standing on its hind legs, it fell to savagely worrying its bit, and careering round and round. The spectators began to fear for the youth, not that he would fall from his horse—that was out of the question—but that he would be too late for the contest, for the second report had now sounded, and the others were all awaiting the signal with loosely held reins, while his horse was curveting and pawing the ground.

When the third report resounded, the stranger suddenly gave his horse a cut with the willow switch, and let the reins hang loosely.

The smitten steed scudded off like a tempest. Wildly, madly, it skimmed the ground beneath its feet, as only a horse can fly when, panic-stricken, it ravishes its perishing rider along with it. None, no none, could get anywhere near it; even Martin was left many yards behind in mid-course. The crowd gaped in amazement at the fury of the steed and the foolhardiness of the rider, especially when, in the midst of his mad career, the long chaplet of flowers fell from the youth's head, and was trampled to pieces beneath the hoofs of the other horses panting after him. He himself did not notice the loss of his chaplet till he reached the goal, where he had to exert all his strength to rein up his maddened steed. He had reached the goal; but he had lost his crown.

"Look! he has lost his crown: he cannot therefore be the Whitsun King!" cried many voices.

But who was to be the king, then? The crown was irrecoverably trampled to pieces in the dust.

"That is not fair!" exclaimed the majority. Many proposed a fresh race.

"I am ready for anything you like," said the strange youth.

"Stop, little brother!" replied Martin, in a subdued, husky voice, which quivered with rage. "We want to prove which of us two is the better man. I confess that on level ground you go quicker than I. You have the better horse, and a fool may win if his horse be quick enough. But, come now, show us whether you are a man where standing one's ground, not running away, is the great point. There's a nice lot of people here, you see, and for all these folks they have only brought hither two bullocks—and little enough too. If you're a man, come with me and fetch a third. We shall not have to go far. Among the reeds yonder is a stray bull, which has been prowling in these parts for the last fortnight, killing people, scattering flocks and herds, destroying the crops, overturning the carts on the high-road, and chasing the labourers out of the fields into the town. Not one of the drovers, or gulyas, in the place can cope with him single-handed. Let us go after him together, and the one that drags him hither shall be the Whitsun King."

"There's my hand upon it," said the strange youth, clapping the palm of his rival without even taking time for reflection.

Those who happened to hear this proposal showed signs of retiring precipitately. "They must be fools to bring a mad bull among the people on a holiday like this," murmured these waverers.

"You need have no fear," said Martin. "By the time we bring him here he will be as gentle as a lamb, or else we shall be lying where he is now."

Quick as wildfire spread the rumour of this mad idea. The more timorous part of the crowd tried to get behind the nearest fenced and ditched places; the bolder spirits took horse and rushed to follow and see the hazardous enterprise. All the gentlemen present began betting on the issue forthwith, and Master Jock himself hastened after the youths in his rustic cart. Possibly he thought that even the wild animal would know how to treat a Karpathy with due respect.

Scarce half an hour's journey from the town began the enormous morass which extends as far as Puespoek-Ladany and Tisza-Fuered, in which not merely a wild bull but a hippopotamus could make his home comfortably. On one side of it extended rich wheat-fields, on the other side the rich, dark green reeds marked the water-line, only a narrow dyke separating the meadow from the swamp.

It was easy to learn at the first of the shepherd huts scattered along the border of the morass where the errant bull happened to be at that moment. Amongst the shrubs of the little reedy island opposite he had made his lair; there you could see him crouching down. All night long he would be roaring and bellowing there, only in the daytime was he silent.

First of all, however, you must know what sort of a character the beast known as an "errant bull" really is.

When there are two bulls in a herd, especially if one of them be only a growing calf, they are quiet enough, and even timid all through the winter. If they meet each other they stand face to face, rubbing foreheads, lowing and walking round and round each other; but if the herdsman flings his cudgel between them they trot off in opposite directions. But when the spring expands, when the spicy flowers put fresh vigour and warmer blood into every grass-eating beast, then the young bulls begin to carry their horned heads higher, roar at each other from afar, and it is the chief business of the gulyas to prevent them from coming together. If, however, on a warm spring day, when the herdsmen are sleeping beneath their gubas, the two hostile chiefs should encounter each other, a terrible fight ensues between them, which regularly ends with the fall or the flight of one of them. At such a time it is vain for the herdsman to attempt to separate them. The infuriated animals neither see nor hear him; all their faculties are devoted to the destruction of each other. Sometimes the struggle lasts for hours on a plot of meadow, which they denude of its grass as cleanly as if it had been ploughed. Finally, the beast who is getting the worst of it, feeling that his rival is the stronger, begins with a terrific roar to fly away through the herd, and runs wild on the puszta; with blood-red eyes, with blood-red lolling tongue, he wanders up and down the fields and meadows, frequently returning to the scene of his humiliation; but he mingles no longer with the herd, and woe betide every living animal he encounters! He begins to pursue whatever meets his eye in the distance, and he has been known to watch for days the tree in which a wayfarer has taken refuge, until casually passing csikoses have come up and driven the beast away.

From the information given by the gulyases, it was easy to trace the lair of the bull. Two distinct paths led to it among the tall reeds, and the two youths, separating, chose each of them his path, and waded into the thicket in search of the furious beast. Meanwhile, the horsemen, who had come to see the sport, scrambled on to the high dyke, from whence they could survey the whole willow wood.

Martin had scarce advanced a hundred paces among the reeds when he heard the snorting of the bull. For a moment he thought of calling to the stranger youth, who had taken the other path, but pride restrained him. Alone he would subdue the beast, and he boldly sought the spot from whence the snorting proceeded.

There lay the huge beast in the midst of the reeds. He had buried himself up to the knees in the swamp, and, whether from rage or for amusement, had trampled down a large area of rushes all round about him.

When he heard the clatter of the approaching hoofs, he raised his head. One horn, prematurely developed, bent forwards, the other stood up straight and pointed. His sooty black forehead was covered with prickly water-burrs, across his snout was the scar of a large and badly healed wound.

On perceiving the approaching horseman, he immediately raised himself on his fore feet and uttered a wild prolonged roar. Martin, who wished to entice the beast on to solid ground, where he could grapple with him better than in the midst of this unknown morass, and also, by way of provocation, cracked his long whip loudly. Maddened still more by this exasperating sound, the wild beast arose from his resting-place and rushed upon the horseman, who immediately turned his horse and fled out of the swamp, enticing after him the infuriated bull.

When the wild beast came out into the plain, looked about him, and saw all the people standing on the dyke, as if guessing what they wanted to do with him, he suddenly turned tail again, and snorting as he went, angrily lay down again on the border of the swamp. Martin followed after him, and again cracked his whip over the beast's head.

The bull roared at him, but did not budge from the spot. On the contrary, he burrowed with his snout among the reeds, and however much the young man might crack his whip, he only responded by beating the air with his tail.

This supreme indifference irritated Martin, and, creeping closer to the wild bull, he gave it a cut with his whip. The hooked steel wire plaited round the end of the whip cut out a whole patch on the skin of the savage beast, but it did not move. Another cut reached its neck, chipping away the skin with a sharp crackle. The bull only grunted, but did not stand up, and buried its head among the reeds to avoid being lassoed by the halter-line which the horseman held handy.

But now it was the huntsman's turn to grow angry, and he kept on flicking away at the obstinate animal without being able to move it from the spot, and presently a whole mob of horsemen began to assemble around him, profoundly irritated by the cowardice of the bull, and tried to arouse it by making as great a din and racket as possible.

Suddenly a flick from the whip chanced to hit the bull in the eye. Quick as lightning the beast leaped to its feet, shook its head, and frantic with rage, rushed upon the horseman, and before he had had time to escape, struck him sideways, and with frightful force hurled him to the ground, horse and all, and began trampling them both in the dust.

The other horsemen scattered in terror. The overthrown charger made frantic efforts to regain its feet; in vain! The savage beast transfixed its loins with his horn. Never again will the noble animal run races in the fields. Bleeding profusely, it falls back again, crushing its rider, who, with his feet entangled in the stirrups, was unable to liberate himself.

The baited bull stood on the plain roaring terribly, and tearing up the ground with his hoofs, while the blood from his cut-out eye trickled down his black breast. He did not pursue the fugitives, but, turning back, and seeing the overthrown horse and rider still wallowing on the ground, he began taking short runs at them, like goats often do, throwing up the earth here and there with his horns. God be merciful to the poor youth beneath him!

At length Martin succeeded in extricating himself from his steed. No sooner did the bull perceive that his enemy was on his feet again, than, in a fresh access of rage, he rushed straight at him. A shriek of horror filled the air; many hid their faces. In another moment all would be over.

At that instant, when the savage beast was not more than a yard's distance from its victim, it stopped suddenly, and threw back its head with a jerk. A skilfully thrown noose had gripped it round the neck, and the end of that noose was in the hands of the stranger youth, who now emerged from among the reeds. Hearing a sound like bull-baiting, he had hastened to the spot, and did not arrive a moment too soon. Another second and his rival would have been trampled to death.

The bewildered beast, feeling the suffocating pressure of the lasso about its neck, turned towards its new opponent, but he also now turned his horse's head, and throwing the lasso-line across his shoulder, set off at the top of his speed across the plain.

That was something like a gallop! The heavy wild beast was constrained to run a race with the swiftest of steeds. The cord was pressing tightly round its neck, and blindly, helter-skelter, it had to go in a perfectly straight direction till it dropped.

The youth galloped with it straight towards the racecourse, and then suddenly sprang to one side. The bull bounded away right on, and now the horse remained behind, while the bull flew on in front. By this time it had lost all count of where it was.

The horseman now drew forth his long whip, and began to cut and lash out from behind at the bull, which rushed on even quicker and quicker. The trampling of the horse's hoofs, the cracking of the whip, the shouting of the people, confused it into utter stupidity. It could only run on and on, the blood trickling from its nose and mouth, its whole front flaked with foam, its tongue lolling forth, till, on reaching the racecourse, which was covered with a roaring mob, its strong legs gave way beneath it, and, unable to hold itself up any longer, it collapsed in a ditch, and, rolling a good distance, rooted up the ground with its snout, then stretched itself out at full length on the sward, and ceased to breathe.

Shouting and huzzahing, the mob escorted the new Whitsun King along all the streets of the town, for he was in duty bound to stop before the houses of the chief magistrate and town councillors, and there drink their healths in a good bumper, which admirable custom goes to prove that the Whitsun King had need to be not merely a good runner, but a good drinker too; and this latter quality was all the more necessary, owing to the circumstance that, when he had done with the rest of them, he had, last of all, to go up to John Karpathy's castle in the company of all the sworn jurors, and drink again there.

Now, when the sworn jurors brought in the new Whitsun King to introduce him to Squire John, the great man ordered every one to leave the room incontinently, so that they two might be quite alone together.

Master Jock was sitting in an armchair, with his feet in a large tub of water, chewing a couple of bitter almonds. All this was by way of preparation for the evening's debauch.

"What is your name, little brother?" he inquired of the Whitsun King.

"Michael Kis, at your service, your honour."

"Well, Mike, you are a fine young fellow. You please me greatly. So now you are going to be Whitsun King for a whole year, eh? What will you do with yourself all that time?"

The youth twisted his blonde moustache upwards, and steadily regarded the ceiling.

"I really don't know. I only know that I shall be a bigger man than ever before."

"And if at the end of the year you are deposed?"

"Then I shall go back to my stable at Nadudvar, from whence I came."

"Have you neither father nor mother?"

"I have no belongings at all. I have never seen either father or mother."

"Then stop where you are, Mike. What if I make a bigger man of you than you yourself have any idea of; make you take your place in genteel society here; give you as much money as you like, to drink and play cards with; and turn you into Michael Kis, Esq., lord of the manor of Nadudvar?"

"I shouldn't mind, but how to conduct myself so that they may take me for a gentleman, I don't know."

"The bigger blackguard you are, the greater gentleman they'll take you to be. It is only our rustics who are modest and respectful nowadays."

"If that be all, I am ready."

"I'll take you with me everywhere. You shall drink, dice, bully, brawl, cudgel the men, and befool the women to the top of your bent. At the end of twelve months your Whitsun Kingship will be over, you will doff your genteel mummery, and become the leader of my heydukes. You shall then don the red mente, and wait upon those very gentlemen with whom you have been drinking and dicing for a whole year; you shall help into their carriages the same little wenches with whom you used to make merry. I consider that a very good joke. I don't know whether you think so, too? How the gentlemen will curse and the ladies blush when they find out who you were!"

The youth reflected for a moment; but then he threw back his head, and cried—

"All right! I don't care."

Master Jock looked at his watch. "It is now a quarter to four. Remember that. At a quarter to four twelve months hence your gentility, your nobility, will cease. Till then you are just as much a gentleman as the rest of us. Every month you will receive from me a thousand florins plunder money. The first thousand is in this reticule. Now be off! My heydukes will dress you. When you are ready, come down to my drinking-room. Be rude to the servants, especially as they know you to be but a boor, and call the gentry by their nicknames only—Mike, Andy, Larry, Fred, Ned, for instance. Me they call Jock, remember."

Half an hour later Mike was back again, dressed as a gentleman.

In the drinking-room there was fun enough going on already even without him; for there the rule was, Welcome everybody, and wait for nobody. The master of the house introduced the newly arrived guest as Michael Kis, Esq., lord of the manor of Nadudvar, who, "like a jolly good fellow," had come disguised as an ostler to the Whitsun Kingship competition, and there acquitted himself like a man.

Every one thought this a most original joke. It was plain to every eye, moreover, that he was a gentleman and no boor. All his movements, whether he lolled back on a chair, or leaned his elbows on the table, or chucked his cap in a corner—betyar tricks every one of them—was proof positive that he must have been brought up in good circles. A real betyar would never have dared to lift up his head here; but this fellow, metaphorically speaking, buttonholed everybody. In a few moments, in fact, Mike had drunk good-fellowship with the whole company, and become as familiar as if he had lived among them all his life.

Meanwhile the eternal bumper began to circulate, and Mike fell to singing a new drinking-song which none of them knew, and the company took it up with spirit; and, more than that, it was better than any they had ever sung before.

Within an hour Mike had become a perfect hero in that genteel circle. In his cups he far outstripped them all; and when it came to card-playing, he won whole heaps of money from all and sundry without moving a muscle of his face, raking the dollars in with as much sangfroid as if he had sacks of them at home. Nay, he even lent a lot to Franky Kalotai, thereby obviously displaying an utter contempt for money, for it was notorious that Franky never paid anything back.

And now the heads of most of the gentlemen engaged in this drinking-bout began to loll about unsteadily. Everybody had got beyond the limit where the good humour begotten of good wine ends and drunkenness begins; when a man no longer tastes his wine, and is only sensible of a giddy hankering for more. At such times Bandi Kutyfalvi was wont to exhibit his ancient tour-de-force, which consisted in swallowing with outstretched neck a whole bumper of wine at one gulp or, to use his own technical expression, without a single hiccough. Now, such a feat naturally requires for its performance an extraordinarily concave and well-practised throat, and, with the exception of Bandi, there were not above one or two others who could successfully accomplish it.

"Why, that's nothing at all!" cried Mike Kis, accomplishing the feat without the slightest exertion. "But now, let any one try and do what I can do—sing a song and at the same time drain a bumper without leaving off singing."

Now, this was an entirely new trick, and an extremely difficult one to boot; for, to be properly performed, it required not only that the glottis should remain immovable during the passage of the vinous torrent down the throat, but also that the throat should give forth at the same time a clear, uninterrupted voice. Yet Michael Kis performed this feat with masterly dexterity, to the general astonishment, and gave back the bowl for the next man to imitate him.

Naturally they all came to grief. Every bumper of wine was a fresh occasion of shame, and the drinkers laughed heartily at one another, for every one of them was obliged to interrupt his song while he drank.

Michael Kis had to show them once more how it was done.

"A bumper here!" cried Bandi at last, and gallantly buckled to the attempt; but the song only proceeded a little way, and then a drop of wine managed to get into his windpipe, and immediately, like a whale rising to the surface of the sea to blow, or like a stone triton spouting forth the water of a fountain, a violent upward rush of imprisoned breath discharged through every aperture of the suffocating wretch the wine that filled his throat.

The whole table arose, the company bursting with laughter, while Bandi, gasping and coughing, shook his fists at Mike during every brief respite his lungs allowed him, and cried, "I'll kill you I'll kill you!" And at last, when he began to feel better, he rolled the sleeves of his shirt up his big bony arms, and yelled hoarsely, "I'll kill you! I'll kill you! Look out, I say, for I'm going to kill the whole company."

At these words there was a general rush for the door. Every one knew Kutyfalvi's way of going to work, and it was just as well, at such times, either to fly before him or to lie down, for he had this in common with the bear race, that he never hurt any one whom he found lying on the ground. The heydukes hastily removed Master Jock outside also. All the rest who had still the slightest command over their legs crept under the table.

Kutyfalvi was a big, strong brute of a man. He could take up three bushel sacks of wheat with his teeth and fling them over his head; he could bite a thaler piece in two; he could pull a wild horse to the ground single-handed—all of which feats inspired his comrades with such a respect for him that a very advanced stage of drunkenness was necessary before even the strongest of them would venture a bout with him, especially as all such foolhardiness generally resulted in the monstrous Cyclops mangling his weaker antagonist out of all recognition.

No wonder, then, if every living soul in the room sighed, "Woe to thee, Mike Kis!" when they beheld him draw down upon his devoted head the wrath of this giant, who, infuriated at the failure of the wine-swallowing experiment, now rushed upon him with open arms, in order to pound him to pieces, pitching all the chairs out of his way as he rushed along.

But the ennobled ostler was used to such encounters, and when his antagonist had come quite close to him, he deftly ducked beneath his arms, and then gave him a lesson in the stable dodge. With one hand he caught hold of his opponent's collar, twisting it so tightly that he gasped for breath, at the same time tripping up his legs, and then, with the other hand, he threw him over his knee. That is the stable dodge, which can be safely employed against even the strongest rowdies.

Meanwhile those of his cronies who ventured to peep back through the doorway, heard a great bang as Bandi Kutyfalvi's huge carcase smote the floor, and saw the big, powerful man lying motionless beneath his opponent, who kept him down with his knee, and pummelled him from head to foot, as he had been wont to pummel others when they quarrelled with him in their cups. Every one was delighted that his turn had now come, and when at last Mike Kis let go his collar and left him lying at full length on the floor, they carried the avenger of their long years of contumely round the room, and drank his health in bumpers till break of day.

Kutyfalvi, however, whom, after this little joke was over, the servants removed from the room and tucked up nicely in bed, dreamt that he fell down from the top of a high mountain into a quarry, the jagged stones of which smashed all his limbs into little bits, and, on waking, was greatly astonished that he should still feel the effects of his dream.

From that day forth Mike Kis became Master Jock's prime favourite, and the sworn comrade of every gentleman who lived in the neighbourhood. Nay, even when the Hungarian Diet assembled at Pressburg in 1823, and Master Jock, with great reluctance, forsook his dogs, his cronies, his zanies, his heydukes, and peasant-wenches, in order to attend to his legislative duties, he could not find it in his heart to part with Mike, so he took the lad along with him to Pressburg. This, however, may only have been part of the joke. How comical it would be, for instance, to introduce the pseudonymous young gentleman to the various noblemen and gentlemen assembled there! Nay, better still, some young countess or other might fall over head and ears in love with the handsome youth, and what a capital jest it would then be to exhibit the fellow in the scarlet livery of a heyduke, whose duty it is to climb up behind the carriage when his master goes out for a drive!

So Michael Kis made his appearance in the midst of the elegant society of Pressburg, and his merry humour and handsome, manly figure, backed up by the best letters of introduction, made him a general favourite. Polite society had a peculiar phraseology in those days. Rudeness used to be called frankness; bad language, originality; violence, manliness; and frivolity, nonchalance. To Mike, therefore, was attributed a whole host of good qualities, and the only alteration required of him was that he should wear an attila instead of a mente. He was a gentleman by birth, and that was enough. Every one admired, not his mind, indeed—they troubled themselves very little about that in those days—but his manly bearing, his rosy cheeks, his muscular figure, his sparkling eyes, his black moustache, which are of far more account than any amount of learning. And all the while Master Jock was laughing in his sleeve, for the red Whitsun Day was drawing near, and most of the young noblemen were hail-fellow-well-met with Mike Kis; and here and there you might even hear dear, thoughtful mammas making inquiries about the circumstances of the fine young fellow whom they were by no means indisposed to see hovering around their darling daughters; nay, more than one of them confided in a whisper to her bosom friends that she had good cause to suspect that the fine young fellow in question had serious intentions.

Such secrets have a way of spreading like wildfire, and old Karpathy began to suffer from the drollest paroxysms. Sometimes, in the gravest society, he would commence ha-ha-ha-ing at the top of his voice. At such moments he was reflecting that in a very few days the much-befeted cavalier would turn out to be nothing but his heyduke! Many a time he would sit up in bed to laugh; nay, once, in the House itself, in full session, when the galleries were filled with the elite of society, and the protocols were being read, the old gentleman, observing how the ladies were regarding the handsome figure of Mike, as he stood amongst a group of young nobles, with all their eyes—the old gentleman, I say, was so overcome thereby that he burst into an irrestrainable fit of laughter on the spot, for which he was called to order and fined. He paid the fine immediately, but he had to pay it over double before the day was over, for he could not restrain his laughter when he bethought him of the near-approaching denoument of this humorous masquerade.

And at last rosy Whitsun Day, most comical of days, arrived. Karpathy had ordered a great and costly supper to be laid in the park beyond the Danube, to which he invited every one who was at all intimate with Mike. What a splendid joke it will be to present the hero of so many a triumph to the company as—a lackey! Master Jock would not have parted with his joke for an empire.

The clock had just struck a quarter to four. According to the compact, the Whitsun King ought now to be waiting there in the antechamber, and Master Jock ordered him to be shown in.

"What new sort of manners do you call this?" cried Mike as he entered the room, flinging himself into an armchair; "why do you keep an honourable man waiting ten minutes in your antechamber?"

There was a pipe in Master Jock's mouth, and he was engaged at that moment in filling it with tobacco.

"Halloa! Mike my son!" said he with infinite slyness, "just you get out of that chair and light my pipe for me—d'ye hear?"

"Light it yourself!" replied Mike; "the flint and steel is close beside you."

Master Jock stared at him with all his eyes. The lad himself had clearly forgotten what day it was. All the more piquant then to startle him out of his insolent security.

"Then, my beloved little brother, are you not aware that to-day is red Whitsun Day?"

"What's that got to do with me? I am neither a parson nor an almanac-maker."

"Eh, eh! Recollect that at a quarter to four your Whitsun Kingship ceases!"

"And what then?" inquired Mike, without the slightest perturbation, polishing the antique opal buttons of his attila with his silken handkerchief.

"What then?" cried Jock, who was beginning to get warm; "why, from this instant you cease to be a gentleman."

"What am I then?"

"What are you, sirrah? I'll tell ye. You're a boor, a betyar, a good-for-nothing rascal, a runaway ragamuffin, that's what you are! And you'll be glad enough to kiss my hand, and beg me to make you one of my lackeys, to save you from starvation or the gallows."

"Excuse me," replied Mike Kis, deftly twisting his moustache, "but I am Michael Kis, Esq., proprietor of Almasfalva, which I purchased the day before yesterday from the trustees of the estate of Kazmer Almasfalvi, for 120,000 florins, with the full sanction of the Court, wherefore my title thereto is unexceptionable."

Master Jock fell back in astonishment. "One hundred and twenty thousand florins! When and where did you pick up all that money?"

"I got it honourably," said Michael Kis, smiling. "I won it at cards one evening, when I and a few of my gentlemen friends sat down to play together. To tell you the truth, I won a good deal more than that, but the balance will do to build up a splendid castle on my estate, where I can reside during the summer."

To Master Jock this part of the matter was quite intelligible; much larger sums than this used to be lost and won during the sessions of the Diet at Pressburg. But one thing he could not understand at all.

"Pray how did you get your diploma of gentility?" he asked; "you are not a gentleman by birth."

"That was a very simple matter. When Whitsun Day was only a week off, I strolled into one of the trans-Danubian counties, and there advertised that a prodigal member of the Szabolcs branch of the noble Kis family was in search of his relations, and if there were any noble Kises who remembered that branch of the family, and had certificates of nobility in their possession, which they were willing to transfer to the undersigned in exchange for one thousand florins, would they be kind enough to communicate with him. In a week's time fifteen members of the Kis family remembered their Szabolcs kinsmen, and brought me all kinds of certificates of nobility. All I then had to do was to select the one which had the prettiest coat of arms; whereupon we kissed each other all round, and traced out the genealogy. I paid down the thousand florins; they recognized me as their kinsman, and advertised the diploma throughout the county; and so now I am a landed gentleman. Look, here on my signet-ring is my crest."

This joke pleased Master Jock even more than his own. Instead of being angry, he covered with kisses the astute adventurer who had more foresight than any one else, had got the better of those who thought they were getting the better of him, and had accepted in good earnest the part which had been thrust upon him by way of a joke.



CHAPTER IV.

A FAMILY CURSE.

In those days there lived at Pressburg a famous family, if the sad fate of becoming a by-word in the community can be indeed considered fame. They called themselves Meyer, a name borne by so many people that nobody would care to adopt it unless obliged to.

The father was a counting-house clerk in a public institution, and blessed with five beautiful daughters. In 1818 two of the girls were already grown up—the queens of every ball, the toasted beauties of every public entertainment. The greatest dandies, nay, even magnates, delighted to dance with them, and they were universally known as "the pretty Meyer girls."

How their father and mother rejoiced in their beauty! And these pretty girls, these universal belles, were brought up in a manner befitting their superiority. No sordid work, no domestic occupations for them! No, they were brought up luxuriously, splendidly; their vocation was something higher than the dull round of household duties. They were sent to first-class educational establishments, instead of to the national schools in the neighbourhood, where they were taught to embroider exquisitely, sing elegantly, and acquire other lady-like accomplishments. And all the time their father hugged himself with the thought that one of his daughters would become a famous artiste, and another would grow rich as a milliner a la mode, and the whole lot of them would be married by some of those rich squires and bankers who were continually trampling the ground around them. Perhaps he had read of such cases in some of the old-fashioned romances of the day.

Now, such an elegant education presupposes an elegant income; but, as we all know, the salary of a cashier in a public establishment is nothing very remarkable. Housekeeping cost much more than Mr. Meyer could afford to give to it. Papa knew that only too well, and he would lie busy all night long thinking of some way out of the difficulty without ever being able to find it. And he could not call his girls away from the great world, for fear of spoiling their prospects.

Just at that very time a country squire was courting the eldest, whose acquaintance he had made at last year's dances. He was pretty sure to marry her, as any other connection with the daughter of a man of good repute would not be honourable; and then no doubt the bridegroom would advance "papa" a couple of thousand florins or so to relieve him from his embarrassments.

But the acquaintance of these squires was certainly very costly. Public entertainments, frippery, and splendour made frightful inroads; and when the domestic table was spread, the invisible shapes of tailors, bootmakers, milliners, mercers, and hairdressers sat down and helped to consume poor pater-familias' dinner.

As for the mistress of the house, she was the worst manager it is possible to imagine. Understanding nothing herself, she left everything to the servants. Whenever she was in a difficulty she ran up debts right and left (it never entered into her calculations that she would one day have to pay them back), and often when there was only just enough money left to pay for kitchen requisites for another couple of days, she had a pleasant little trick of posting off to the fruiterer's and bringing back a pine-apple.

One day it happened that the directors suddenly, and, as is their wont, without any previous notification, visited and examined the cashier's department, and Meyer was found to be six thousand florins short in his cash—the natural result of papa's frivolity. Meyer was incontinently dismissed from his post, and the little property he possessed was seized; there was even some talk of locking him up. For a whole fortnight this catastrophe was the sole talk of the town.

Now, Meyer had an elder sister living in the city, an old maid who had withdrawn from the world, and in happier times had been the butt of the family's sarcasms. She did nothing all day but go to church, say her prayers, and caress her cat; and whenever she and her cronies came together they would gossip and abuse the younger generation, possibly because they themselves were past enjoying what their juniors liked. But towards nobody was she so venomously spiteful as towards her own family, because they walked about fashionably dressed, lived well, and went to balls, while she herself had to crouch beside the fire all the winter, wear the same dress for twelve years at a stretch, and had nothing better to eat than a light pottage flavoured with carroways, with a wheaten loaf broken up in it. The Meyer girls, whenever they wanted to make each other laugh, had only got to say, "Shall we go and have dinner with Aunt Teresa?"

Now, when this partly ridiculous, partly malevolent old lady heard of her younger brother's sad case, she immediately called in what little money she had out at interest—the fruits of many years of pinching and sparing—converted it into florins, and, tying them up in a bright pocket-handkerchief, went up to town, and paid into the public coffers the amount of her brother's defalcation, and would not be quiet till, by dint of much weeping and supplication, she had induced all the great gentlemen concerned (she visited them one by one) to promise not to put her brother in jail, and to abandon criminal proceedings against him.

Meyer, on hearing of his sister's good deed, hastened to seek her out, and kissing her hand repeatedly, sobbing and weeping bitterly all the time, could not find words adequate to express his gratitude. Nay, he even prevailed upon his daughters also to come and kiss his sister's hand; and could the good girls have shown a greater spirit of self-sacrifice than by condescending to bring lips like theirs, veritable roses and strawberries, into immediate contact with the old lady's withered hands, and looking without a smile at the old maid's old-fashioned garments?

Meyer swore by heaven and earth that his whole life would henceforth be devoted to showing his gratitude to his sister for her noble deed.

"You will do that best," replied the aged spinster, "by bringing up your family honourably. I have given my all to preserve your name from a great reproach, you must now take great care to preserve it from a still greater, for here below there is even a greater degradation than being thrust into prison. You know what I mean. Get something to do yourself, and accustom your children to work. Don't be ashamed of offering your services as a book-keeper to any tradesman who will have you; you will, at least, earn enough that way to make both ends meet. As for your girls, they are now old enough to help themselves. God guard them from accepting the help of other people. One of them might earn her bread as a milliner's apprentice, for she can do fine needlework. Another can go as a governess into some gentleman's family. God will show the others what to do in His own time, and I am sure you will all be happy."

Worthy Meyer returned home from his sister's thoroughly comforted. He thought no longer of suicide, but very quickly found himself a place as assistant in a merchant's office; counselled his daughters to adopt some wholesome mode of life, and they, weeping sorely, promised to obey him. Eliza got a situation with a sempstress; but instead of trying to get a governess's place, Matilda preferred to go in for art, and as she had a nice voice, and could sing a little, it was easy for her to persuade her father that a brilliant future awaited her on the stage, and that that was the easiest and most glorious way to riches; and he at once bethought him of the names of several celebrated actresses who had also sprung from ruined families and, taking to the stage, had amply provided, by their own unaided efforts, for the wants of their growing families.

So Meyer allowed his daughter to follow her bent and adopt an artistic calling. At first she was only employed as a chorus-singer, but then, as every one knows, the most famous artistes have begun in that way.

Naturally enough, nothing of this reached the ears of Aunt Teresa, who fancied that Matilda was a governess. The worthy spinster herself never entered a playhouse, and if any one should whisper to her that one of the Meyer girls was employed in the theatre, it would be easy to say that it was another Meyer and not her kinswoman, Meyer being such a very common name. So poor Meyer really began to believe that now the whole family was going to lead a new and orderly life, that every one would do his and her duty, and prosperity would flow into the house through door, window, and chimney.

Mrs. Meyer had now to accustom herself to cooking, and Mr. Meyer to burnt dishes, and the whole family slaved away all day long. Meyer was occupied in his counting-house from dawn to dusk; Mrs. Meyer during the same period was in the kitchen; the children sewed and stitched; while the bigger ones worked out of doors on a larger scale, one of them turning out a frightful quantity of hats and bonnets, while the other was mastering her noble profession, or so at least they made each other believe. As a matter of fact, however, Mr. Meyer lounged about the coffee-houses pretty frequently, and read the newspapers, which is certainly the cheapest way of taking one's ease; Mrs. Meyer confided the pots and pans to the nursemaid, and gossiped with her neighbours; the children read books surreptitiously or played at blindman's buff; elegant dandies diverted the elder girl who was in the employment of the milliner, and it will be better to say nothing at all about the arduous artistic labours of the chorus-singer. The family only met together at dinner-time, and then they would sit round the table with sour, ill-tempered faces, the younger ones grumbling and whining at the meagre food, the elder girls with their appetites spoilt by a surfeit of sweetmeats, every one moody and bored, as if they found each other's company intolerable, and all of them eagerly awaiting the moment when they might return to their engrossing pursuits again.

There are certain happy-minded people who never will believe what they don't like. They won't believe that any one is angry with them until he actually treads on their corns; they fail to observe whether their acquaintances snub them in the street; they never notice any change, however nearly it concerns them, even if it be in the bosom of their families, unless somebody calls their attention to it; and they will rather invent all sorts of excuses for the most glaring faults than put themselves to the trouble of trying to correct them.

Providence, as a rule, endows those people who have to live by their labour with a beneficial instinct, which makes them find their pride and joy in the work they have accomplished. When the whole family meets together in the evening, each member boasts of how much he has done in the course of the day; and how good it is that it should be so! Now, the Meyers lacked this instinct. The curse of the expulsion from Paradise seemed to rest upon their labours. None of them ever boasted of having made any progress. None of them ever inquired how the others had been getting on. All of them were very chary how they opened a conversation, as if they feared it would be made a grievance of; and is there anything in the world so dreadful as a family grievance!

And grievances there are which speak even when they are dumb. Indoors, every member of the family began to wear rags, and this is what every family must come to that can only look nice in new clothes. Such people, unless they are able to sit before the mirror all day long, look draggle-tailed and sluttish, even if the clothes that hang about them are not very old, and so betray their poverty to the world. The girls were obliged to get out and do up their last year's dresses. Carnival time came round again, and big balls were advertised, but they were forced to sit at home, for they had no money to go anywhere.

Meyer, in whatever direction he looked, saw nothing but ill-tempered, dejected, sullen faces around him; but after a while he did not trouble himself much about them. Only on Sunday afternoons, when a little of the wine of Meszely had soothed his nerves, would his tongue be loosened, and a fine flood of moral precept would pour forth for the edification of his daughters. He would then tell them how happy he was at having preserved the honour of his name, although he was poor and his overcoat was ragged (which latter fact, by the way, was not very much to the credit of his grown-up daughters), but he was proud of his rags, he said, and wished his daughters to be equally proud of their virtues, and so on. As for the daughters, they were, naturally, out of the room long before this sermon was over.

Suddenly, however, a better humour and a more cheerful spirit descended upon the family. Mr. Meyer, whenever he returned from his office or from goodness knows whence, would find his daughters boisterously singing. His wife, too, bought new bonnets; their dresses began to look stylish again, and their food grew decidedly better. Mr. Meyer, instead of having his modest measure of Meszely wine on Sunday afternoon only, now met that pleasant table companion at dinner every day. He would have taken the change as much as a matter of course as the sparrows take the wheat from the fields without inquiring who sowed it, if his wife had not whispered to him one day that Matilda was making such delightful progress in her profession that the manager had thought well to very considerably raise her salary, but that the matter was to be kept secret for a time, lest the other chorus-girls should come to know of it, and demand a rise of salary likewise. Mr. Meyer considered this to be quite natural.

It is true he was a little surprised to find Matilda appearing in finer and finer clothes every day, and wearing continually the most stylish shawls and bonnets, which she passed on to her younger sister when she had worn them a bit; he frequently noticed, too, that when he entered the room, the conversation was suddenly broken off, and when he inquired what they were talking about, they first of all looked at each other as if they were afraid of giving contradictory answers, and once or twice his impatience went so far that he asked his wife, "Why does Matilda wear such expensive dresses?"

And the good lady thoroughly satisfied the anxious pater-familias. In the first place, she said, the material of the dresses was not very expensive, after all; it was made to look like moire, but it was only watered taffety. In the second place, Matilda did not buy them at the original price, but got them from the prima donna for next to nothing, after she had worn them once or twice; the things were as good as given away. It was a common practice at the theatre, she said.

Mr. Meyer found that he was learning a great deal he had not known before. But he considered it all quite natural.

From henceforth the whole family did their best to keep him in a good humour. They consulted his wishes, inquired after his tastes, and were always asking if there was anything he fancied or had a particular liking for.

"What good girls these girls of mine are!" said this happy pater-familias to himself.

On his birthday, too, they had pleasant surprises in store for him in the shape of presents.

Matilda, in particular, delighted him with a valuable meerschaum pipe on which hunting-dogs were carved. The whole thing, not including the silver stopper, cost five and twenty florins in hard cash.

Moved partly by the fulness of his joy and partly because he thought it the proper thing to do, Meyer resolved to visit Aunt Teresa that very day, and was the more disposed to do so because a new velvet collar had recently been sewn on to his overcoat, so he stuck the beautiful meerschaum pipe in his mouth and went to Teresa's dwelling, which was situated at the other end of the town.

The worthy spinster was sitting by her fireside, for she had a fire lighted though the spring was fine. Mr. Meyer greeted her without taking his pipe from his mouth.

Teresa made him sit down. Her demeanour towards him was most frosty; she coughed thrice for every word she spoke. Mr. Meyer was only waiting for her to say, "Where did you get that nice pipe?" and behind this expectation was the afterthought that, perhaps, when she knew of the festive origin of the present, Teresa also would hasten to gratify him with birthday gifts. At last, however, he was forced to begin the conversation of his own accord.

"Look, sister, what a handsome pipe I have!"

"It's all that," she replied, without even looking at it.

"My daughter bought it for me as a birthday present. Look!" and with these words he handed the beautiful artistic masterpiece to Teresa.

She took the pipe by the stem and dashed it so violently against the iron foot of the stove that it flew to pieces in every direction.

Mr. Meyer's mouth fell at both corners dismally. This was a pleasant birthday greeting if you like!

"Sister! what does that mean?" he cried.

"What does that mean? It means that you are a stupid, a fool, a blockhead! All the world knows that one of your daughters is the mistress of a nobleman, and you are not only content to live with her and share her shameful earnings, but you actually come here to me and make a boast of it!"

"What! Which of my daughters?" exclaimed Meyer.

Teresa shrugged her shoulders. "If I did not know you for a credulous simpleton," said she, "I should take you for an abandoned villain. You thought me fool enough to believe that you were bringing up your daughter as a governess when she was on the stage all the time. I don't want to tell you what my views are as to choosing a profession—I admit that they are old-fashioned, and out of date—but will you tell me how it is possible for a girl with a salary of sixteen florins a month to expend thousands on extravagant luxury?"

"Pardon me, Matilda's salary has been raised," said Meyer, who would very much have liked others to believe something of what he believed himself.

"That is untrue. You can find out the real state of the case from the manager if you like."

"And then, too, her clothes are not as expensive as you fancy, sister. She wears cheap dresses which she bought second-hand from the prima donna."

"That also is untrue. She bought everything brand new. This very week she purchased three hundred florins' worth of lace from Messrs. Flesz and Huber alone."

To this Mr. Meyer knew not what to say.

"Don't sit staring at me there like a stuck pig!" cried Teresa, with a sudden access of temper. "Hundreds, aye thousands, of times have I seen her sitting with a certain gentleman, in a hired carriage. 'Tis only a blockhead like yourself that can't see what all the world sees! You are a stupid dolt, made to be taken in. I wonder it has never entered into the head of some play-writer to put you into a farce! What! a pater-familias who, when he is half-tipsy, on Sunday afternoons preaches moral sermons to daughters, who are laughing in their sleeves at him all the time, and who brags about the meerschaum pipe which the seducer of his own daughter gives him as a birthday present! Why, if I thought that you had had any idea of this abomination, I would sweep you out of this room with the very broom with which I now sweep up the fragments of your pipe."

Mr. Meyer was very much upset by this language. He got up without answering a word, put on his hat, and went, first of all, to the shop of Messrs. Flesz and Huber, to find out how much his daughter had spent there. It turned out to be considerably more than three hundred florins. Aunt Teresa was certainly well-informed.

Thence he proceeded to the theatre, and inquired what his daughter's salary was. The manager had no need to consult his books about it. He told Mr. Meyer straight out that his daughter was paid sixteen florins, but she did not earn it, for she was very backward in learning—in fact, she made no progress at all; nor did she seem to care very much, for she never appeared at any of the rehearsals, and her salary went for the most part in paying fines.

This was a little too much. Mr. Meyer was beside himself with rage. He rushed wildly home. Fortunately, he made such a row when he burst into the house that the other members of the family had time to get Matilda out of his way, so that he had to be content with disinheriting his abandoned daughter on the spot, and forbidding her, under pain of extermination, ever to appear beneath his roof again. A tiger could not have been more furious, and in the pitilessness of his rage he commanded that her accursed name should never be mentioned in his presence, and threatened to send packing after the minx whoever had the audacity to defend her.

His merciless humour lasted for a whole week. Very often his tongue itched to ask a question or two, but he stifled the rising words, and still kept silence. At last, one day, as they all sat together at dinner, not a single member of the family could touch a thing—then Mr. Meyer could stand it no longer.

"What's the matter with you all?" he cried. "Why don't you eat? What's the meaning of all this blubbering?"

The girls raised their handkerchiefs to their eyes, and blubbered more than ever; but his wife, loudly sobbing, replied—

"My daughter is dying!"

"Naturally!" replied her husband, thrusting such a large spoonful of pudding into his mouth that he nearly choked. "'Tis easy to say that, but it is not so easy to die!"

"It would be better for the poor thing if she did die; she would not suffer so much then, at any rate."

"Then, why don't you send for the doctor?"

"Her sickness is not to be cured by any doctor."

"Hum!" said Mr. Meyer, beginning to pick his teeth.

His wife waited for a little while, and thus continued in a tearful voice—

"She is always thinking of you. All she wants is to see her father. She says if she could kiss his hand but once, she would die of joy."

At these words the whole family in chorus sent up a piping wail like an organ. Mr. Meyer pretended to blow his nose.

"Where is she, then?" he inquired in a constrained voice.

"In the Zuckermandel quarter, in one poor room which she has hired for a month, abandoned by every one."

"Then she is poor!" thought Mr. Meyer. "Perhaps, therefore, all that Teresa said about her is not quite true?"

Perhaps she had loved some one, and accepted gifts from him. That was not such a great crime, surely, and it did not follow from that, that she had sold herself. Those old spinsters, who have never experienced the world's primest joys, are so jealous of the diversions of young people.

"Hum! Then that bad girl speaks of me sometimes, eh?"

"She fancies your curse rests upon her. Since she departed——"

Here the conversation was again interrupted by a general outburst of weeping.

"Since she departed," continued Mrs. Meyer, "she has never risen from her bed, and leave it I know she never will, unless it is to be put into her cof-cof-coffin."

"Well, well, bring her home this afternoon," said Mr. Meyer, thoroughly softened at last.

At these words the whole family fell upon his neck and kissed and fondled him. Never was there a better man or a kinder father in the whole world, they said.

They scarce waited for the table to be cleared in order to deck out the worthy pater-familias in his best, and, putting a stick in his hand, the whole lot of them accompanied him to the Zuckermandel quarter, where Matilda lay in a poor garret, in which there was nothing, in the strictest sense of the word, but a bed and an innumerable quantity of medicine-bottles.

The heart of the good father was lacerated by this spectacle. So Matilda had nothing at all, poor girl!

The girl would have risen when she beheld her father, but was unable to do so. Mr. Meyer rushed towards her with a penitent countenance, just as if he had sinned against her. The girl seized his hand, pressed it to her bosom, covered it with kisses, and in a broken voice begged for his forgiveness.

A father's heart must surely have been made of stone to have resisted such an appeal! He forgave her, of course, and a coach was immediately sent for in which to convey her home. Let the world say what it liked, blood is stronger than water; a father cannot slay his offspring for the sake of a little tripping!

And besides, as a matter of fact, there was not the slightest reason why he should punish her so severely, for that very same day he received a letter (it was brought to the house by a liveried servant), which the nobleman so frequently alluded to wrote him with his own hand, and in which he expressed his grief that his innocent, well-meaning advances should have occasioned such a misunderstanding. He declared, moreover, that he regarded the whole family with the greatest respect, and as to his intercourse with Matilda, it was simply dictated by his enthusiasm for art. Nay, he was prepared, if necessary, to furnish the most incontestible proofs, under his own hand and seal, that the young lady's virtue was fenced about by absolutely impregnable bulwarks.

Ah! an honest, honourable gentleman, indeed!

"Well, that's all right," said Mr. Meyer, whom this letter perfectly satisfied—"quite another sort of thing, in fact. But, at any rate, he ought not to try and make Matilda go out with him, or try and see her behind the scenes. That might so easily compromise her. If his intentions are honourable, let him come to the house."

Imbecile, to give bread to the rats that they might not disturb him in the night-time, instead of keeping a cat!

Naturally, in a couple of days, Matilda was as rosy as an apple just plucked from the tree, and her squire now came to the house to visit her quite nicely. In a few months' time he departed, and after him came a young banker, and then another squire, and a third and a fourth, and goodness knows how many more. And all of them were great votaries of art, worthy respectable gentlemen every one of them, who were never known to utter an improper word, who kissed mamma's hand, and talked on sensible topics with papa, and bowed as decorously to the girls as if they were young countesses at the very least. And among them were such merry, amusing young fellows, who would make one die of laughter with their jokes, and teased mamma by going into the kitchen and tasting the dishes, and pocketing the pancakes. Oh, they were such funny, quizzical young fellows!

Four of the Meyer girls were now tall and stately, and all of them as beautiful as could be, and not a year's difference between them. As they grew up, and their virginal charms developed, Mr. Meyer's house became more and more noisy and frequented. The old luxury, frivolity, and extravagance returned, and a perpetual jollity took possession of it. The most select company, moreover, assembled there—counts, barons, gentlemen of high degree, bankers, and other bigwigs.

It is true that it struck Mr. Meyer as somewhat peculiar that when he met these counts and barons in the street they did not seem to see him, and if his girls were with him, they and these friends of theirs did not even exchange looks; but it was his way not to trouble himself about anything unpleasant; besides, he fancied that great folks always behaved like this.

And now his youngest daughter also was growing up; she was already twelve years old, and she promised to be more beautiful than any of her sisters. At present she was in short frocks, and her long thick hair, twisted into two pigtails, dangled down her back. The guests who honoured her father's house with their presence had already begun to ask her, in joke, when she was going to wear long dresses like her sisters.

One day Mr. Meyer had an unusual and surprising visitor. A bevy of good-humoured youths were flirting with his daughters just then, while papa was smashing flies on the wall at intervals, smiling complacently whenever one of his daughters, startled by an extra loud bang, gave a little shriek, when a knocking was heard at the door. As nobody answered the door, the knocking was repeated twice, much louder each time, and at last one of the jovial young fellows aforesaid jumped up and opened the door, imagining that it was some other merry wag who wanted to surprise them all—and behold! a dry, wrinkled old maid in a shabby black dress stood before the brilliant assembly!

Papa was so frightened by this apparition that his knees knocked together. It was Aunt Teresa!

The old spinster, without deigning to bestow the least attention on the company assembled there, made straight for Mr. Meyer with the utmost composure.

The worthy pater-familias was in the most unspeakable confusion. He knew not whether to ask the old lady to take a chair, or whether to introduce her to the gay throng as his sister, or whether to deny that he knew her. But Teresa herself relieved him from his embarrassment. With a calm and cold look, she said, "I have a few words to say to you, and if you have leisure to quit your guests for a moment or two, be so good as to take me where we may not disturb the company."

Papa Meyer at once accepted this proposal, and, opening the door before her, led her into one of the remoter rooms. They had scarcely closed the door, when a merry laugh arose from the midst of the company which they had just quitted. Papa Meyer thereupon drew Aunt Teresa still further away. Even he was not quite so simple as not to know why the young people in there laughed so uproariously at this old-fashioned spinster of a bygone generation.

Papa Meyer, when he did address Aunt Teresa, tried to assume his most friendly air.

"Won't you take a seat, my dear kinswoman? Oh, what a pleasure it is to see you at last!"

"I have not exactly come here to bandy compliments," replied Teresa, dryly, "and it is not necessary to sit down for the sake of the few words I have come to say. I can say them just as well standing up. For two years we have not seen each other. During that time you have placed a pretty considerable distance between us, and your mode of life has been such as to make it impossible for all eternity for us ever to approach one another again. This I fancy will not very greatly astonish you, and the knowledge that this is so has given me the courage to say it. You have chosen for your four daughters, one after the other, the same career. Don't speak. It is better to be silent about such things, and I beg you will not interrupt me. I shall not reproach you. You are the master of your own actions. You have one daughter who is twelve years old; in a short time she will be a marriageable girl. I have not come to this house to make a scene, nor do I wish to preach about morality, or religion, or God, or maidenly innocence, subjects which great men and grand gentlemen simply sneer at as the stock-in-trade of hypocrites. I will therefore tell you in a couple of words why I have come. All I ask is that you deliver over to me your youngest daughter. I will engage to bring her up honourably as a respectable middle-class girl should be brought up. Her mind is still uncorrupted, she is still in the hands of God, and I will undertake to the day of my death to preserve her reputation. All I require of you is that neither you yourself, nor any member of your family, ever think of her again. God will help me to carry out my good resolution. And one thing more, in case you reject my offer I shall petition the highest authorities to favour my request which may have very unpleasant consequences for you, for I am prepared to go to the Prince Primate of Hungary himself, and explain to him the reasons which have induced me to come forward in this manner. My proposition does not require much consideration. I'll give you till early to-morrow morning to make up your mind. If by that time you have not brought the girl to my house, you can reckon me as your most irreconcilable enemy, and then the God who remits sins have mercy upon you!"

With these words the old spinster turned her back upon him and left the house.

Mr. Meyer escorted his sister to the door, and so long as he saw her before his eyes, his mind stood still, he was not the master of a single thought. Only when she had crossed his threshold did he come to himself again. The girls and the young dandies commented on the appearance of the venerable virgin in the most amusing manner, and their jokes put some heart into papa Meyer again. He began to tell them what had brought the ancient spinster there.

"She actually wants to take away Fanny," he cried, "and keep her for ever."

"Ho! oh! ah!" resounded on every side.

"And why? I should like to know why? Have I not always brought her up respectably? Can any one say anything against me? Can any one reproach me with anything? Do not I treasure my daughters as the very light of my eyes? Has any one ever heard an ill word fall from my mouth? Am I a swindler, perhaps, who give my daughters such a bad example that the State feels bound to step in and take them out of my hands? Well, gentlemen, say what you know of me! Am I a thief, or a brigand, or a blasphemer?"

And all the time he strode rapidly up and down the room like a stage hero, while his guests stood still and stared.

What he said, however, made a great impression, for all the young gentlemen now vanished from the house. There was something in Aunt Teresa's threats which might have unpleasant consequences even for them.

When the family was alone again, there was a violent outburst of wrath against that meddlesome Aunt Teresa, and Mr. Meyer himself waxed so wroth that he felt bound to pour forth his grievances outside as well as inside the house. He still possessed two or three acquaintances whom he had learnt to know in his official days: they were now leading counsel in the supreme court, eminent jurists whose opinions he could safely follow. He had not seen them for a long time, but it now occurred to him that he might just as well look them up and be beforehand with Aunt Teresa in case she put her threat into execution.

His nearest acquaintance was Councillor Schmerz, a bachelor of about forty, a smooth-faced, quiet sort of man, whom he found in his garden grafting his pinks. To him he confided his grievance, telling him all about Aunt Teresa and the shabby trick she threatened to play him—reporting him to the Prince Primate, forsooth!

Mr. Schmerz smiled once or twice during this speech, and now and then warned Mr. Meyer, who was quite carried away by the force of his declamation, not to trample on his flower-beds, as they were planted with cockscombs and larkspurs. When, however, Mr. Meyer had finished his oration, he replied very gently—

"Teresa will not do that!"

"Teresa will not do that?" thought Mr. Meyer. "That's not enough for me." He wanted to be told that Teresa could not—was not allowed to do it; and if she tried it on, so much the worse for Teresa.

Mr. Schmerz had evidently made up his mind to graft an endless series of pinks that afternoon, so Mr. Meyer thought it best to carry his complaint to another of his acquaintances, in the hope that he would and must give a more definite reply.

This other acquaintance was Mr. Chlamek, a famous advocate, one of the most honourable of characters, and withal an exceedingly dry man—practical shrewdness and commonsense personified. He, too, was a pater-familias with three sons and two daughters.

Mr. Chlamek listened to the matter laid before him with all an advocate's patience, and answered the question quietly and frankly—

"My dear friend, never quarrel with a relation for showing a disposition to relieve you of one of your daughters. Thank God that you have still daughters left and to spare. I know from experience that one girl gives more trouble than three boys. I should not refuse this offer if I were you."

Mr. Meyer said not a word. This advice pleased him even less than the other. So he went to his third acquaintance.

This third acquaintance was a really excellent fellow, and by profession a judge of the criminal court. He was always frightfully rude to those with whom he was in any way angry, and if the whole penal code had been his ring, he could not have twisted it round his finger more easily.

Mr. Meyer found the eminent criminal lawyer in the midst of a heap of dusty papers. Mr. Bordacsi, for that was his name, had an extraordinary faculty for so identifying himself with any complicated case he might take up as to absolutely live and breathe in it. Any attempt at sophistry or chicanery made him downright venomous, and he only recovered himself when, by dint of superior acumen, he had enabled the righteous cause to triumph. He was also far-famed for his incorruptibility. Whoever approached him with ducats was incontinently kicked out-of-doors, and if any pretty woman visited him with the intention of making her charms influence his judgments, he would treat her so unceremoniously that she was likely to think twice before visiting him again on a similar errand.

No sooner did Bordacsi perceive Mr. Meyer than he took off his spectacles and put them on the page of the document before him, so as not to lose his place; then he exclaimed, in an extraordinarily rough voice—

"Well, what's the matter, friend Meyer?"

Mr. Meyer was glad to hear the word "friend," but this was a mere form of expression with his Honour the Judge. He always said "friend" to lawyers' clerks, lackeys, and even to the parties to a suit whom it was his duty to tear to ribbons. Meyer, however, set forth his grievance quite confidently. He even sat down, though he had not been invited to do so, as he was wont to do in the bygone happy days when they were official colleagues together. It was Meyer's custom never to look those whom he was addressing in the face, which bashfulness deprived him, of course, of the advantage of being able to read from their countenances what impression he was making upon them. He was therefore greatly surprised when, on finishing his speech, his Honour Judge Bordacsi roared at him in the angriest of voices—

"And why do you tell me all this?"

Mr. Meyer's spirit suddenly grew cold within him; he could not answer a word, only his mouth moved weakly up and down, like the mouth of a puppet that you pull with a string.

"What!" cried Judge Bordacsi, with a still more violent exertion of his lungs, rushing upon his unfortunate client and fixing him with frightfully distended eyes.

In his terror the unfortunate man leaped from the seat in which he had sat down unasked, and murmured tearfully—

"I humbly beg your pardon. I came here for advice and—and protection."

"How? Do you imagine, sir, that I shall take your part?" bawled the judge, as if he were speaking to some one who was stone deaf.

"I fancied," stammered the unfortunate pater-familias, "that the old kindliness which you formerly showed to my house——"

Bordacsi did not let him finish. "Yes, your house! In those days your house was a respectable house, but now your house is a Sodom and Gomorrah which opens its doors wide to all the fools of the town. You have devoted your four girls to the bottomless pit, and you are a scandal to every pure-minded man. You are the corrupter of the youth of this city, and your name is a by-word throughout the kingdom wherever dissolute youths and outraged fathers are to be found."

Here Mr. Meyer burst into tears, and murmured something to the effect that he did not know anything about it.

"With what a handsome family did not God bless you! and, sir, you have made it the laughing-stock of the world. You have traded with the innocence, the love, and the spiritual welfare of your daughters; you have sold, you have bartered them away to the highest bidder; you have taught them that they must catch passers-by in the street with an ogle or a stare, that they must smile, laugh, and make love to men whom they see for the first time in their lives, that they must make money by lying!"

The wretched man was understood to say, amidst his sobs, that he had done none of these things.

"And now, sir, you have one daughter left, the last, the prettiest, the most charming of them all. When I used to visit at your house, sir, she was a little child no higher than my knee, whom every one loved, every one fondled. Don't you remember, sir? And now, sir, you would abandon her also. And you are angry, you storm and rave when a respectable person wants to save the unfortunate child from having her innocence corrupted, save her from withering away profitlessly in the claws of a pack of gross, rowdy, street-lounging, rake-hell young profligates, from living a life of wretchedness and shame, from dying abandoned and accursed, to say nothing of the fire of hell after death. And you even raise objections, sir! But, of course, I understand, they would be depriving you of a great treasure, of something you can sell at a high price, something that you can calculate upon making a handsome profit out of, eh?"

Meyer gnashed his teeth with rage and horror.

"Let me tell you, sir, if you are still able to follow good advice," continued the judge, in the same pitiless voice, "that if that respectable person, your kinswoman Teresa, is still willing to take charge of your daughter Fanny, surrender her unconditionally, renounce all your rights to her now and for evermore, for if you raise any further objections, if the matter comes before the courts, so help me God! I'll have you locked up myself."

"Where?" asked the terrified Meyer.

This question took the judge somewhat aback at first, but he soon found an answer.

"Where? Well, in the house of correction, in case the things that are done in your house, sir, are done with your knowledge and consent; and in a madhouse if they are done without your knowledge."

Mr. Meyer had got a sufficient answer at last; he took his leave and departed. He could scarce find the door by which he had entered, and he had to grope his way down to the street. The loafers there who saw him nudged each other with a grin and said, "That chap has had a good skinful somewhere!"

So he had to learn from others that he was not a respectable man; he had to learn from strange lips that people looked down upon him, laughed at, cursed him, sneered at him as the man who made money out of his daughters' love affairs, and whose house was a place where young men were corrupted.

And he had always fancied that he was the best man in the world, whose house was honoured and respected, and whose friendship was sought after!

In his confusion of mind he had wandered out of his way as far as the Malomligeti pond. What a nice pond! he thought. How many wicked girls could be suffocated there! A man, too, might easily leap into it, and be at rest! Then he turned back again and hastened home.

At home they were still chattering and exclaiming at the pretensions of Aunt Teresa. The youngest girl was passed from hand to hand, and kissed and embraced as if some great misfortune awaited her.

"Poor Fanny, it would be better for you to be a servant with us than to live with Aunt Teresa!"

"Oh, what a pleasant time you'll have, sewing and knitting all day long, and in the evening reading devotional books to aunty till she dozes off!"

"I know she will always be running us down; you will never see us, and we shall become quite strangers to you."