The yellow rose

CHAPTER XI.

It was a hot sultry afternoon when he started, the sky was the colour of buttermilk, and the air charged with moisture. The play of the mirage seemed specially fantastic. Not a bird sang overhead, but all sank nestling in the grass. On the other hand the swarms of horse-flies, gad-flies, and midges appeared more wickedly inclined than ever, and the horse could only get along slowly, having to drive off the blood-thirsty torments, now with its hind-foot, now with its head. Still it never missed the path though the bridle lay slack between the csikós' fingers. Man too feels the approach of a storm.

Suddenly, as they reached that substantial triumph of Scythian architecture—the Hortobágy bridge—the csikós started.

"No, no!" he cried. "Here we can't go, old fellow. You know how I swore by the starry heavens never to cross that bridge again."

But never to ford the Hortobágy river was not included in his oath.

So he turned down below the mill, and where the water widens into the shallows, waded easily across. The horse had to swim a little, but the herdsman took no heed of that; his fringed linen trousers would soon dry in the hot sunshine.

Then he trotted on to the Hortobágy inn. Here the horse tried to go at a brisker pace, whinnying joyously the while. A glad neigh answered it, for there, tied up to an acacia, stood its comrade—the white-faced bay.

Properly speaking, the Hortobágy inn has no courtyard, for the wide grassy expanse fronting house, stable, and sheds is without fence of any sort. Still it serves as such. A table is put there, and two long benches where the customers sit tippling under the trees.

The csikós sprang from his horse, and tied it up to the other acacia, not that same tree to which the white-faced bay was tethered.

A couple of long-eared steeds were also meditating in the shade of the garden paling, stretching out their necks for the overhanging sprays of barberry, just out of their reach. Their riders were seated at the table, under the acacia, with their fur-lined "bundas" slung over their shoulders, inside out, despite the sweltering weather. In fact, they wore them for shade. As they tippled away, drinking cheap acid stuff out of green glasses, they hummed an endless shepherd's song, monotonous and wearisome. Both were shepherds, whose steed is the donkey.

Sándor Decsi sat down at the further end of the bench, placed his cudgel on the table, and studied the glittering clouds looming heavy on the horizon, and the dark rim of earth beneath. A great yellow pillar rose swirling in one quarter—the whirlwind. Meanwhile the shepherds sang:

This was too much for the csikós to stand.

"See, that's enough, Pista!" he snapped. "For goodness' sake stop that doleful ditty, and get on your grey donkey and trundle after your flock before you're too tipsy to move."

"Dear, dear! Sándor Decsi does seem upset to-day!"

"I'll upset you worse if you try aggravating me!" said the csikós, and rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbows. Now he was "ready" for anyone who crossed his path.

The shepherds whispered. Well they knew the puszta rule that when a csikós sits at a table a shepherd may only squat down there with his express permission. If he says, "Get out!" why then the shepherd has to go.

One of them rapped on the table with the bottom of his glass.

"We had better pay, the storm is coming."

The innkeeper's daughter came out at the sound. She made as if she did not see the csikós at all, but attended to the two shepherds, counted up the wine, gave them back the change out of their "dog-tongues," and wiped the table where wine had been spilled. They mounted their donkeys, and being once more in full security, rattled on with their song defiantly:

Only when they had quite taken themselves off did the girl address the csikós.

"Well, haven't you even 'good-day' for me, my dearest treasure?"

"Sándor Decsi is my name," growled the herdsman savagely.

"I beg your honour's pardon! Won't you please step into the tap-room, sir?"

"Thanks! I'm well enough out here."

"There you would find fitting society."

"So I see by the horse. He'll come out to me soon enough."

"Well, what can I bring you? Red wine? White wine?"

"No, I won't drink wine," said the csikós. "Bring me bottled beer."

Bottled beer cannot be poisoned. Once the cork is drawn it all froths out.

The girl understood the insinuation. Crushing down the bitterness in her heart she soon returned with a bottle, which she placed before the lad.

"What is this?" he cried. "Am I a cobbler's apprentice, to have one bottle brought me?"

"Very well, sir. Please don't be angry. I'll bring more directly."

This time she came back with a whole bundle, and set all six in a row before him.

"That is better," said he.

"Shall I draw the cork?"

"Thanks! I can do it myself."

He took the first bottle, broke off the neck against the edge of the table, and poured the foaming beer into the tall glass beside him. It costs more like this, because the broken bottle has to be paid for; but then, "a gentleman is always the gentleman."

The girl moved off airily, shaking her sides flippantly as she went. Her golden ear-rings tinkled. Her hair was down again, no longer twisted round the comb, and the ribbon ends fluttered coquettishly behind her. "As thou to me. So I to thee."

The csikós sat quietly drinking his beer, and the girl sang on the verandah:

At the fourth line the door was shut with a bang.

By the time she reappeared again, three empty broken-necked bottles stood on the table. Klári took them, picking up the broken bits of glass into her apron.

After the third bottle, the lad's humour had changed, and as the girl fussed round him, he suddenly slipped his arm round her waist.

She made no demur on her part.

"Well, may one call you 'Sándor' again?" she asked.

"You always could. What did you want to say?"

"Did you ask anything?"

"Why are your eyes so red?"

"Because I am so happy. I have a suitor."

"Who?"

"The old innkeeper at Vervölgy. He is a widower with lots of money."

"Shall you accept him?"

"Why not, if they take me to him? Let me go!"

"You lie, lie! You cover up your lying, and so lie worse than ever!" cried the lad.

He removed his hand from the girl's waist.

"Will you drink more?" she asked.

"Why not?"

"But you'll get fuddled from so much beer."

"Much need of it too to quench the fire burning in me. See you give the one in there plenty of strong wine. Heat him up with it, so that we may match each other."

But she took good care not to tell "the one inside" "about the other" out here.

The csikós took the matter into his own hands. He began to sing, selecting the mocking air with which they are wont to tease the cowherds:

Well thought! Hardly was the verse at an end before out came his man. In one hand he carried his bottle of red wine, with the tumbler turned over the top, in the other his cudgel. Setting down his wine opposite the csikós, he next laid his cudgel beside the other one, and then took his seat at the table exactly facing the other lad.

They neither shook hands nor spoke a word of greeting. Each gave a silent nod, like two between whom speech is unnecessary.

"So you are back from your journey, comrade?" asked the csikós.

"I'll be off again directly if I have the mind."

"To Moravia?"

"Yes, if I don't change my plans."

They both drank. After a pause the csikós began again.

"Are you taking a wife with you this time?"

"Where should I get a wife?"

"I'll tell you. —— take your own mother!"

"She wouldn't give up being a Debreczin market-woman for the whole of Moravia!"

They both drank again.

"Well, have you bidden your mother farewell?" asked the csikós.

"I have bidden her farewell."

"And squared all your accounts with the overseer?"

"Certainly."

"You owe nobody anything?"

"What extraordinary questions you do ask to be sure!" exclaimed the cowboy.

"No, I am not in debt, even to the priest. What does it matter to you?"

The csikós shook his head, and broke the neck of another bottle. He wished to fill his friend's glass, but the cowboy placed his hand over it.

"You won't drink my beer?"

"I'm keeping to the rule. Wine on beer—never fear. Beer on wine—no time."

The csikós poured himself out the whole bottle, and then began to moralise (the not unfrequent result of beer-drinking).

"See, comrade," he said, "there is no uglier sin in the world than lying. I once lied myself, though not in my own defence, and it has oppressed my soul ever since. Lying does well enough for shepherds, but not for lads on horseback. The first shepherd of all was a liar. Jacob, the patriarch, lied when he deceived his own father, making his hands rough like Esau's. So little wonder if his followers, who keep flocks, should live by lies. It may suit a shepherd, but it is not for a cowboy."

The cowherd went into roars of laughter.

"I say, Sándor, what a good parson you would make! You can preach as well as the Whit-Sunday probationer at Balmaz Újváros."

"Yes? Well, comrade, maybe you would not mind my turning out a good preacher, but if I turned out a good lawyer, you might care more. So you say you don't owe a crooked kreuzer to any human being?"

"Not to any human soul."

"Without lying?"

"No need for it."

"Then what is this? This long paper? Do you recognise it?"

The csikós pulled out the bill from his pocket, and held it before his companion's nose.

The cowboy turned suddenly crimson with anger and shame.

"How did that come into your hands?" he demanded angrily, and springing from his seat.

"Honestly enough. Sit down, comrade," said the csikós. "I am not asking any questions, only preaching. The good man who got this bill instead of money came to our place not long ago to buy horses. He paid with a bill of exchange, and when I asked what it meant, explained, mentioned that you knew the use of a bill, and then showed me your writing, complaining bitterly that there was some omission, that it was only made payable on the Hortobágy, and that the Hortobágy is a wide word. So now I have brought you the bill for you to correct the mistake. Don't let a horse-cooper say that a Hortobágy cowboy cheated him! Fill in the line, 'Payable on the Hortobágy, in the inn courtyard.'"

The csikós spoke so mildly that he entirely misled his companion. He began to think that after all nothing was called into question here but the honour of csikós and cowboys.

"All right, I will do as you wish," he said.

They rapped on the table, and Klárika came out (she had been lurking near the door). Great was her surprise when, instead of witnessing a bloody encounter, she beheld the two young men conferring peaceably together.

"Fetch us pen and ink, Klári, dear," they said.

So she brought writing materials from the town commissioner's room. Then she looked on to see what would be done.

The csikós showed the paper to the cowherd, pointing with his finger where, and dictating what to write.

"'Payable on the Hortobágy,' so much is written already, now add, 'in the inn courtyard.'"

"Why in the courtyard?" inquired the cowboy.

"Because—because it can't be otherwise."

Meanwhile the storm was nearing rapidly. A hot wind preceded the tempest, covering earth and sky with yellowish clouds of dust. Birds of prey hovered shrieking over the Hortobágy, while flocks of swallows and sparrows hurried under the shelter of the eaves. A loud roar swept over the puszta.

"Won't you come indoors?" urged the girl.

"No, no, we can't," answered the csikós, "our work is out here."

When the cowherd had finished writing, then the csikós took the pen from his hand, and turning over the bill, inscribed his name on the back, in big roundhand characters.

"Now, what is the sense of you writing your name there?" asked the cowboy, inquisitively.

"The use is, that when the pay-day comes round, then I and not you will pay those ten florins."

"Why should you, instead of me?"

"Because it is my debt!" said the csikós, and clapped his cap to his head. His eyes flashed.

The cowboy paled all at once. Now he knew what awaited him. The girl had learnt nothing from the scribbling nor from the discourse. She shook her head. "They were very foolish," she thought, and the gilded ear-rings tinkled in her ears. "'This,' and 'that,' and 'Yellow Rose,' they must be talking about her!"

But the csikós carefully folded the paper, and handed it to her. Very gently he spoke,

"Dear Klári," he said, "please be so very kind and put this safely away in your drawer. Then should Mr. Pelikan, the horse-dealer, come in here to dine on his way back from Onod fair, give it him. Tell him that we sent it, we two old comrades, Ferko Lacza, and Sanyi Decsi, with our best respects. One of us will meet it, which, time will show."

The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Funny people! Not a thought of quarrelling in their heads! Signing their names to the same paper."

She collected the writing materials and carried them back to the commissioner's room, at the end of the long pillared verandah. The two lads were left alone together.

CHAPTER XII.

"I say the same."

"Then let us rid it of one of us!"

With that they caught up their cudgels, two oak saplings from the Csát forest, the club end heavily loaded.

Each went to his horse. Cowboys do not fight on foot. When the girl returned from the house, both were in the saddle.

After that no word was spoken. Silently turning their backs on each other, one went right, one left, as if flying before the approaching storm. When there was about two hundred paces between them, they glanced back simultaneously, and turned their horses. Then swinging their cudgels, both lads put spurs in their horses, and rushed at each other.

This is the duel of the puszta.

It is not as easy as it looks. Fighting with swords on horseback is an art, but the sword where it strikes inflicts a wound not easily forgotten. He who wields the cudgel must aim his blow for the one instant when his galloping steed meets his opponent's. There is no parrying possible, no thrusting aside of the stroke. Who strikes truest wins the day.

The two herdsmen, meeting at the cudgel's length, struck at each other's head, then dashed past on their horses.

Sándor Decsi shook in the saddle, his head fell forward from the force of the blow, but tossing it back directly, he straightened his crumpled cap. Evidently his crown had only felt the handle of the cudgel.

His stroke had been better aimed. The loaded end hit his adversary's skull, who, turning sideways, tumbled out of the saddle, and fell face downwards on the ground. The victor bringing up his horse, thereupon promptly cudgelled his fallen foe from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, nor spared a square inch of him. For such is the custom.

If gentlemen of higher rank would only adopt it, God knows how rare duels would become!

Having ended this business, the csikós picked up his opponent's cap on the point of his stick, tore out the lining, and found beneath a withered yellow rose. He threw it up in the air, giving it a knock which sent the petals flying in a hundred pieces, and floating like butterflies down the wind.

"I told you beforehand, didn't I?" shouted the csikós from on horseback to the girl, who had watched this decisive combat from the inn door. He pointed to his mangled opponent. "There! Take him in and nurse him! You may have him now!" A hissing thunderbolt fell before the mill close by. Here was the storm. All round them the sky crashed and crackled.

"You see," said the girl, "had he struck you instead, I would have thrown my own body over you, and protected you from his blows! Then you would have known how truly I loved you!"

The csikós put spurs to his horse, and galloped off into the storm. Sheets of rain and hail fell in torrents, thunder crashed with a blinding flash. The girl gazed after the horseman till the storm hid him from view. Once or twice when it lightened his figure shone visible through the fiery rain, then she lost sight of it, till at last it vanished utterly.

Perhaps she never saw him again.

Jarrold & Sons, Limited, The Empire Press, Norwich.

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