Eyes Like the Sea Part 18

CHAPTER XI

VALENTINE BaLVaNYOSSI AND TIHAMeR RENGETEGI

When the beech-mast began to fall from the trees in the beginning of October, unexpected guests came to us at Tordona--two country gentlemen from the beechwood district. They were kinsmen keeping house together, whose whole estate consisted of forest, and whose whole economy was an enormous herd of swine. They were both jolly thick-set men, with fur pelisses of nicely embroidered sheepskins, and boots of red Russian leather. They had come to rent the beech-mast district in the Tordona forests. Pig just then was an article not quoted in the market.

Hungarian money there was none. It had all been destroyed. German money had not yet been introduced. Pig-rearers were therefore obliged to let their herds go into winter quarters. The pigs in question were really fine fellows of the good old Szalonta breed, with legs as long as stags', red bristles and pointed ears; they were half-savage beasts, too, who faced the wolf instead of fleeing from him. They develop but slowly, however; only after two years' time do they become as large as the Mangalicza swine. But they more than atone for this fault by the good quality of wanting neither stall nor sty; winter and summer alike they camp out in the woods and seek their own food, thus costing their masters no more than two florins a head, and three pints of _palinka_,[65] which is the perquisite of the swine-herd. Each of these kinsmen had a thousand of such pigs.

[Footnote 65: Hungarian brandy.]

And a thousand pigs give a man a lot to think about.

They were good, genial fellows. In fact, they knew not what melancholy meant. It was now the season when the new wine was beginning to ferment.

The two kinsmen used to drink it in that state, and I joined them. It went very well with well-peppered swine stew.

They brought a new song with them also, and I learnt it.

"The milk-pail stood behind the door, The Gendarme came, flopped in and swore!

Darum-madarum, darum-madarum!"

From this song I gathered that there was now a being in the world called Gendarme,[66] and also that the Magyars had no very great affection for him.

[Footnote 66: _Zsandar._ The name as well as the thing was quite new to Hungary.--TR.]

It was only after supper that the guests began to give me to understand that they did not yet know "whom they had the honour of addressing."

My worthy host constrained his honest features, and introduced me under the pseudonym by which I was known in the village, "Mr. Albert Benke."

"Surely not the actress Rosa Laborfalvy's younger brother, Bebus?"

"Yes, Bebus! the very same."

(That might pa.s.s very well. Poor Bebus! he had perished in some out-of-the-way corner during the war.)

"Why, I knew him quite well! I have a lively recollection of his features. Why, 'tis Bebus, of course! And how's your sister? Is it true that she's married?"

"So I have heard."

"To a certain Maurus Jokai, eh? Do you know him?"

"I have never spoken to him."

(And this was quite true.)

"You were one of those theatre-fellows, too, I understand?"

"Yes, I was an actor, certainly."

"I saw you once at Miskolcz. What were you playing then?"

"Claude Frollo in the _Tower of Notre Dame_."

"And won't you join some other company now?"

"I don't know whether there is one to be found."

"What! There is a troupe all ready at Miskolcz at the present moment.

They mean to play at the new theatre during the coming winter, and then they are going to Ka.s.sa. Balvanyossi wants to put new blood into his company. You know the director, Valentine Balvanyossi, don't you?"

I was just on the point of blurting out that he was from the same birthplace as myself. He was, in fact, the person who had coached Bessy in the _role_ which she had to play with me in our second dramatic entertainment. All I _did_ say, however, was that I knew him by report.

"Anyhow, he knows you very well. He asks frequently about you. If he only knew that you were loafing about here he would certainly come and see you."

It only needed that!

"I was not aware that he was able to collect together another troupe."

"Oh dear, yes! Why, he's got a prima donna now. She is his wife also.

Such a bonny little bride! She'll turn the heads of all the young fellows, I know. But you're in hiding here, are you not?"

"In hiding?"

"Yes, and I tell you what--_entre nous_, of course--Balvanyossi also has reason to make himself scarce."

"Why?"

"Why, because he played such a great part in the Revolution."

"_I_ never heard anything about it."

"Ah! but he might have been a famous man without _your_ hearing anything about it. You also were a comedian during the Revolution, weren't you?"

I allowed him to suppose so.

Then the second kinsman took up his parable. He was better informed than the first one.

"Let me make things clear to you, _amice_! During the Revolution, the theatre director, Valentine Balvanyossi, acted under the name of Tihamer Rengetegi."

"Ah! yes, of course, I remember the name."

"Many a nut has he cracked beneath the very noses of the Germans."

The other kinsman confirmed the statement.

"If they can only catch him they'll make the wind cool his heels for him."

"But that theatre director is really a most knowing rogue," explained the younger kinsman, with a laugh. "During the Revolution, he entered the service of the Hungarian Government and rose to be major. They say he performed prodigies. But at the same time he took the precaution to completely alter his personal appearance. During the Revolution he dyed his beautiful fair hair a deep black, and carefully fostered a gigantic moustache with whiskers to correspond; in that guise he looked exactly like Don Caesar de Bazan. When, however, things began to go wrong, he speedily had his hair shaved off and his beard also, and is now waiting in retirement till his original fair hair has grown again. Then he will once more come before the world as Valentine Balvanyossi; and who will dare to say that there was ever such a person as Tihamer Rengetegi?"