Part 2
“Oh,” murmured a slender girl with fair hair and pale blue eyes, the happy bride of a fortnight, “I am firmly convinced that love is a stronger feeling than patriotism, nay, that no other can equal it in might. How many more human beings love has inspired to heroic deeds, nay, to self-sacrifice, than patriotism!” While thus declaiming in a sentimental tone, she cast at her husband, who was sitting by her side, a tender, languishing glance, which was probably intended to be an eloquent commentary on her words.
The enviable bridegroom did not entirely agree with the being of his choice, but thought that in youth love, in mature years, on the contrary, patriotism would exert the greater power.
“As for me,” quoth the doctor, a somewhat pedantic man, who, even at tea parties, can neither think nor speak except according to Aristotelian categories, “I think that here national and race characteristics have the strongest influence. The cold Northerner can be roused to more intense enthusiasm by the abstract idea of the native land than the hot-blooded Southron, who would be fired more speedily by a creature of flesh and blood. The German stock of the Swiss Alemanni could produce a Winkelried, but the Indian who, for love of the invalid daughter of the Spanish governor, betrayed the secret of the chinchona tree, known only to the native, and thereby broke the power of the fever, which was on the point of ridding America of the foreign oppressor, was a Southerner, and more accessible to the suggestions of love than to those of patriotism. A Swede or an Englishman may be able to sacrifice more for his native land than for the woman whom he loves, but I doubt if this is true of a Spaniard or an Italian.”
The most noticeable woman in our circle was Frau von G. She was a somewhat stout but remarkably well-preserved person, whose forty years would scarcely be noticed even by an eye which did not look through the glasses of gallantry. Shining black hair framed a face of noble mould; sparkling black eyes, a classically moulded nose, a delicately curved upper lip, slightly shaded by an almost imperceptible velvety down, and a full, firm, round chin, combined with a delicate brunette complexion to produce a countenance whose Southern type was unmistakable. Had not her appearance and manner betrayed it, her accent would have revealed that she was a foreigner.
Frau von G. had listened silently and attentively, but the doctor’s last remark called a smile to her lips, and induced her to mingle in the conversation.
“I cannot fully assent to what you have just said of the Spaniards and Italians, Doctor,” she remarked. “If you will allow me, I’ll relate a little episode from my own life which will prove that, under certain circumstances, patriotism can influence even an Italian more powerfully than love.”
The interest with which every face turned toward the fair speaker contained the most flattering invitation to tell her story.
“You know that I am a native of Milan, and did not leave my birthplace until ten years ago, when my husband’s business summoned him here. I was a girl of eighteen when the insurrection in Lombardy was quelled. Marshal Radetzky entered Milan at the head of a victorious army, the ‘sword of Italy’ was broken, and every patriot, with bleeding heart, was forced to renounce the hopes which he had seen on the verge of realization. Oh, you who have not experienced those days can have no idea of their sorrow and discouragement. The state of siege, to which city and country were condemned, exerted a disturbing influence upon every detail of our daily lives. We avoided the Scala, for there we beheld the hateful spectacle of two soldiers, standing with their guns in the proscenium at the right and left of the stage, and constantly reminding us of the humiliation and misfortune of our native land; we omitted our usual walks on the Corso, for there we were continually insulted by Austrian officers. Every family was restricted to its own circle. We lived within our own four walls, and you can scarcely imagine how much weariness and melancholy this means to us Italians.
“During this terrible period I made the acquaintance of Albert v. G., who afterwards became my husband. He was my brother’s classmate at college, and afterward, like him, became an engineer. Albert was handsome and agreeable, and his visits were doubly welcome in that dull, wearisome time. That I was not indifferent to him, I soon discovered. At first he came with my brother, and left the house with him. Later he came alone, but soon went away if he was not at home. Finally, he became our daily guest, and as my parents, too, did not object to his visits, he remained longer and longer with me, and at last entertained me for hours with his clever, pleasant chat.
“We were very well acquainted and already on familiar terms, when one day—he had been sitting all the morning reading aloud to me—he suddenly asked permission to light a cigar.
“‘What,’ I exclaimed, almost terrified, ‘are you a smoker, Albert?’
“You must know that at that time I had a great aversion to men who smoked. I could not praise my brother enough for not having acquired the unpleasant habit, and declared a hundred times that I would rather endure anything than to kiss a man who sullied his lips with the disagreeable weed.
“Until then I had not known that Albert was a smoker, for, of course, there was no smoking in my drawing-room, and I had no opportunity to discover his vice elsewhere.
“The vehemence of my question confused him.
“‘Yes, I smoke,’ he answered hesitatingly, ‘but what is there extraordinary about that?’
“‘True,’ I cried, ‘unfortunately there is nothing extraordinary about it, but I will tell you this that I will never marry a man who takes a cigar into his mouth. I cannot endure such a person, he is utterly detestable in my eyes.’
“Albert looked at me in surprise, but said nothing and merely slipped the cigar he had already taken out back into his pocket. Then he remained with me a short time in a depressed, silent mood, and soon took his leave.
“The next day he came again and tried to assume a cheerful, unembarrassed manner. Without any introduction he seized the first opportunity to turn the conversation upon smoking, and said jestingly that yesterday he had been fairly frightened out of his wits, probably I did not mean what I said so seriously, he hoped I should become accustomed to his habit, etc. But I understood no jesting on this subject, and again, with the utmost earnestness, protested that I could not endure a man who smoked and never would accustom myself to the habit. On the contrary, I expected that a man who loved me would make the sacrifice of renouncing the unpleasant vice.
“My avowal threw Albert into a state of melancholy, which would now seem to me very comical, but then grieved me to the heart. He was very sorrowful, and left me with the air of a most miserable man. From that time his cheerfulness deserted him, he sighed constantly in the most heartrending manner, and his eyes always had a sorrowful expression. This mood lasted about a week and caused me much suffering, but I could not and would not change it; Albert must give up smoking, or we would separate.
“One day my brother came to me, and took me to task for my folly. Albert was stealing about like a shadow, and no longer dared to visit me; I ought not to torment him any longer with my foolish obstinacy, but, in Heaven’s name, let him have his cigar; he had already made the attempt to give up smoking, but the habit was stronger than his will, and he would really fall sick from it. Here I could no longer refrain from interrupting him bitterly: ‘So I am to have a husband who is not strong enough to give up a ridiculous habit? If he loves me he must do it for my sake; now I really insist upon it, for I shall see in it a test of his love.’
“My brother scolded and raged, but all was useless, and I clung to my resolve. I should weary you if I were to tell you all the details of this quarrel, whose memory has a peculiar charm for me. Suffice it to say that at last Albert came to me, and, with tears in his eyes, begged me not to be cruel any longer, and, as usually happens, I wept, too, and said: ‘Very well, I will show you that my love is stronger than yours. You would not give up your habit for my sake, I will try, for yours, to conquer my repugnance.’
“Shortly after we were married Alfred smoked as before. In spite of his cigars I felt very, very happy with him, and had entirely forgotten the sorrowful weeks of sulking, when I was reminded of it in a very peculiar way.
“We had been wedded about six months when I noticed, one evening, that Albert did not light a cigar after supper, as usual. I secretly wondered, but thought it mere accident. The next day there was the same abstinence, which I remarked, and which engaged my attention completely. When, on the third evening, it was repeated, I was extremely curious and much excited. ‘What,’ I thought, ‘is Albert voluntarily making the sacrifice for the wife which he would not yield to the entreaties of the betrothed bride?’ My heart exulted over this proof of love, and I considered myself—don’t laugh—the happiest of mortals. I set about a careful inspection and made the most delightful discoveries. The cigar box on Albert’s desk was empty; his beautiful amber mouthpiece, which he usually had with him, lay on some papers as a paper-weight—there was no doubt of it, Albert had given up smoking.
“I could no longer help expressing my joy. ‘Albert,’ I said one evening, ‘you are an angel, you not only relinquish smoking for my sake, but you are too delicate to say a single word about it, or to betray, by the slightest sign, what a painful effort it costs you.’ While speaking, I embraced and kissed him with genuine enthusiasm.
“But, to my great astonishment, this outburst of tenderness embarrassed him. He escaped from my arms and lowered his eyes before my questioning gaze. After a sorrowful pause, he said at last, in a hesitating, uncertain voice: ‘My sweet, little wife, I might play the part of being generous and self-sacrificing, but I think it is more manly to confess the truth. So learn that I have not given up my cigar for your sake, but—for that of my native land! You know that the tobacco monopoly has been introduced by the Austrian government; we have now agreed that every patriot will give up smoking, in order, so far as lies in his power, to lessen the receipts of the treasury. This may seem to you trivial, but we must deal the foe needle-pricks, if we cannot attack him with the sword.’
“To tell you the truth, I sulked for several days; but at last I considered the matter, and resolved to show that an Italian woman can be no less patriotic than an Italian man. I forgave my husband, and even praised him for his resolution, which I could not help thinking heroic. ‘The idea that you love anything better than you do me,’ I said to him, ‘becomes endurable only by remembering that this something is—our native land.’
“So you see,” added Frau von G., as she concluded her story, turning to the doctor with a smile, “that, even in an Italian, patriotism is more powerful than love, and the hot-blooded Italian sacrificed to the abstract idea of his native land the cigar which he had not been willing to give up for the sake of a creature of flesh and blood.”
MEMORIES OF HUNGARY.
I.
ALT HADJI EFFENDI.
The inhabitants of Pesth are very ungrateful people. Venice bestowed a thousand ducats upon a poet who glorified the splendor of the city of the Doges in two mediocre distiches; Rome gladdened her historian, Gregorovius, with the offer of publishing his work at her own expense; even Belgrade knew how to honor Laboulaye, because he had written a few friendly essays about the metropolis of Servia; the people of Pesth alone did nothing for a writer who had striven unweariedly to bring the beauties of the Hungarian capital near the distant East in the most musical Persian ghasels and quatrains. He lived in their midst, the enthusiastic bard of their renown, but no one troubled himself about poor Ali Hadji Effendi, and the only attention which the authorities showed him consisted in having him occasionally locked up by the policemen for unauthorized peddling.
Worthy Ali Hadji Effendi was not blessed with worldly goods; for reasons which Schiller has explained in his “Division of the Earth,” he had not succeeded in obtaining a place in the temple service of the golden calf, and since, in consequence of the defective school system of Hungary, the Persian language is still far too little diffused among the people of Pesth for him to hope to be able to maintain himself respectably by the sale of his poems, he had determined to carry on a little retail business, whose flourishing development was often checked by an act of official rigor.
He was an interesting figure, this slender, black-bearded, dreamy-eyed, sunburnt Oriental, who, years ago, established his perambulating wares, sometimes on one street corner of Pesth, sometimes on another and with quiet satisfaction awaited purchasers behind them. A dense throng of school children, maid-servants, and apprentices constantly surrounded him, eyeing with great interest the treasures he displayed. Real glass diamonds glittered in polished brass rings, Turkish and Christian rosaries of amber and coral lay side by side in a tolerance worthy of imitation, small knives, toothpicks, and needle-books completed the stock of wares, with the exception of one evidently unpurchasable show-piece, an exquisitely wrought halberd—which he had to show. Customers were allowed to rummage among the articles at will, and only when some boy, with insolvency written upon his—nose, created too much disorder, did Ali raise his voice, ordering him, in deep, guttural tones, to desist from his mischief. He could support his Persian words with such expressive gestures of the hands that even the most ignorant cobbler’s apprentice instantly understood them.
How had Ali Hadji Effendi come to Pesth? The question is not difficult to answer. In the Mohammedan world there is an order of dervishes whose members have all taken upon themselves the vow of a life of constant wandering. The adherents of this order are called Hadjis. The Hadji has no home, or rather his home is the great world of Islam. And Islam never gives up a province which it has once possessed. So, as kings bear the title of provinces which their forefathers lost centuries ago, Islam regards as its own countries where, for a long time, no mosque has raised its slender minaret and airy dome toward the sky. As the seas of former geological periods have everywhere left their shell fish, which are now found on lofty mountain peaks in the midst of continents, the Turkish flood which submerged Europe a century and a half ago has also, after subsiding, everywhere left a trace, the grave of a Mohammedan saint. Ofen cherishes the resting-place of such a saint; Gül Baba, the Father of Roses, sleeps his eternal sleep there, and an ancient, half ruined mosque, which rises above his grave, is the last monument in this neighborhood of the former greatness and power of the Turkish Empire. From the frontiers of China, from India to the Ofner Mountains, stretches an unbroken chain of the graves of saints, and many formerly in Mohammedan soil are now surrounded by unbelievers. But an army of Hadjis is constantly in motion, passing from one saint’s grave to another, and there is no resting-place of a pious Moslem so remote, or so hidden, that some Hadjis do not annually visit it, to throw themselves upon their faces, murmur proverbs from the Koran, humbly praise the goodness and wisdom of Allah, and then continue their aimless pilgrimage. The Orientals have the devout belief that the dead whose graves are now in the land of the infidels would throw themselves over the bridge of hell, in sheer anguish, if they should learn that the crescent had been driven from these regions. Therefore, from time to time, Moslems must visit these graves, in order to maintain their belief that everything remained as it was during their lives, and that the crescent still shone with undimmed radiance.
The Hadjis do not beg; in the sunny lands of the East, where the sky and the earth provide for the poor as loving parents care for their infant children, where the shade of the roof above a well, or of a mosque, affords hospitable shelter, and the fig tree by the wayside sweet food, they can spend the whole day in pious, contemplative idleness, but when they enter the inhospitable country of the Giaours, where the sky is as harsh as the manners of the people, and the prison is the only place which affords shelter gratis, they carry on a trade in all sorts of trifles, and thus obtain the means to satisfy their few needs.
Ali Hadji Effendi was one of these wandering dervishes; he had seen many lands and peoples; had washed the dust of the roads from his feet in the rivers of three-quarters of the globe; he had listened to the dashing of the Ganges, the Euphrates, the Nile, and the Danube, and was versed in the languages of all the nations that dwell in the wide region between the Himalaya and the Caucasus. In his Persian home he had been renowned as a poet, and the street singers still chant his love songs in the squares of Bagdad. One spring, in his journeying, he came to Pesth, where he instantly sought out several well-known Orientalists—Vámbéry, Goldziher, and others—and asked them to write in Persian characters the Hungarian words which would be indispensable for daily use, for instance, reckoning, the names of coins, of his goods, etc.
It would scarcely be believed that the Persian dervish knew the Pesth Orientalists, yet it was so. Somewhere in Roumelia, at the foot of the Balkans, or still farther away in Anatolia, a Hadji journeying westward meets such men on their way to the East. They sit silently side by side on the divan or the rush-mat, their fingers play with the beads of the rosary, and their lips softly murmur passages from the Koran. Suddenly one raises his voice and says: “Brother! You are going toward the West, to the land of the unbelievers. If you reach the city of the Magyars, Pesth, go to the great palace on the bank of the Danube. It is called the Academy. Mention the names of Vámbéry and Goldziher Effendi, and you will be taken to men who fear God and are kind to strangers.” The other answers: “Brother, you are directing your steps eastward and will reach Benares. Walk through the bazaar there, and where you see the shop of a dealer in weapons, between two silk merchants, enter and greet him; you will be well treated.” So the Hadjis bear the fame of hospitable men to distant quarters of the world, and wherever they meet one another they exchange addresses.
Ali Hadji Effendi was soon at home in Pesth. What great trouble was necessary for the purpose? His patrons obtained from the authorities permission for him to remain, and he could pursue his business. Every morning he came from his night quarters with his wares, and wandered through the streets. Wherever he found shade and a clean spot he unfolded his rug, sat down with crossed legs, arranged his goods, and, with Oriental patience, awaited customers. Nothing could disturb his equanimity. If the children teased him, he smilingly shook his finger at them. To a boy who once thrust a pin through his turban from behind, he addressed a very edifying and moral lecture in the Persian language, summing up the instruction at the close in the two words “Nem szip” (not right), which he uttered with a grave shake of the head. He could not be roused to anger; it was impossible to irritate him.
If a soldier came, who wanted to give his sweetheart, usually one of the Slavonic race, a surprise, and wished to buy a brass ring with glass, or even a silver one, set with turquoise, Ali waited quietly till he had selected something, and then named the price, about twenty-three kreuzers. The purchaser, usually in a shout, as if the Persian could understand German better if spoken in a loud than in a low tone, made his offer, but Ali did not say another word and would not have accepted twenty-two kreuzers and a half for the ring. Not until the sum which he had named was paid in full did he deliver the article and receive the money, which, without counting, he thrust into his belt. He never allowed any haggling, this was a principle of his business, and it may readily be supposed that, under such circumstances, his receipts were not large from customers who mainly belonged to the servant class.
If he thought he had made enough, or if the time seemed long, he spread an old piece of sack cloth over his wares and lay down on his carpet to sleep. He had no fear of thieves, and the kindness and honesty of the public had never disappointed him. Often, too, the poetic inspiration seized him, and then he drew from his girdle a small yellow book and wrote Persian verses in it. If, at such a time, customers attempted to interrupt him, he waved them off with a gesture of the hand, and remained for hours utterly oblivious of his surroundings. When the poem was finally finished, he beckoned to the bystanders until they formed a dense circle around him, and declaimed his verse in a half song. His ears feasted on the melody of his own creation. In the zeal of reading aloud he rose, his eyes flashed, his voice trembled, he explained single verses, described to his listeners the beauty of an image, the wit of a turn of speech, and when he had finished and his glance wandered over the spectators, who were staring at him in astonishment, he smilingly protested, “Szip, szip!” (Fine, fine!), pointing to the little book with his finger.
On the very first day of his sojourn in Pesth he composed a ghasel of four lines, a literal translation of which would run as follows:
“O city on the Danube, home of men with open hand, Thy loins the river girdles like unto a silver band, Thy head the mountains, diadem of emerald green, doth grace, Alas, that the crescent from thee must now avert its face.”
One day a hard-hearted policeman arrested him and drove him to the town-hall. There he cleared himself and was released in a few hours. He avenged himself on the rude fellow with the following sarcastic ghasel:
“As the laden camel through the streets of Samarcand men drive, So here, mistaking a command, to urge me on they strive. The armed policeman, swearing, doth press me toward the gaol, Yet he, too, is also driven: for folly drives his soul.”
Daily he composed a song in praise of the city of Pesth and of Hungary. He described the beauty of the Ofner Mountains, the majesty of the giant river, the splendor of the palatial buildings, the proud men, the fair women; and when he had a series of ghasels he went to his patrons and read them aloud to them. Often, too, he carried his goods home at midday and paid a visit to Vámbéry or Goldziher. Removing his slippers outside the door, he silently entered the room, mutely greeted the occupant by touching his brow, lips, and breast with his hand, then went to the book-case, took from the place he knew so well the heroic verse of Firdusi, the divine poems of Hâfiz, or the mocking ones of Omar Khayyám, sat down on the floor with crossed legs, read the Persian writers for an hour, then closed the volume, restored it to its place and, with another silent greeting, went away.
Thus one whole summer passed, autumn came, the leaves began to fall from the trees, and the swallows were preparing to depart. Our Hadji Ali Effendi soon felt too cold in his blue calico caftan, and one day he was no longer seen in the streets of Pesth.