Just sit down, Margit, and read my letter quietly. There will be nothing extraordinary in it. I only want you to know me thoroughly. For, at present, fair Margit, though we have been acquainted these four years, you know only this: that at the age of eight-andtwenty I was appointed professor in the university, and that at thirty I proved my gratitude to the government by coming forward as a Parliamentary candidate on the Opposition side, and, what is more, that I was elected. What else do you know about me? That I dress in the latest fashion, go to the National Casino, am seen at the races, and, in fact, everywhere; and that "Bandi Miklós was present" is a not infrequent announcement in the newspapers, which have more than once mentioned me as "the life of the party." Believe me, dear Margit, I have never for a moment enjoyed this society-life. Suddenly, when the chatter has been most animated, my face has clouded over, and I have involuntarily put my hand to my head. this way. I have often wondered why no one ever showed any curiosity as to my family, and I believe the only reasonable explanation is to be found in my name, which has evidently misled people, without any wish or intention on my part. In my more particular fatherland, Transylvania, there are three sets of Bándis-first, the gentry of that name, beggars of good birth, who stick to the land. People here are aware of their existence, but not a living Bándi of them all has ever made his appearance in Budapest during the past forty years. The second set of Bándis are noblemen without estates. They own a few acres which they plough and sow, and thus live from hand to mouth. The third set are the peasant Bándis; plain, laboring people, feudal serfs, bound to the soil before '48, now free, but poorer than ever they were. I know! I know. I can see from here that you have found out already which set of Bándis I belong to. That is it, that is it-the third! A poor, toil-worn old man is my "What is the matter, Bándi?" my at- father; a bent-backed old dame is my tentive hostess has asked kindly. mother. Know them, dearest Margit, "Oh, nothing! a passing pain in my and you will know me. head; it's gone now." Ah! if any one had guessed what flashed before my mind's eye at such times! But no one ever did. It is wonderful how fortunate I have been hitherto. I know a hundred men who appear in society having a certain air of distinction and a confident manner, and holding distinguished positions too, and yet, all at once, society folks begin to ask one another: "But who is this Xexactly? Where does he belong? Who are his people?" Possibly the same question has been asked about me; but I don't think so; no, I don't. You are smiling, Margit, and perhaps tapping your little foot impatiently, as you say to yourself: "Who is he, pray? Why, a professor at the university; and member for the university too!" But, dearest Margit, the question as asked by society cannot be answered in I remember one day, when I was, perhaps, eight or nine, my father said to my mother: "Wife, I have been talking to his Reverence, and he advised me to take Miklós to the town school. We are poor, we can't do much for him, but, wife, I don't care, even if my little bit of land goes every scrap of it! I have lived hard enough myself, my son shan't live hard too." My dear mother wept. "As you (he1) will," said she. I was an only child; but this meant no more than that when my mother sent me provisions from time to time to the gymnasium, she could slip in a florin or two as well. For eight years I was servant to some of the gentlemen. I kept their rooms in order, and I lived hard on their 1 Third person singular in original, which peasant-women always use in addressing their husbands. The latter use second singular to their wives. bread. I also regularly did their exercises, and for this they gave me a few extra pence now and again. My university life I will not attempt to describe, dearest Margit. It was full of terrible privation. But in the third year I distanced all my competitors, and carried off the prizes. One fine day I made my appearance looking as if I had just come out of a bandbox. My comrades opened their eyes very wide at first, but later on they were accustomed to my being always a dandy, and, I believe, even forgot that I had ever been a poor, ragged, hungry-faced student. God alone knows how my dear father distressed himself about me, and how many tears my mother shed. They knew how hard my life was, though I never complained; indeed, the less I complained the more the poor old people grieved, and bitterly did they regret ever having sent me to school. I sent them some money, but they wrote back; "Don't send any; better come home. We don't want you to starve for us!" I wrote that I had enough; but it was of no use, they did not believe me. "Don't send any money, my dear son," wrote my father in every letter, "for your mother weeps night and day. She believes you are starving, and so do I." Home I went; not to stay, but to ease the poor old people's minds. I took a pile of newspapers with me to prove that I had an appointment. I took home my books. "See, here is my name. I wrote them." Good heavens! how the poor old folks did weep! did not tell you all this a long time ago. My dearest, you never once asked me about my relations, though I should so much have liked to talk of my dear, good parents. Well, and suppose I had. Would not you have thought I was making a parade of my parents' poverty and simple mode of life when it would have been in better taste to talk, if I could, of the family property and distinguished relations? But I might have married you without you ever seeing my parents, you think? Yes, I might have done so; but this is precisely what I don't want to do. Oh, Margit, if you could have heard these old folks talk of my marriage sometimes in the evening! "I shall never see my menyemasszony (my mistress-daughter-in-law)," the old dame would sigh. "Nor I either, dame." And then, his honest eyes resting upon my face, the old man would add: "You are going to take a wife from some grand family, my boy, I know. We are simple folks. I don't want you to show her to us. It is enough for us to hear of you, and to know that you are happy. Your wife might not be as fond of you, perhaps, if she were to see that you are the son of a poor peasant. We have each got one foot in the grave. My boy, don't bring her home." "No, no! and I say just the same. Oh! but I should so like to see her!" said the old dame uneasily. "If I could but kiss my darling's snow-white face and tiny hand, just once!" "But I haven't any wife at present, mother dear. Besides, she won't be a Said my father: "My dear boy, I shall stuck-up fine lady. She will love you; lie down in my coffin with joy!" she will want to see her husband's "And I too," wailed my mother; "I parents." too." But the money which I had sent home, by little and little, there it lay untouched in the tulip-painted chest of drawers. "Put it in your pocket, my son; we don't need it at all. You are a grand gentleman; you want money." I had to take it back. "An ugly old man and an ugly old woman!" the old man seemed to age as he spoke. "To be sure"-and now he grew younger again-"they used to look at me thirty years ago-grand ladies, too, didn't they wife? And your mother was a handsome woman, too, that she was!" "And you are handsome still, my dear, But you will ask, dear Margit, why I good old souls." And, indeed, dearest Margit, they are! If you could see them just once; and their house and yard, and tiny flower garden, where they go "pit-patting" about from morning till night. They are always talking about the lovely young lady whom Miklós is going to marry. They don't know who her father and mother are, but she is always floating before their eyes. the same to-day that I was yesterday, it would be easy to write either the "yes" or the "no" without hesitation. But you must understand, Bándi Miklós, that the Szemerjai Margit who said "Speak to mamma" exists no longer. I gaze at myself in the glass, but I see a stranger. You have told me the story of your life, and how you, the young man of They often lie awake in the long fashion, were not so long ago a halfwinter nights. "Are you asleep, wife?" "No, uram (sir); no, I can't sleep." "Nor I either. Thinking of your son, eh?" "Just so, uram, just so, and the golden-haired menyemasszony. And you are too, eh?" "Ay, wife, just so!" By daybreak the old dame is up and slipping into the next room. the young folks' room, where not a soul but the old people ever goes. The old dame has been furnishing and adorning it for years past. The nosegay in the longnecked jug on the table is never allowed to fade all the summer through. The little windows are full of flowers-marjoram, verbena, fuchsias, red carnations and she waters them night and morning. One day the two will be stepping out to the gate, and looking down the road a hundred times. "Suppose they were to come unexpectedly! They won't write, they'll just come!" These are my parents, and I want to "gild" their last days. I love you with the love of an honest man. You are my first, my last, and my only love. But if I must choose-Margit, dearest Margit, don't let me finish the sentence! And now, tell me; am I to speak to your mother? I ask but one word in answer "yes" or "no." I kiss your hands, BANDI MIKLOS. Letter Second.-From Szemerjai Margit. Dear Bandi,-You ask me to send just one word in answer to your letter"yes" or "no;" and certainly if I were starved student, with an old man and woman weeping over you night and day at home. And now they are so happy, you say, and you long to brighten their last days. With whom? With me! With me! But, Bándi Miklós, do you know who I am? "I know, I know," you will say. But, indeed, you know nothing at all. My father is imperial and royal chamberlain-that is true! My mother is a baroness-that is also true! But beyond this you know nothing. Despise me, uram; but when I said "And I love you; speak to mamma," I was telling a lie. I had no love for you, not the veriest grain! Having been brought up to be sensible, I saw that you possessed all the qualifications necessary for the husband of Szemerjai Margit-a distinguished position, young, good looks, gentlemanly manners, and so on; and, to crown all, you are of good family. I never gave this last matter so much as a thought; it seemed so much a matter of course. Alas! for me, a thousand times alas! if any one else had told me that you were the son of peasant-parents. But alas! still more if you yourself had told me only when my word was pledged and I could not honorably draw back. Suppose I were to marry you without love, thinking lightly, as is the fashion in our world: "sympathy is enough, what do we want with love?" The difference in my life would amount to this: I should go about with you instead of mamma. You would take me to balls, concerts, races, to drive in the Stefania, to baths, etc. Our life would be most elegant and cor rect. I should like you for a compan ion, because you are good-looking, clever, distinguished, gentlemanly; and you would like to have me with you, for I am not such a fright, and I am no goose either! I know how to dress, and how to be a pleasant hostess. Well, that is the sort of married life I had pictured to myself. And when the benediction has been pronounced and we are at the station, you will take tickets, not for Venice, but-for Brassó (Cronstadt), and you will say, "Dearest, let us go and see my parents-my poor, simple parents!" I am horrified, I quiver in every fibre, when I think of the shock such an unexpected turn of events would have given me. What, I, Szemerjai Margit, find myself connected with a family of serfs! Monstrous! monstrous! Our marriage could not have been happy, really happy, under any circumstances, but we might have got on comfortably enough for some perhaps even to envy us. But what would have followed upon this would not have been mere lack of happiness. I should have hated you! for you would have lured me into a trap, and that is a crime which you could not have washed out; no! not with an ocean of love, however deep. But see, now here you stand before me, and I shrink away to nothing as I stammer out, "Forgive me, uram, forgive me!" I see how great you are, and how small am I! Miklós, Bándi Miklós, take me by the hand and lift me up, lift me up! Teach me to love you as deeply and truly as you do your parents-the old people who talk so often of their son Miklós and the golden-haired menyemasszony. Ah! it is my face and hand the old dame would like to kiss; mine! mine! And I-I should like to kiss the horny hands which have raised you from the dust, just for this, only this for I feel that God is infinitely gracious to me-because now you will raise me! Miklós! hear me. My empty heart is filled with a feeling I have never known before. My fate is in your hands. A new Szemerjai Margit stands before you, and confesses her love for you. What does the world matter to me! I should like to stand on the top of the highest mountain and shout "Bándi Miklós loves me!" You don't understand what it is for one suddenly to feel that she has a heart. You don't understand, for you have always had a heart. I never had till I read your letter. Come, come and "speak to mamma." You may come, you may fly! My father and mother know all. Papa read the letter aloud. For a moment his face clouded over, and mamma turned pale. But then, all at once-if you could but have seen-his words were broken by sobs; and, before he got to the end, we were all three weeping in one anotner's arms. "Oh! my God!" he sobbed; "I thank thee for giving me a son, in place of a son." And the grave face, which has never brightened since the death of my brother Andor, was beaming with joy. Miklós, you have already made my parents' last days golden, and now it depends upon yourself whether I shall do the same for yours. Command me! MARGIT. Letter Third.-From Bándi János. My dear Son Miklós,-With tearful eyes I read the letter in which you tell us, your poor parents, that you are going to take to wife the only daughter of his Excellency Mr. Szemerjay Gábor. Heaven's blessing on you both, my heart's children! Your mother and I have been weeping ever since we had your letter, but from joy. What a hard life you have had, O child of my heart, until now that the good God has come to your aid, blessed be his holy name! And how I have worried myself! Well, we shall not go to your wedding, my dear son! It is not for us to re among smart gentlefolks. They would look down upon us and you, too. Your mother would like to be present though, if she could, without being seen; and so should I, as I tell her. At night, when we can't sleep, we often talk about how we could be there without being seen. We should not certainly dare to get into the "steamcarriage." We have once seen it rushing away from Brassó, when we were taking in a load of wheat. The price of that load would be just enough, says your mother. It would take two loads, say I. No, my boy, we shall not try the steam-carriage. Besides, it is not for such as we. You write that you are going to bring your wife to see us. My dear boy, think well what you are about. What is there to see in us simple old folks? Our house is clean, but everything in it is home-made. And we cannot treat your wife to delicacies, though we would give her our very hearts. Well, your mother is not so timid as I, though. She tells me I am just to write "Come," and the menyemasszony will soon order all as she pleases. The old dame has been talking already to a woman in the village who has lived many years in gentlemen's houses, and can, they say, cook such fine dishes that-meaning no disrespect― even the queen would suck her fingers after them! I "Why, then, let them come!" I say to your mother. The little room is like a chapel-that I myself can answer for. There are eight pillows to each of the beds. They were your grandmother's but they have never been used yet. tell your mother that three apiece would be enough, but it is no use. She says if she had as many again she would have them all out, for "she knows that the darling menyemasszony has been spoilt." "Well, I believe so too," say I. Her father is a chamberlain, which is something tremendously high, isn't it, my boy? and her mother is a baroness! What we cannot anyhow take in is, how you can venture to ask her hand. We asked his Reverence; and a blessing be on every word he said, for it eased our minds. He explained that, when any one really loves a man, she does not consider his humble origin. And, my dear son, he also said that you were such a first-rate man, and so dis tinguished, that even a countess might fall in love with you. We gave thanks to God, your mother and I, both of us, that things are as they are. Your mother wanted to make a few letters too, but there is no room in this. What she would have written, however, is, "Come home, my dearest son, Miklós, and bring my darling golden-haired menyemasszony, too. I eat her little diamond heart." There, then, I have written it! We send our sincere respects to their Excellencies, your father-in-law and mother-in-law. Give them a humble message from us not to be anxious about their precious daughter while she is here, for we will care for her with the most faithful affection. You, my son, are held in honor by all the folks of the village. They will be waiting for you with a large band of music at the end of the village, where there is to be a gateway wreathed with flowers. We shall just wait in our own courtyard; and I remain your own father, BANDI JANOS. Letter Fourth.-From Margit. My dearest Mamma,-It is a week already since I left your arms; a whole week since I, too, became a wife, the happiest wife in the world-the wife of Bándi Miklós, son of a poor serf. Is it a dream, or is it the truth? There are moments every now and then when I think it is a dream, a strange dream, and I start up terrified. It is not that I wonder how I, daughter of the imperial and royal chamberlain, can be the wife of a peasant's son. No! the difficulty now is quite the other way; and at times I am seized with a strange wonder as to whether all that Miklós wrote of his parents' poverty and privations was not, after all, a pretty romance, into touch my heart. For, vented mamma, you must know that I should be unhappy now if my Miklós were not what he is-the son of a poor old man with horny hands. No! no! all that Miklós wrote was true, from the first word to the last; it |