Chapter 8
"Dummer kerl!"[10]
[Footnote 10: "Stupid fellow!"]
I remember well, that was the first t.i.tle of respect I received from him.
Planting his knuckles on the top of my head, he performed a tattoo with the same all over my head.
That is called, in slang, "holz-birn."[11] By this process of "knuckling" the larger boys showed their contempt for the smaller, and it belongs to that kind of teasing which no self-respecting boy ever would allow to pa.s.s unchallenged. And before this girl, too!
[Footnote 11: Literally "Wild-pear" (_wood-pear_) a method of "knuckling" down the younger boys.]
Henrik was taller than I, by a head, but I did not mind. I grasped him by the waist, and grappled with him. He wished to drag me in the direction of my bed, in order to throw me on to it, but with a quick movement I cast him on his own bed, and holding his two hands tight on his chest, cried to him:
"Pick up the bun immediately!"
Henrik kicked and snarled for a moment, then began to laugh, and to my astonishment begged me, in student tongue, to release him: "We should be good friends." I released him, we shook hands, and the fellow became quite lively.
What astonished me most was that, at the time I was throwing her brother, f.a.n.n.y did not come to his aid nor tear out my eyes, she merely laughed, and screamed her approval. She seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself.
After this we all three looked for the fragments of Henrik's broken bun, which the good fellow with an expression of contentment dispatched on its natural way; then f.a.n.n.y produced a couple of secreted apples which she had "sneaked" for him. I found it remarkable beyond words that this impertinent child's thoughts ran in the same direction as my own.
From that hour Henrik and I were always fast friends; we are so to this day. When we got into bed I was curious as to the dreams I should have in the strange house. There is a widely-spread belief that what one dreams the first night in a new house will in reality come to pa.s.s.
I dreamed of the little snub-nose.
She was an angel with wings, beautiful dappled wings, such as I had read of not long since in the legend of Vorosmarty.[12] All around me she fluttered: but I could not move, my feet were so heavy, albeit there was something from which I ought to escape, until she seized my hand and then I could run so lightly that I did not touch the earth even with the tips of my feet.
[Footnote 12: A great Hungarian poet who lived and died in the early part of this century. He wrote legends and made a remarkable translation of some of Shakespeare's works.]
How I worried over that dream! A snub-nosed angel-- What mocking dreams a man has, to be sure.
The next day we were early astir; to me it seemed all the earlier, as the window of our little room looked out on to the narrow courtyard, where the day dawned so slowly, but Marton, the princ.i.p.al a.s.sistant, was told off to brawl at the schoolboy's door, when breakfast was being prepared:
"Surgendum disciple!"
I could not think what kind of an a.s.sault it was, that awoke me from my dream, when first I heard the clamorous clarion call. But Henrik jumped to his feet at once, and roused me from my bed, explaining, half in student language, half by gesture, that we should go down now to the bakery to see how the buns and cakes were baked. There was no need to dress; we might go in our night clothes, as the bakers wear quite similar costumes. I was curious, and easily persuaded to do anything; we put on our slippers and went down together to the bakery.
It was an agreeable place; from afar it betrayed itself by that sweet confectionery smell, which makes a man imagine that if he breathes it in long enough he will satisfy his hunger therewith. Everything in the whole place was as white as snow; everything
Master Marton, when he caught sight of me, began to welcome me in a kind of broken Hungarian "Jo reggelt jo reggelt!"[13]
[Footnote 13: Good morning.]
He had a curious knack of putting the whole of his scalp into motion whenever he moved his eyebrows up or down; a comical peculiarity of which he availed himself whenever he wished to make anyone laugh, and saw that his words did not have the desired effect.
Henrik set to work and competed with the baker's a.s.sistants; he was clever at making dainty little t.i.tbits of cakes quite as clever as anyone there; and pleasure beamed on his face when the old a.s.sistant praised his efforts.
"You see," Marton said to me, "what a ready a.s.sistant he would make! In two years he might be free. But the old man is determined he shall learn and study; he wants to make a councillor of him." With these words Marton, by a movement of his eyebrows, sent the whole of the skin on his head to form a bunch on the crown, for all the world as if it had been a wig on springs.
"Councillor, indeed! a councillor who gnaws pens when he is hungry!
Thanks; not if they gave me the tower of St. Michael. A councillor, who, with paper in hand and pen behind ear, goes to visit the bakers in turn, and weighs their loaves in the balance to see if they are correct weight."
It seemed that Marton did not take into consideration any other duties that a councillor might have besides the examining of bakers'
loaves--and that one could hardly gain his approval.
"Yet, if you take a little pains for their sake, you will find them as gentle as lambs. Give them a 'heitige striozts,'[14] or All Saints Day, and you will secure your object. Such is Mr. Dintenklek." At this point Marton could not refrain from breaking out into an unmelodious "Ga.s.senhauer"[15] the refrain of which was, "Alas! Mr. Dintenklek."
[Footnote 14: A kind of dainty bit suitable to this "holy" occasion.]
[Footnote 15: A popular air sung in the streets.]
Two or three a.s.sistants joined in the refrain, of which I did not understand a word; but as Marton uttered the final words, "Alas Mr.
Dintenklek," his gestures were such as to lead me to suspect that this Mr. Dintenklek must be some very ridiculous figure in the eye of baker's a.s.sistants.
"Why, of course, Henrik must learn law. The old man says he, too, might have become a councillor if he had concluded his studies at school.
What a blessing he did not. As it is, he almost murders us with his learning. He is always showing off how much Latin he knows. Yes, the old man Latinizes."
As he said this Marton could scarcely control the skin of his head, so often did he have to twitch his eyebrows in order to express the above opinion, which he held about his master's pedantry.
Then with a sudden suspicion he turned to me:
"You don't wish to be a councillor, I suppose?"
I earnestly a.s.sured him that, on the contrary, I was preparing for a vacancy in the county.
"Oho! lieutenant-governor? That is different, quite another thing; travelling in a coach. No putting on of mud boots when it is muddy. That I allow." And, in order to show how deep a respect he bore towards my presumptive office position, he drew his eyebrows up so high that his cap fell back upon his neck.
"Enough of dough-kneading for the present, Master Henrik. Go back to your room and write out your 'pensum,' for you will again be forbidden breakfast, if it is not ready."
Henrik did not listen to him, but worked away for all the world as if he was not being addressed.
Meanwhile Marton was cutting a large piece of dough into bits of exactly equal size, out of which the "Vienna" rolls were to be formed. This delicate piece of work needs an accurate eye to avoid cheating either one's master or the public.
"You see, he is at home here; he does not want his books. And there is nothing more beautiful, more refined than our art; nothing more remunerative; we deal with the blessing of G.o.d, for we prepare the daily bread. The Lord's Prayer includes the baker, 'Give us this day our daily bread.' Is there any mention anywhere of butchers, of tailors or of cobblers? Well, does anyone pray for meat, for coats, or for books? Let me hear about him. But they do pray for their daily bread, don't they?
And does the prayer-book say anything concerning councillors? What? Who knows anything on that score?"
Some young a.s.sistant interrupted: "Why, of course, 'but deliver us from the evil one.'"
This caused everybody to laugh; it caused Henrik to spoil his buns, which had to be kneaded afresh. He was annoyed by the idea that he had learned all he had merely in order to be ridiculed here in the bakery.
"Ha, yes," remarked Master Marton, smiling. "It is a great misfortune that a man is never asked how he wishes to die, but a still greater misfortune if he is not asked how he wishes to live. My father destined me to be a butcher. I learned the whole trade. Then I suddenly grew tired of all that ox-slaughtering, and cow-skinning. I was always fascinated by these beautiful brown-backed rolls in the shop-window; whenever I pa.s.sed before the confectionery window, the pleasant warm bread-odors just invited me in:--until at last I deserted my trade, and joined Father Fromm. At that time my moustache and beard were already sprouting, but I have never regretted my determination. Whenever I look at my clean, white s.h.i.+rt, I am delighted at the idea that I have not to sprinkle it with blood, and wear the blood-stained garment the rest of the day. Everyone should follow his own bent, should he not, Henrik?"
"True," muttered the youth in a tone of anger. "And yet the butcher's trade is as far above the councillor's as the weather-c.o.c.k on St.
Michael's tower is above our own vane. I do not like blood on my hands, yet at least I could wash it off; but if a drop of ink gets on my finger from my pen, for three days no pumice stone would induce it to depart.
Yes, it is a glorious thing to be a baker's a.s.sistant."
Marton now busied himself in shovelling several dozen loaves of white bread into the heated oven. Meantime the whole "menage" commenced with one voice to sing a peculiar air, which I had already heard several times resounding through the bakers' windows.
It runs as follows: