Hungarian Heritage Review, 1985 (14. évfolyam, 12. szám)
1985-12-01 / 12. szám
18 HUNGARIAN HERITAGE REVIEW DECEMBER 1985 the honor of the next quadrille! Unfortunately, I was engaged. What would I not have given at that moment had a courier entered to call away my dancer! “Perhaps the next one?” said the Captain, seating himself beside me. I do not know what I said, or whether I replied at all; I only know I felt as I do when flying in a dream. “But you will forget, perhaps, that you promised me?” he continued. Had I not suddenly recollected myself, I should probably have told him that sooner could I forget my existence. However, I only replied in a very indifferent tone that I should not forget. “But you do not know me!” A country simpleton would have answered, in my place, “Among a hundred—among thousands! At the first glance!” Not I! As if I were doing the simplest thing in the world, I took a single rosebud from my breast and gave it to him. “I shall know you by this,” I said, without betraying the slightest agitation. The Captain silently pressed the rose to his lips. I did not look, but I knew it. I would not have encountered his eyes at that moment for all the world. He then left me and sat down under a mirror opposite. He did not dance, and seemed absorbed in his own reflections. Meanwhile, two Czardas and a Polonaise were danced, after which our quadrille would come. You may conceive how long the time appeared. These eternal három a tanczes seemed absolutely to have no end. I never saw people dance so furiously, and although it was the third night since they had slept, nothing would tire them out. However, I amused myself pretty well by making the acquaintance of the Commander of the Battalion, Major Sch------, who is a most diverting person. His name is German, and though he speaks Hungarian shockingly, he will always speak it, even if he is addressed in German or French. Then he is most dreadfully deaf, and accustomed to such loud-toned conversation one would think the cannon were conversing together. They say he is a very gallant soldier, but his appearance is not prepossessing—uncouth, grotesque figure, with a long thin face, shortcut hair, and a grisly beard which is not at all becoming. But the most amusing thing was that when I spoke he did not hear; and when he spoke I did not understand. He brought me over a box of bonbons—and I complained of the badness of confectionery in our town. He probably supposed from my grimace that somebody had offended me at the ball, and answered something from which—by the gesture which accompanied it—I could only infer that he intended cutting the offender to pieces; unless, indeed, what others would express under such circumstances may be the common gesticulation of men who live in war. At last my quadrille came. The band played the symphony, and the dancers hastened to seek their partners. My heart almost burst from my dress when I saw my dancer approach and, bowing low, press the little flower to his heart. I fear my hand trembled as he took it in his, but I only smiled and made some observation about the music. “Ah, you are carrying off my neighbor,” cried the Major, laughing, with one of his annihilating gesticulations. As we joined the columns, somebody whispered behind us, “What a well-matched couple!” Ah, lima, how happy I was! I felt, as we stood there hand in hand, as if his blood were flowing into mine and mine into his! We waited for the music, but before it could begin, the noise of horses’ feet was heard galloping up the street and, at the same time, several cannon were fired at a distance, which made all the windows rattle. Suddenly an officer entered the ball-room with his csako on his head, and covered with mud, and announced that the enemy had attacked the outposts. The Major had heard the cannon, and read from the courier’s face what he could not understand from his words. “Ah, that’s right,” he exclaimed clapping his hands, and again those fearful gestures by which people express killing. “We were only waiting for them, Messieurs; we must ask our ladies for a few moments’ leave—just a few moments, Mesdames! We shall return immediately, and meantime you can rest.” As he hastened to put on his sword, all the other officers ran to get theirs, and I saw the gay, courtly, flattering expression suddenly change to angry, fierce, threatening countenances, but one and all seemed eager to start, as if they had expected it all along. My dancer, too, forsook me to look for his sword and czako. His step was the firmest, his eye the keenest of all; if I had hitherto felt happiness—more the happiness—in looking at him, admiration, enthusiasm, now filled my breast. As he buckled on his sword a strange fever seemed to burn in all my veins; I could have wished to be in battle with him, to ride beside him, and dash with him into the midst of the enemy! He still had my rose in his hand and as he took up his csako, he placed it beside the cockade, and then he turned back as if he sought something through the crowd. Our eyes met—he hastened away, and the ball-room was empty. Meanwhile, we remained alone as if nothing had happened. The Major had given orders that none should leave the room before his return. It was the longest hour I ever spent. Many of us stood at the windows, listening to the cannon, and trying to guess the result, as they sounded nearer, now more distant. None judged it advisable to go home, as the combat might have ended in the streets, and they thought better to await the decision where we were. Ere long the sounds began to recede further and further, till at last they ceased entirely. The civilians concluded by this that the National Guards had gained the victory. They were right. In less than a quarter of an hour we heard them return with great noise and clatter. And the officers entered the room gayly, as if nothing had happened. Many of them wiped something from their dress—perhaps mud or blood—and each hastened to find his partner. “Where did we leave off?” cried one. “At the quadrille,” replied several at once, and began arranging the columns as if they had just come out of the supper room. My dancer and the Major were alone absent! In vain my eyes were fixed on the door. Every instant some one entered, but not the one I sought. At last the Major appeared. He looked around and when he saw me, immediately approached, and, making a grotesque bow, without waiting for me to speak, “Fair lady,” he said, “your dancer entreats your pardon for this breach of politeness, but he is unable with the best will to enjoy the happiness of dancing the Francaise with you, having been shot through the leg, which must be amputated above the knee.” Oh, Ilma! I shall never dance a quadrille again! I am very ill! I am overwhelmed by despair!
