Debts of Honor. Mór Jókai
"He will never awake again."
"Yet I would like to kiss him."
"His hand?"
"His hand and his face."
"You may kiss only his hand," said my brother firmly.
"Why?"
"Because I say so," was his stern reply. The unaccustomed ring of his voice was quite alarming. I told him I would obey him; only let him take me to father.
"Well, come along. Give me your hand."
Then taking my hand, he led me through two rooms.2 In the third, grandmother met us.
2 In Hungary the houses are built so that one room always leads into the other; the whole house can often be traversed without the necessity of going into a corridor or passage.
I saw no change in her countenance; only her thick white eyebrows were deeply contracted.
Lorand went to her and softly whispered something to her which I did not hear; but I saw plainly that he indicated me with his eyes. Grandmother quietly indicated her consent or refusal with her head; then she came to me, took my head in her two hands, and looked long into my face, moving her head gently. Then she murmured softly:
"Just the way he looked as a child."
Then she threw herself face foremost upon the floor, sobbing bitterly.
Lorand seized my hand and drew me with him into the fourth room.
There lay the coffin. It was still open; only the winding-sheet covered the whole.
Even to-day I have no power to describe the coffin in which I saw my father. Many know what that is; and no one would wish to learn from me. Only an old serving-maid was in the chamber; no one else was watching. My brother pressed my head to his bosom. And so we stood there a long time.
Suddenly my brother told me to kiss my father's hand, and then we must go. I obeyed him; he raised the edge of the winding-sheet; I saw two wax-like hands put together; two hands in which I could not have recognized those strong muscular hands, upon the shapely fingers of which in my younger days I had so often played with the wonderful signet-rings, drawing them off one after the other.
I kissed both hands. It was such a pleasure! Then I looked at my brother with agonized pleading. I longed so to kiss the face. He understood my look and drew me away.
"Come with me. Don't let us remain longer." And that was such terrible agony to me! My brother told me to wait in my room, and not to move from it until he had ordered the carriage which was to take us away.
"Whither?" I asked.
"Away to the country. Remain here and don't go anywhere else." And to keep me secure he locked the door upon me.
Then I fell a-thinking. Why should we go to the country now that our father was lying dead? Why must I remain meanwhile in that room? Why do none of our acquaintances come to see us? Why do those who go about the house whisper so quietly? Why do they not toll the bell when so great a one lies dead in the house?
All this distracted my brain entirely. To nothing could I give myself an answer, and no one came to me from whom I could have demanded the truth.
Once, not long after (to me it seemed an age, though, if the truth be known, it was probably only a half-hour or so), I heard the old serving-maid, who had been watching in yonder chamber, tripping past the corridor window. Evidently some one else had taken her place.
Her face was now as indifferent as it always was. Her eyes were cried out; but I am sure I had seen her weep every day, whether in good or in bad humor; it was all one with her. I addressed her through the window:
"Aunt Susie, come here."
"What do you want, dear little Desi?"
"Susie, tell me truly, why am I not allowed to kiss my father's face?"
The old servant shrugged her shoulders, and with cynical indifference replied:
"Poor little fool. Why, because—because he has no head, poor fellow."
I did not dare to tell my brother on his return what I had heard from old Susie.
I told him it was the cold air, when he asked why I trembled so.
Thereupon he merely put my overcoat on, and said, "Let us go to the carriage."
I asked him if our grandmother was not coming with us. He replied that she would remain behind. We two took our seats in one carriage; a second was waiting before the door.
To me the whole incident seemed as a dream. The rainy, gloomy weather, the houses that flew past us, the people who looked wonderingly out of the windows, the one or two familiar faces that passed us by, and in their astonished gaze upon us forgot to greet us. It was as if each one of them asked himself: "Why has the father of these boys no head?" Then the long poplar-trees at the end of the town, so bent by the wind as if they were bowing their heads under the weight of some heavy thought; and the murmuring waves under the bridge, across which we went, murmuring as if they too were taking counsel over some deep secret, which had so oft been intrusted to them, and which as yet no one had discovered—why was it that some dead people had no heads? Something prompted me so, to turn with this awful question to my brother. I overcame the demon, and did not ask him. Often children, who hold pointed knives before their eyes, or look down from a high bridge into the water, are told, "Beware, or the devil will push you." Such was my feeling in relation to this question. In my hand was the handle, the point was in my heart. I was sitting upon the brim, and gazing down into the whirlpool. Something called upon me to thrust myself into the living reality, to lose my head in it. And yet I was able to restrain myself. During the whole journey neither my brother nor I spoke a word.
When we arrived at our country-house our physician met us, and told us that mother was even worse than she had been; the sight of us would only aggravate her illness; so it would be good for us to remain in our room.
Our grandmother arrived two hours after us. Her arrival was the signal for a universal whispering among the domestics, as if they would make ready for something extraordinary which the whole world must not know. Then we sat down to dinner quite unexpectedly, far earlier than usual. No one could eat; we only gazed at each course in turn. After dinner my brother in his turn began to hold a whispered conference with grandmother. As far as I could gather from the few words I caught, they were discussing whether he should take his gun with him or not. Lorand wished to take it, but grandmother objected. Finally, however, they agreed that he should take gun and cartridges, but should not load the weapon until he saw a necessity for it.
In the mean while I staggered about from room to room. It seemed as if everybody had considerations of more importance than that of looking after me.
In the afternoon, however, when I saw my brother making him ready for a journey, despair seized hold of me:
"Take me with you."
"Why, you don't even know where I am going."
"I don't mind; I will go anywhere, only take me with you; for I cannot remain all by myself."
"Well, I will ask grandmother."
My brother exchanged a few words with my grandmother, and then came back to me.
"You may come with me. Take your stick and coat."
He slung his gun on his shoulder and took his dog with him.
Once again this thought agonized me afresh: "Father is dead, and we go for an afternoon's shooting, with grandmother's consent as if nothing had happened."
We went down through the gardens, all along the loam-pits; my brother seemed to be choosing a route where we should meet with no