The Golden Age in Transylvania

"Yes, thither, thither."

He turned the bridle of his horse toward the forest before him and disappeared among the trees.

The storm raged, the trees creaked in the wind, the rain fell and the swollen streams roared. The horizon was surrounded by steep rocks and at their feet in a pathless valley a rider stumbled along, who from the heights above looked like a mere ant. May God be gracious to him in this storm, at night, in such a place! It is Gregyina-Drakuluj.

Before our eyes is a splendid Oriental apartment, hundreds of wax candles are lighted, but the ceiling is too high for their gleam to reach; two rows of columns support the heavy architrave, slender columns with the heads of animals for capitals, such as are found in Persian temples. The space between the columns is hung with bright draperies, the walls are covered with arabesques. This was the hidden apartment of the Devil's Garden, and the one who dwelt here, woman, fairy or demon, was Azraele. Here she shaped the future, made endless plans, dreamed of power and battles, and new countries in which she should be queen, of new stars in which she should be the sun.

Suddenly she heard a sound as if some one had ridden over the vaulted ceiling: steps were heard in the passage adjoining and there were three knocks at the door. She sprang hurriedly from her couch, drew the heavy bolts and pulled open the door. There stood Dionysius Banfy, sad, silent and dispirited, with no greeting for this beautiful woman. A shiver passed over him. It is true he wore a tiger-skin over his usual clothing, but the heavy rain had penetrated it.

"You are wet through," said Azraele. "Warm yourself quickly. Come here and rest."

With these words she drew Banfy to a sofa, took off his cloak and covered him with her own lined with fur, and placed a cushion under his feet. But Banfy was cold and silent. His misfortune seemed written on his face even to a less keen eye and to a mind more free from suspicion than Azraele's. It could not be concealed that his proud features no longer bore the stamp of the lord in power but of a fallen king, whose fall had been the lower since his height was great; who had not come because he wished to leave all that was dear to him but because he was left by everybody. Not for all the world would Azraele have shown that she noticed the change in Banfy's face. She tripped off like a doe and came back bearing a great silver tray of gold drinking cups.

"Not the gold ones, they do not break when you throw them at the wall. Let us have our wine in Venetian crystal." He seized the first glass and said in bitter scorn, "This glass to my friends!" He drank it off and hurled it in contempt to the wall where it was shattered to pieces.

At once he seized a second. "This second glass to my enemies!" and emptying the glass he hurled it with mad laughter into the air. It went almost to the ceiling and when it fell dropped on a cushion, and did not break.

"See, it mocks me still and is unbroken!" said Banfy, with blazing eyes.

Azraele sprang up, caught up the glass and crushed it under her feet.

Then Banfy took the third glass.

"This glass for Transylvania!" And he emptied it, but when he had taken it from his lips the smile died from his face and instead of hurling it at the wall he set it on the table. A cold shudder ran through his whole frame at the meaning of his own words, "This glass for Transylvania!" He did not take his hand from the glass but timorously attempted to raise it from the table, when the glass without visible cause cracked and fell into fragments in his hand. The diamond ring on his finger had scratched the glass and like all badly cooled crystal, it went to pieces at the slightest scratch. Banfy sprang back in terror as if he had seen an omen.

The girl took up his glass and with lips quivering with passion cried out, "And this glass for love!"

The words recalled Banfy from his bewilderment to the present surroundings.

"For me there is no love!"

"Your heart has been full of lofty plans. Fate had determined you to be the ruler of a country and perhaps the hero of half a world,—a man who should fill a page of history with his name."

"All that is past," said Banfy, "I am nobody and nothing!"

"Ah!" cried Azraele. "Have your enemies triumphed over you?"

"A curse upon their heads! I had sympathy and I fell."

"Is Csaki among them?"

"Yes, he pursues me most bitterly."

"And have all your faithful friends left you?"

"The fallen has no faithful friends."

"You could hire mercenaries and begin the fight. You certainly are rich enough for that."

"My wealth has gone!"

"You might get help from a foreign country."

"I have fallen, and know what is before me—I must die! Yet my enemies shall not have the triumph of making my death a festival and of laughing when I am pale with death. I will die alone!"

"I will show you something!" and with these words she drew aside the rug, lifted a trap-door and there was a low room, with thick short columns among which casks were ranged.

"True," said Banfy, "that is the powder I hid there after John Kemény's fall."

"See this long fuse," said Azraele, drawing forth a thick woolen cord connected with the casks; "while all is still here below and above is the roaring of the storm and your enemies, there shall come an earth-shaking thunder which shall send the rocks crashing against one another and carry word to heaven and hell that nobody need seek you here on earth!"

"Azraele, you are a demon!"

An hour later the hall was dark; no light was visible except a glow as of a fiery-eyed monster piercing the smoke, and a slowly creeping snake of fire which ran along the length of the room. Banfy slept for a long time then suddenly awakened. All was dark about him. His bewildered brain required some time to recall who he was and why he was there. He felt a cold breath of wind through the room and presently he discovered that the door was open and the outer air was pouring in. Gradually he recalled it all, and taking some coals from the fire lighted a wax candle. This single light was not sufficient to let him see through the entire room, but the first thing he saw was the fuse cut in two. Pierced through with the cold air he drew his cloak about him. A paper fell at his feet and taking it up he read the following words:

"My lord, you read hearts poorly. You have forfeited your power and when all had forsaken you you thought me alone faithful, who loved in you only your power. The man who rises I adore: I hate the falling. You should have taken Corsar Bey's fate for warning." . . . Banfy could not read it through. His face was darkened with shame to be so degraded.

"It is cowardice and disgrace for a man who has lived as I have to be willing to die this way; for a man who has always faced his enemy to hide himself away now in his last moments—shame on him! That I could forget the wife who freed me from my enemy's hands by the sacrifice of herself! It is not too late. I cannot save my life now but I can my pride. No one hereafter shall boast that he betrayed me. My enemies shall not say that I tried to hide from them and they found me. I will go boldly into their presence as I should have done at first."

With this decision Banfy went out into the hidden court where he had left his horse. To his surprise he found that it was not there; the odalisque had taken it. At that he could but smile.

"I should regret it very much if she had not stolen me too at the same time."

He went back into the hall, lighted again the fuse, came out again, closed the iron door and made his way along the bank of the Szamos. Toward noon he sat down on the bank to rest and had sat there hardly a quarter of an hour when he heard the sound of horses' hoofs approaching and looked up. The thicket concealed him and at the head of an armed band of men he saw Ladislaus Csaki and Azraele riding on one horse. The girl seemed to be pointing out something to him in the direction of the cliffs, at which the man was evidently delighted. Banfy smiled scornfully:—Poor Tartar! As soon as the band had passed Banfy continued on his way. Soon he met in the forest a poor peasant cutting wood.

"Do you know in which direction those armed men have gone?" he asked him.

"Yes, my lord, they have gone to seize Dionysius Banfy. A great price is set on his head."

"How much?"

"If a nobleman takes him, he is to receive an estate; if a peasant, two hundred ducats."

"That is not much though I suppose it will be enough for you. I am Dionysius Banfy."

The peasant took off his cap.

"Is there any place you wish me to guide you to, my lord?"

"Guide me to the place where they will pay you the two hundred ducats."

In another quarter of an hour a frightful explosion reëchoed in the mountains and made the earth quake for half a mile around. The enchanted hollow of Gregyina-Drakuluj was in inaccessible confusion.

Fortunately for Csaki he had delayed a little, otherwise he with his followers would have all been destroyed there. When he came back Banfy had already been arrested and he robbed of the glory of having captured his foe. He hurried at once to meet him and by way of exquisite revenge took with him the odalisque who looked at Banfy as coldly as if she had never seen him before. However, since Banfy had voluntarily surrendered himself, he had quite regained his former strength of spirit and looking down at Csaki, he said,

"So then, your Grace intends to wear my cast-off clothing from now on."

Azraele hissed like a snake whose tail had been stepped on, when she heard these words of biting scorn; while Csaki colored to his ears and forced a smile.

"Does your Excellency wish any favor from me?" asked Csaki, with insulting kindness.

"You have none to give and I have need of none. What I demand is that since I have appeared,—yes, even under arrest without knowing why, you shall now let my wife go free."

"So then at last you will go whimpering back to your wife?"

"That is not what I meant. I do not intend to go back to my wife; on the contrary I wish that as soon as I am led into prison she shall be set free from the same."

"It shall be as you wish, most gracious lord," replied Csaki, with ironical friendliness.

Banfy gave him an unutterably contemptuous glance, turned to one of the jailers present and began a conversation with him without giving any further heed to the grandee.

When Teleki learned of Banfy's arrest he ordered him brought to Bethlen castle at once. In Bethlen castle the provost of Klausenburg, Stephen Pataki, received him, at sight of whom Banfy jestingly asked:

"So you have been appointed my confessor, have you?"

Pataki wept, while Banfy smiled lightly. The Provost conducted Banfy up the steps, showing him the greatest respect. Deeply affected he remained standing at the threshold. In the room was a lady in mourning who at sight of him turned pale as death and leaned against the table unable to move. Banfy felt all the blood rushing to his heart. The next moment he rushed passionately to her and cried,

"My wife! Margaret!"

The lady, speechless, threw herself in her husband's arms and sobbed violently.

"They did not set you free?" asked Banfy, turning pale.

"Of my own accord I did not go," replied Margaret. "I could not leave you in the prison."

Tears gushed from Banfy's eyes. He sank down at her feet and covered her hands with kisses.

"So long as the world believed us happy we could avoid each other," said Margaret, with stifled voice. "Misfortune has brought us together again." . . .

She bent over to kiss her husband's brow; Banfy was completely overpowered; his feelings were all at once so mightily overcome that even his strong heart could bear no more.

CHAPTER XIX
THE JUDGMENT

Banfy stood indicted. The greater number of the counts were so unimportant that no answer needed to be brought against them. They did not dare to introduce among them his pretensions to the throne—that remained a secret indictment.

Banfy answered in manly fashion to every charge. It was in vain. Defend himself as he would those who had arrested him knew too well how great a wrong they had done him, now to let him live. The case came to a verdict and he was sentenced to death.

On the day that this happened nobody could gain access to the Prince except the confederates in this secret league, who with hasty, eager expressions went in and out of the Prince's apartments continually. Toward evening they succeeded in rousing the drunken Apafi to ratify the decision. This Prince usually so gentle, so kind-hearted, now poisoned with terror did not know himself.

Ever since noon saddled horses and carriages in waiting had been standing before the gate. Suddenly Ladislaus Csaki came hurrying out of the hall, concealing a paper in his pocket and calling for his horse; he mounted, motioned in silence to the lords following him and galloping off. The other lords too as if pursued, hurried into the carriages standing in a row before the palace, and taking leave of each other with mysterious whisperings, quickly fled so that the Prince in a few moments was left alone. Teleki was the last to leave him. The Prince accompanied this lord to the vestibule, his countenance showing deep sorrow; he could hardly let Teleki go. The latter withdrew his hand coldly from the Prince's.

"You need have no fancies about this, my lord. The principles of a country are concerned here, not a human life. If my own head stood in the way I should say cut it off and I say the same about the head of another."

And with that he went away.

Apafi did not stay in his room, he felt the need of fresh air. Within something threatened to choke him so oppressive was the air,—or was it his spirits? He went out into the vestibule. The cool night air soothed his bewildered spirits and the sight of the starry heavens was good to his clouded mind. Leaning against the balustrade he gazed in silence into the still night as if he expected that some star greater than all the rest would fall from Heaven, or that somebody miles away from him would cry out. Suddenly a cry did strike his ear. With a shudder he looked about but remained speechless in terror. His wife stood before him, whom his lord councillors had kept away from him for weeks by causing a division between the stupefied husband and the high-spirited wife. When the last grandee had withdrawn her loyal men had informed her that the Prince had signed the death sentence and the shocked wife, forcing her way through castle guards had rushed to her husband; now meeting him in the vestibule she hurried to him and in her excitement cried out:

"Accursed man, do not shed the blood of that innocent one!"

Apafi drew back timidly before his wife.

"What do you wish of me?" he asked, sullenly. "What are you saying?"

"You have signed Banfy's death sentence."

"I?" asked Apafi dully, and reached for his wife's hand.

"Away with your hand, the blood of my kinsman is on it!"

"You do not approve it? I did not wish it;" stammered Apafi. "The lords compelled me to it."

The Princess clasped her hands together and looked at her husband in despair.

"You have brought blood on our family, a curse on the country, a curse on me that I did not leave you to die in the hands of the Tartars. Even virtue becomes through you a crime!"

Apafi was contrite. In the presence of his wife all his spirit was gone.

"I did not want to kill him"—he stammered. "I do not now either—and if you wish I will grant him amnesty. Take my seal ring; send a rider to Bethlen after Csaki; show favor to your kinsman and leave me in peace."

The Princess called in a piercing voice, "Who is here?" Among the courtiers who hurried forward, the steward was the first.

"Take four of the Prince's racers," said Anna, meanwhile she wrote the pardon with her own hand, had her husband sign it and stamped it with the seal. "Take this letter and hurry with it to Bethlen castle. If the horse falls under you, take another. Do not delay a minute anywhere; a human life is in your hands."

The grooms led up the racers. The steward mounted one, fastening the rest by the bridle, and chased away.

At about the same hour, perhaps the same minute, Paul Beldi called out to his groom the order to mount the swiftest horse and ride to Bethlen and say to the castle warder that he would cut his head off if Banfy received the least harm at Bethlen. He too did not wish to meet his wife in this hour.

And perhaps in the same hour, perhaps in the same minute, Teleki pressed the hand of his future son-in-law Emerich Tököli, and whispered in his ear;—"We are one step nearer;" under the pressure of the youth's iron hand the betrothal ring that bound him to Teleki's daughter broke, and Teleki regarded it almost as a prophecy that the hand of the youth should be stronger than his.

All Transylvania was alarmed that night. Wolfgang Bethlen could not sleep in his bed the whole night through. Stephen Apor grew so uneasy that he had to make confession: Kornis became so confused on the familiar road home that he was compelled to spend the night under his carriage. And what took place in the heavens? About midnight a shower came up; such that the oldest inhabitant could not recall its like. The lightning set fire to forests and towers, and floods poured from the riven clouds. The alarm-bell sounded everywhere. God's judgment held sway that night. Almost the entire nation was sleepless. Only the reconciled husband and wife slept quietly and sweetly. At times the lady wept in her dreams; tears fell on her pillow; she dreamed of her happy bridal days or of the sweet moment when she laid her first child in her husband's arms. Her husband lay with calm countenance, at odds with the world but reconciled with himself—with the better half of his soul. The happiness which had fled from him in the palace sought him out in the prison. The hanging lamp threw its pale light on their sleeping forms. In this frightful night four single riders galloped separately toward Bethlen castle, hardly a thousand paces apart. By the lightning flashes they saw each other at times and each one struck spurs the harder to his horse. The first rider reached the castle gate and gave the signal with the horn; the drawbridge fell threateningly, the rider sprang into the courtyard and laid a letter in the hand of the warder who hurried forward. It was Paul Beldi's message.

The second rider who reached the castle, ordered the gate opened in the name of the Prince. He gave the castle warder a second paper. It was Ladislaus Csaki. The warder turned pale as he read this message.

"My lord," he faltered, "I have just received an order from Paul Beldi who threatens me with death if any harm happens to the prisoner."

"You have your choice," replied Csaki. "If you obey, it is possible that he will have your head cut off to-morrow. If you do not obey, I will kill you to-day." The warder trembled as he bowed.

"Raise the draw," ordered Csaki. "Let no one enter the castle without permission. Whoever acts contrary to my orders is a dead man."

Husband and wife slept peacefully. A minute later the door opened with a slight noise and Stephen Pataki entered, terror-stricken and with difficulty restraining his tears. He stepped up to Banfy to awaken him. As he touched his hand, Banfy, seeing Pataki who in his emotion could not speak, tried to rise without waking his wife but she opened her eyes at that very moment and Pataki, who did not wish her to know the terrible message, said in Latin:

"Rise, my lord, the death sentence is here."

Trembling at the speech in a foreign tongue whose meaning Pataki's face so ill concealed, Banfy's wife asked in terror what it meant.

"Nothing, nothing," said Banfy, with a tender smile, embracing his wife. "An urgent message that I must answer at once. I will return soon; lie down and sleep quietly."

With these words he laid his wife back in her pillows and kissed her tenderly several times, after each kiss saying:

"My soul, my love, my blessing, my Heaven."

Madame Banfy did not suspect that this was the parting kiss of a man on his way to death. He looked at her so smilingly, feigning joy in his countenance when he stood on the threshold of death.

At this moment the horn rang out before the castle gate. The messenger of the Princess had arrived and demanded admittance in the name of his Excellency. Csaki mounted the stairs in haste and just as Banfy had calmed his wife about his leaving, he pushed open the door suddenly and cried out,

"Why this long parting! Be ready! The sentence awaits its execution!"

At these words Madame Banfy sprang from her couch with a convulsive scream, reached both arms to her husband, looked at him for a moment in silence then laid her hands on her heart and sank back dead among the pillows.

Banfy looked at his foe with deadly bitterness; his veiled eyes seemed to Csaki to hurl forth more curses than any lips could have spoken.

"Miserable wretch!" he thundered at him, "who ordered you to kill my wife too?"

Csaki turned his head aside and called out harshly,

"Make haste, the time is short."

"Short for me but it will be long for you, for the time is coming when you will curse life and not die as peacefully as I do. Leave me alone. I wish to pray and I cannot call on God in the same room where you are."

Csaki went away, shocked in spite of himself.

Banfy put his hands to his brow and prayed.

Heavy thunder rolled through the Heavens.

"Oh God, who in thy anger dost thunder above, take my blood for my sins. Let no drop of it fall on the head of those who have shed it. Grant that my country may never expiate my death. Guard this poor land from every misfortune. Keep thy vengeance far from the head of this people and mid all perils be their shield. Forgive my enemies my death as I forgive them."

The thunder rolled terribly. God was angry. He did not wish to hear this prayer.

Banfy went back to his dead wife, kissed her white face for the last time and then went quietly to Csaki.

"I am ready."

After another quarter of an hour Csaki permitted the messenger to enter.

"What do you bring?" he asked the steward.

"The Prince's pardon for the prisoner."

"You have come too late."

The head of the highest noble of Transylvania had already fallen to the ground.

The tragedy comes to an end with the death of the hero. Other forms, other leaders, continue the course of events. The fate, the form, the history of Transylvania is changed. The sword-stroke that killed Banfy marked off an epoch. The ruling figure was buried in the earth of Bethlen chapel and no one inherited that spirit.

Only when misfortune threatens Transylvania, so says the chronicle,—to the terror of the people, to the astonishment of the world, the blood of the fallen patriot is wont to gush forth from this humble grave.

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"KITTY"

By "RITA"

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