“Look, this is my son,” said Catharine, pointing to Feriz Beg, who, after dismounting, had hastened with childlike tenderness to help his mother out of her coach.
“Oh, what a little darling!” cried Lady Beldi, quite enchanted, and covering the rosy-cheeked child with kisses.
If only she had known that this child was a child no longer, but a general!
“And I’ve got children too!” continued Lady Beldi, with maternal emulation. “You shall see them! Does your son speak Hungarian?”
“Hungarian!” cried Catharine, almost offended; “what! the child of an Hungarian mother, and not speak Hungarian! How can you ask such a question?”
“So much the better,” said Lady Beldi, “the children will become friends all the more quickly. From henceforth you belong to the family. Our husbands have settled all that already, and we shall be so delighted!”
The amiable and sprightly housewife then embraced her friend once more, took Feriz Beg by the hand, and led them both into the family circle, chatting merrily all the time, and asking and answering a thousand questions.
A cheerful fire was sparkling in the chimney of the ladies’ cabinet. Large flowered-silk curtains darkened the walls. On a little ivory table ticked a gorgeous clock, ablaze with rubies and chrysoprases. Sofas covered in cornflower-blue velvet offered you a luxurious repose. On a round table in the centre of the room, from which an embroidered Persian tapestry fell in rich folds to the ground, stood a heavy candelabrum of massive silver, representing a siren holding on high a taper in each of her outstretched hands.
In front of the fine white marble chimneypiece were Dame Beldi’s children. The elder, Sophia, a tall, slight, bashful-looking beauty of some fourteen summers, was bustling about the fire. She still wore her hair as children do, thrown back in two long, large plaits which reached almost to her heels. This girl was afterwards Paul Wesselenyi’s consort.
The second child, a little girl of about four, was kneeling at the feet of her elder sister, and throwing dried flowers into the fire. She went by the name of Aranka, which in Hungarian means “little goldy,” for she carried her name on her locks, which flowed over her round little shoulders in light golden waves. Her vivacious features, sparkling eyes, and tiny hands are never still, and now too she is mischievously teasing and thwarting her elder sister, laughing aloud with artless glee whenever Sophia, naturally without succeeding in the least, tries to be very angry.
On hearing footsteps and voices at the door, both children spring up hastily. The elder one, perceiving strangers, tries to smooth the creases out of her dress, while Aranka rushes uproariously to her mother, embraces her knees, and looks up at her with her plump little smiling face.
“These are my children,” said Lady Beldi with inward satisfaction.
Catharine embraced the elder girl, who shyly presented her forehead to be kissed.
“And here’s your cousin, little Feriz. You must kiss him too!” said Lady Beldi, pushing together the bashful children, who scarcely dared to press the tips of their lips together. Sophia immediately afterwards blushed right up to the ears, and rushed out of the room. Nothing would induce her to show herself again that evening.
“Oh, you shamefaced mimosa!” cried Lady Beldi, laughing loudly. “Why, Aranka is braver than you. Eh, my little girl? You’re not afraid to kiss Cousin Feriz, are you?”
The little thing looked up at the boy and drew back, clinging fast all the time to her mother’s skirts, but never once removing her large, dark-blue eyes from Feriz, who knelt down, took the little girl in his arms, and gave her a hearty kiss on her round, rosy cheeks.
Having gone safely through this ordeal, Aranka was quite at home with her new acquaintance. She bade the Turkish cousin sit him down on a stool by the fire, and, laying her head on his lap, began asking him questions about everything he wore, from the hilt of his scimitar to the plume in his turban—absolutely nothing escaped her curiosity.
“Let the children play!” cried Lady Beldi merrily, as with high good-humour she led her friend out upon the balcony, from whence they could survey the whole Tatrang valley now floating in the bright moonlight.
Here the two women—while the men were engaged with serious matters, and the children were playing—here the two women entered into one of those long confidential chats which young ladies find so charming when they are by themselves, especially when they have as much to ask and answer as these two had.
Kucsuk Pasha’s wife was a middling-sized, powerfully-built woman. Her well-rounded bosom and broad shoulders were shown off by her tight-fitting kaftan, which was fastened round the waist by a girdle of gold thread, and reached somewhat lower down than is usual with the dresses of Turkish ladies, just permitting a glance at her wide, flowing, red silk pantaloons and her dainty little yellow slippers. Her face, if a trifle too stern and hard, was yet most lovely; her full and florid complexion betokened a somewhat choleric temperament; her thick, coal-black eyebrows had almost grown together, and her gaze was burning in its intensity.
Lady Beldi made her sit down by her side, took her familiarly by the hand, and playfully asked—
“Your husband then has no other wife but you?”
Catharine laughed, and replied with just a shade of impatience—
“I suppose, now, you fancy that an Hungarian woman has only to wed a Turk to instantly become his slave? You have no idea how dearly my husband loves me.”
“I am sure of it, Catharine. But recollect that my question related to what has long been customary among you.”
“Among us! My dear, I am not a Turkish woman!”
“What then?”
“A Christian, just as you are. We were married by a Calvinist minister, the Rev. Martin Biro, now an exile in Constantinople, and for whom my husband, out of gratitude, has built a church where the Hungarians and Transylvanians who dwell there may attend divine service.”
“Really! Then your husband does not persecute the
