[Footnote 18: The leader of a gipsy band.]

One day I got a letter from Petofi, in which he informed me he was going to call upon us the following Sunday. I naturally skipped off to town at once, and showed the letter to all my acquaintances. It was a great event in our little town. Petofi's popularity in those days was great indeed; he was worshipped from one end of the kingdom to the other. His visit was regarded as an extraordinary distinction. On Sunday afternoon, therefore, half the population of the town had a.s.sembled on the island, where the landing-stage of the steamers now is. Bessy's family was also there. All the religious persuasions were represented by the presence of the Benedictine priests and the Calvinist and Lutheran ministers. The captain of the civic train bands, with two lackeys in gold liveries; represented the magistracy; and Muki Bagotay was there on behalf of the county (he held some petty office or other), and maintained that he knew Petofi very well. Congratulatory speeches had been got ready, and lovely hands were to present handsome bouquets to the coming guest.

Petofi, however, when he had crossed over the steamship bridge to the other side, troubled himself not one bit about the congratulatory mob, left in the lurch the lovely ladies with their bouquets, and the distinguished gentlemen with their speeches, and, dressed as he was in his short _carbonari_ mantle, rushed straight towards me, threw his arms round my neck, knocked my hat from my head, and cried, "Why, Marksi! Is it you, you old scoundrel, Marksi!" (he never would call me by my proper name), and, with that, wrapping me in one-half of his mantle, he dragged me with him towards the town just as if he knew the way quite well (he had never been there before in his life). The windows of the chief thoroughfares of the town were adorned with flowers and with fair damsels, who had tricked themselves out in Petofi's honour, which, when he perceived, he thrust me down a side street, and so we got at last to our house by roundabout by-paths, on which we met not a single soul. My worthy mother received our dear guest most heartily, not because he was such a famous poet, but because he was my good friend. I had known him ever since we had been students together at Papa, when they had called him "Petrovics." Now, however, they added a syllable to his name, and called him "Petrekovics." Nothing used to put Petofi into such a rage as when anybody called him by his rejected family name. But even this he took in good part from my mother. He never even tried to put her right. "Let me always remain Petrekovics in your house!" he would say to her, as he kissed her hand. This was by no means his usual custom, the only other person whose hand he used to kiss was his own mother. The first question after that naturally was about his favourite dish. My mother herself looked after the _cuisine_, and the following day the whole family a.s.sembled to dinner--my brother Charles, my sister Esther, and my brother-in-law Francis Valy included.

We had scarcely risen from the table when a lackey in silver livery arrived from Bessy's mother with a gold-edged letter for Petofi, in which her ladyship invited him to her "at home" that evening. The entertainment was arranged in his honour. All the beauties and the notabilities of the town would be there together. I had naturally received a similar invitation some days before.

'Twas thus that Petofi answered the messenger--his words are recorded in the family records: "Tell her ladyship that I am inconsolable at the impossibility of coming to her reception this evening; but this time I have come specially to visit my beloved Marksi, and will go nowhere else."

The astonished lackey could scarcely grasp the meaning of this terrible reply. But my mother understood it right well, and said, "n.o.ble young fellow!"

But I said nothing, for I candidly confess that in those days I worshipped a pretty girl far, far more than any man however famous, or any friend however good.

I tried, therefore, to explain the situation to my good friend. "I tell you what, though; that pretty girl is there about whom I wrote to you."

"Then give _yourself_ up to that pretty girl, but don't sacrifice _me_ to her likewise."

"If you could only hear how splendidly she plays the fiddle."

"Fiddle, do you say? Then don't give yourself up to her either! You know there are three things in this world that I hate--horse-radish with milk, the critics, and after that, music." (He could never be persuaded to listen to an opera.)

"But Tony Varady also plays the fiddle!" (I should explain that this young lawyer shared Petofi's room with him.)

"He fiddles, it is true, but it is useful to me."

"How so?"

"In our neighbourhood dwells a rascally card-player, who comes home every night between two and three, and begins to sing. I immediately wake Tony and say to him, 'Rise, and fiddle away at that fellow there!'

Then he begins to fiddle in a way that makes your hair stand on end, and your blood run cold, and in ten minutes our neighbour, falling upon his knees, sobs for mercy, and declares that he will leave off singing.

However, from to-day I live no longer with Tony."

"Have you quarrelled?"

"On the contrary, we are the best of friends. But I'll tell you about that later on; let us now talk about serious things. What have you been doing since I last saw you?"

I showed him the MS. of "Hetkoznapok."[19] It was just ready.

[Footnote 19: "Every-day Days." One of the best, if not _the_ best, of Jokai's earlier works.]

"Why do you call it 'Hetkoznapok'?"

"In order that n.o.body may expect anything extraordinary in it."

He turned over the leaves, but only read the headings of the chapters.

"Well, that was an original idea of yours, I must say, to choose mottoes from popular ballads for your chapter headings. I'll take this with me to Pest, and get it published."

"n.o.body knows me."

"You're wrong. Bajza and Vorosmarty are inquiring about you. Your specimen composition has been much approved. I've squeezed twelve florins for it out of Emericus Vahot. Frankenburg was more liberal. He sends you fifteen for 'The Island Nepean.'"

And Petofi counted out the twenty-seven silver florins on to the table.

It was my first honorarium. I fancied myself a Rothschild.

"This romance now shall be published by Hartleben."

"Are you on good terms with him?"

"I don't know the German fellow, but he's the publisher of Ignatius Nagy's romances, and Nagy shall recommend it to him."

"But will Ignatius Nagy like to do it?"

"What! When I bring him such work as yours! He is a great enemy of mine, I know, but he is a man of honour."

And with that he thrust my ma.n.u.script into his knapsack, but without locking it.

"And what else have you written?"

I produced another heap of papers.

"A play ent.i.tled _Two Guardians_."

"And what do you want to do with it?"

"To compete for the Academy prize."

"Don't do that! I won't allow you. You competed once, and they did not give you the prize, and yet two Academicians were on your side; don't give them any more. Give your pieces to the theatre."

I had nothing for it but to surrender.

"Now, I'll take your piece to Szigligeti.[20] He will at once recognise in you a dangerous rival, and for that very reason will have your piece brought out instantly. That's the sort of man he is!"

[Footnote 20: Pseudonym of the eminent Hungarian dramatist, Joseph Szathmary.]

I entrusted my piece to his care.

"And try to get up to Pest as soon as possible. Don't go loafing about all your days in a village!"

"As soon as I have got through with my _patvaria_ I'll hasten to join you."

"Get ready to go away at once. To-morrow I'll take you with me to Gran."

I was greatly astonished.

"To Gran! Why, what business have we there?"

"We go not to do business, but to _rob_. We must steal away Tony Varady's bride for him. That is why we no longer live together."

But now the members of my family had also a word to say.