Nabob EXTRA: Hi, 'Bob! The Nabob Drinking Game

Before we move on, since one of my self-preservation strategies through this project is to "make your own kind of entertainment," the possibility of a drinking game popped up (you see what I named it; hopefully that tells you why I came up with a drinking game). It can be played in a round-robin read-aloud setting with groups, or as a pathetic loser sitting home alone in your underwear. Honestly, I can't decide which setting would be sadder, but whatever gets you through the day...

HI 'BOB!: The Hungarian Nabob Drinking Game

John Kárpáthy:
One shot:

• when the book calls him Master Jock or Squire John.
• when he or somebody else comments on his huge...real estate holdings.
• when he or a member of his party does something which is supposed to be mischievous. Two if you actually laugh. If your designated reader is really good at his/her job, you're screwed.
  

Two shots:

• when the narration calls him "the Nabob".
• whenever another new stately home is introduced.
  

Three shots:

• when he or somebody else announces John by his full name, first and last. It has to be in dialogue.
  

Abellino Kárpáthy:
One shot:

• when he says something snobbish and/or dickish. It's usually both simultaneously.
• when one of his schemes hits the inevitable snag.
• when somebody kicks him out of a place.
• when he's telling a fanciful lie, or when one of his confederates is spinning a fanciful lie on his behalf. If the lie goes on for more than a page, take a shot for each page they drag it out.
  

Two shots:

• when somebody offers him money that he refuses, for whatever reason.
  
• when something awful (or awfully hilarious) dawns on him.
  

Three shots:

• when somebody offers him money that he actually takes.
• when you think see his "final humiliation." Obviously this isn't an "everybody drinks" one. You can use your own judgment. Be honest, but remember there are several false positives. This is a penalty phase for those who try to be the "clever kid" in the room.

Fanny Meyer:
One shot:

• When somebody comments on the low quality of her family.
• When somebody else thinks or comments on how sad they are for her, or how totally, totally screwed she was/is/will be.

Two shots:

• Any time Fanny stops to think or talk about how totally screwed she is, or someone comments on how very, very miserable she is. If this ur-emo reverie is broken up over several pages, that's two shots for each page, because I'm evil like that.
• Any time Fanny freaks out above and beyond "typical" expectations.
• Any time somebody totally misreads Fanny's motivations. That's for each time it happens in an individual scene, not for the entire incident.

And last, but by no means least:

• Chug a full glass every time Mike Kis has dialogue after Chapter 3. Damn straight I'm still bitter about that one.

If you have any other ideas, drop it into a comment. Like everybody else on the Intertubes, I'm desperate for attention.

Post-Game Report: A Hungarian Nabob

For those of you just joining us, you completely missed the first book in my march to madness. If you don't mind having the book spoiled for you (majorly), here are the links to my chapter-by-chapter recaps: Introduction, Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22. Now, let's go to the post-game report...

You might remember that one paragraph of the introduction to A Hungarian Nabob set off all kinds of alarms when I first read it.

I may add, in conclusion, that I have taken the liberty to cut out a good third of the original work, and this I have done advisedly, having always been very strongly of opinion that the technique of the original tale suffered from an excess of episode. This embarras de richesse would naturally be still more noticeable in a translation, and I am particularly anxious that "A Hungarian Nabob" should attract at first sight. Let this, therefore, be my apology to Dr. Jókai and, as I trust, my claim upon his forgiveness.

Remember, I'm wary of condensations (I read Don Quixote unabridged, dammit), but in this case it worked in another way, since some issues I might have with the text could possibly be written off to overzealous editing by Mr. Bain, the translator. Take the character of Mike Kis, who was excellently introduced in the lively chapter 3 and seemed to be developing into a major secondary character. After the initial build-up he almost completely disappears from the narrative, which was a major disappointment on my part. We're told by the narrator that he's John Kárpáthy's constant companion after the incident with the coffin, but we have to take the author at his word.

It didn't help my conspiratorial side that the lengths of the chapters were gradually shrinking, as if the editor got bolder in paring back the text as the story wound on. Sadly, I don't have an uncut text to compare with, so this is all just idle speculation.

Meanwhile, as Mike and the other secondary characters from the initial chapters fell away, Fanny's story launched and eventually consumed the book, with the (admittedly marvelous) villain Abellino as the thread that tied everything together. Maybe I haven't acclimated to the task at hand, but once I realized Fanny's story was going to be the main story, and her story was one of those stories, I got a sinking feeling. Especially when I got my first taste of the tone being used for that side of the story.

I eventually adjusted to my approach and found my own type of entertainment in Fanny's story...probably not the type of entertainment the author intended, but really, she thought she was going to Hell for reading a "fresh" note from a guy. Not for actually doing anything in the note (and seriously, all he asked was for her to leave the garden gate open after dark), just for reading. As it transpired, she also had a genteel version of that Jimmy-Carter-Playboy-interview lust in her heart, although she was properly ashamed of herself even if she didn't indulge any of her inner gremlins. So she wasn't completely unbearable, although modern readers without an overdeveloped sentimental streak would best read her inner torments with a healthy dose of snark...and there are plenty of chances to do that.

Once I made the necessary adjustments of expectation, I enjoyed myself quite a bit, but doggonnit, they told me this story was about a Hungarian Nabob! The Nabob was a fun guy, so it's a damn shame he didn't figure more into his own book. Unless he did. Damn you, abridged edition.

MVP of the Novel: Abellino, who truly earned his stripes as upperclass twit supreme, at most points being a monumental jerk and underhanded schemer just for the sheer joy of it. Bonus points for cursing the "n(-word)" Hungarian language, but not hesitating to ask for a sackload of Hungarian money. Spoken like a true carpetbagger.

Nagging Question: Some character points are approached head-on (Aunt Teresa is a Bible reading godly cat lady, and we find that out because we're shown the Bible, the moralism, and the cat), others are approached sideways (Fanny's sisters were whores, and we get to figure that out for ourselves because they always had money and didn't have either husbands or jobs). One point, however, eludes me: Griffard was a financier (loan shark, really), he was unsettlingly charming, and--here's the bit that made me wonder--he lived on the Ile de Jerusalem in Paris. Maybe this isn't anything, but was that Jokai's subtle way of saying that Griffard was a Jewish moneylender? If he was playing into the stereotype, he didn't beat us over the head with it, but as long as I'm second-guessing my reactions to the book, we might as well put this one on the table, too.

And now, the old book report question...Would you recommend it to a friend?: Yes. In the end, I really found myself enjoying the story...taking the previously-listed reservations into account, of course.

Edit on 14 June: I just realized that I left the most important question unanswered, seeing as how this is a blog about antique summer reading: Is this (still) a summer book? (By that, I mean "Could this pass as 'light reading' today for someone without a degree in literature?") I'd say "possibly"; once you look up what a "heyduke" is, it's a steady (if occasionally stiff) read with a little bit of everything, even if in the end the author (or the editor) shorted me on the stuff I enjoyed personally. There are sentimental and moralistic streaks throughout that might smack some modern readers around, but that's never been an issue with me if the author is good at his/her job, which Jokai was. Maybe that makes me a freak (as if that's the only thing that makes me a freak), but we're going to get that from a lot of these books anyway, so you might as well adjust your expectations accordingly.

Next: Well, you tell me. It's time to pick another book from the list, friends, and I'll be forced to do it myself if you don't.

A Hungarian Nabob Chapters 21 and 22: "I'll be dead soon...Sincerely, Master John"

We join Rudolf in Chapter 21 ("Last Will and Testament") arriving at the Castle, the scene of so many good times, but alas, now all the world's an empty stage where Fanny laughed and Fanny played. You thought we were done with Bobby Goldsboro, didn't you?

As they were passing through the suite of rooms, Squire John suddenly stopped Rudolf, and said—

"Look! in this room I heard her laugh for the last time. On that chair yonder she lost her shawl—it is there still. On that table is a pair of gloves, the last she ever wore. Here she used to sit when she sketched. There's the piano, still open—a fantasia lies, you see, on the music-stand. If she should come back again, eh?"

And now he opened the door of a room illuminated by candles—Rudolf shrunk back.

"Old friend, that's not a fit place to enter. Surely you have lost yourself in your own house! That is your wife's bedroom."

"I know, but I can never pass it without going in. And now I mean to have a last look at it, for to-morrow I shall have it walled up. Look, everything remains just as she left it. She did not die in this room—don't be alarmed! That door yonder leads to the garden. Look, everything is in its old place—there the lamp by which she used to read, on the table a half-written letter, which nobody has read. A hundred times have I entered the room, and not a word of that letter have I read. To me it is holy. In front of the bed are her two little embroidered slippers, so tiny that they look as if they had been made for a child. On the table is an open prayer-book, between the open leaves of which are an iris and an amaranth and a maple leaf. She greatly loved those flowers."

"Let us go away from hence, let us go away," urged Rudolf. "It pains me to hear you talk so."

"It pains you, eh?—it does me good. I have sat here for days together, and have called to mind every word she said. I see her before me everywhere, asleep, awake, smiling, sorrowful—I see her resting her pretty head on the pillows, I see her sleeping, I see her dying——"

"Oh! come, come away!"

"We will go, Rudolf. And I shall never come back again. To-morrow a smooth wall will be here in the place of the door, and iron shutters will cover all the windows. I feel that I ought not to seek her here any more. Elsewhere, elsewhere I will seek her: we will dwell together in another room. Let us go, let us go!"

And smilingly, without a tear, like one who is preparing for his bridal day, he quitted the room, casting one more look around upon it from the threshold, and a dumb kiss into the darkness, as if he were taking leave for a last time of a beloved object visible only to himself. (pp. 345-6)

There were times as a teenager that my parents wanted to wall off my room. Preferably with me still inside. But I digress.

Anyway, Rudolf's presence was required because John Kárpáthy has become convinced that he will die very soon and would like to get his will in order with Rudolf his executor. When they enter the library, the witnesses are already in place: the local notary (the local notary...living in a country where it seems like every third person has taken the notary exam, that struck me in an interesting place), the parish priest, estate agent Peter Varga, and Mike Kis. (Remember Mike Kis? Remember when I thought Mike Kis would actually figure into this story a whole lot more than he actually did? Well, here he is again...)

First, a few memorial funds to set up: 50,000 florins to maintain the garden and keep it planted with the irises and amaranths which Fanny dearly loved, 10,000 florins to maintain a conservatory in her honor by the maple tree at the Castle of Madaras (don't think that both of those didn't make Rudolf squirm inwardly), and 50,000 for a fund that deserves to be covered a bit more in depth:

"Furthermore," pursued Squire John, "I bequeath 50,000 florins to form a fund for dowering girls of good behaviour on their marriage. On every anniversary of the day on which my unforgettable wife fell asleep, all the young maids on my estate shall meet together in the church to pray to God for the souls of those that have died; then the three among these virgins whom the priest shall judge to be the most meritorious shall be presented with bridal wreaths in the presence of the congregation, and the sum of money set apart for them; and then they shall proceed to the tomb and deck it with flowers, and pray that God may make her who lies there happier in the other world than she was in this. And that is my desire." (p. 348)

We then move on to the funeral arrangements, and John declares that he wants the same service his Fanny received, from the same participants. He even has his casket at the ready and has taken to sleeping in it, just to get used to the idea. We can only assume he isn't going to be buried in the casket.

As to the disposition of his baby boy, John realizes that Abellino, as his closest living relative, would usually have first dibs on guardianship of Zoltán. He also realizes letting that happen would be an epic disasterpiece, so he chose a man in whom he recognizes as representing the type of man he'd want his son to be as an adult: Count Rudolf Szentirmay. "'She' also wished it."

And while we're thinking of our favorite black sheep...

"And now," continued the Nabob, "a word or two concerning him who was the cause of the bitterest moments of my life. I mean my nephew, who was christened Bélá, but who calls himself Abellino. I will not reckon up the sins he has committed against God, his country, and myself. God and his country forgive him, as I have forgiven him; but I should be a liar and a hypocrite before God if I said, at this hour, that I loved him. I feel as cold towards him as towards one whom I have never seen. And now he is reduced to the beggar's staff; now he has more debts than the hairs of his head. What will become of him? He cannot work—he has never earned a penny; he has never learnt anything: he is bankrupt both in body and mind. He is not likely to take his own life, for libertines do not readily become suicides. And far be the thought of such a thing from him. I desire it not. Let him live. Let him have time to turn to God! Nor do I wish him to be a beggar, to feel want, to beg his bread at other men's doors. I order, therefore, that my agent at Pest shall pay him a gold ducat down every day. I fancy that will be quite enough to keep anybody from suffering want. But this ducat he himself must come and fetch day by day, and it must be paid to nobody but himself personally. But every time he fails to come for such ducat it shall be forfeited to the lawyer, and it must in no case be attached for debt, or paid to him in advance. But every time my birthday, John Baptist's Day, comes round, he shall receive a lump sum of one hundred ducats down extra. It is my wish that he should rejoice beforehand at the coming of that day every year, and that he should thus remember me from year to year. (pp. 352-3)

Good ol' Master John, generous in his final victory, but not to the point that he won't twist the knife just a bit. Abellino'll choke on that for sure. Not that I doubt he'll collect every bit of it, too...

And that leaves the assembled: Mike Kis gets John's favorite horse and hunting dog, Rudolf will be the manager of the estate in addition to his guardianship of the estate's heir, and Peter Varga gets the Lapayi property, the servant Paul, and (oh dear) Vidra the jester. Maybe after the funeral Varga could trade Vidra for the dog. Depends on which is better housebroken, I suppose.

With that, the document is signed and sealed, and the group heads to the cradle.

"In no very long time, I shall see the happier country face to face. If you hear that I am sick, say no prayers in church for my recovery,—it would be useless; pray rather for my new life. And now let us go to my son."

"To my son!" What feeling, what pathos was in that one phrase: "To my son!"

All who were present followed him, and surrounded the child's cradle. The little thing looked gravely at all those serious manly faces, as if it also would have made one of them. The squire lifted him in his arms. The child looked at him with such big wise eyes, as if he were taking it all in; and the old man kissed his little lips again and again.

Then he was passed round among all the other old fellows, and he looked at them all so gravely, as if he knew very well that they were all of them honourable men; but when Rudolf took him in his arms the child began to kick and crow, and fight with his little hands, and make a great fuss, as children are wont to do when they are in a good humour—who knows why?—and Rudolf kissed the child's forehead.

"How glad he is," said the Nabob, "just as if he knew that from henceforth you will be his father."

A few hours later the whole company sat down to supper.

They noticed that the Squire ate and drank nothing, but he explained that, after taking the holy bread and wine, he would not sit down to ordinary food, and meant to eat nothing till the morrow.

And the old servant waiting upon them whispered to Rudolf that his master had not touched a thing since yesterday evening. (pp. 354-5)

And that is what some people would call a bad sign. Especially with only three pages left in the story.

If there was any doubt, Chapter 22 ("The Leave-Taking") yanks it away without delay.

Towards midnight a great hubbub arose in the castle, and servants began rushing up and down stairs. Rudolf, who was still half dressed, went out into the corridor, and came face to face with old Paul.

"What is the matter?" said he.

The old servant would have spoken, but his lips were sealed; he shivered convulsively, like one who would fain cry and cannot. At last he came out with it, and there were tears on his cheek and in his eyes—

"He is dead!"

"Impossible!" cried Rudolf; and he hastened to the Squire's bedroom.

There lay the Nabob with closed eyes, his hands folded across his breast, in front of him his wife's portrait that he might gaze upon it to the last. That countenance looked so venerable after death, it seemed to have been purified from all disturbing passions, only the old ancestral dignity was visible in every feature.

He had died so quietly that even the faithful old servant, who slept in the same room with him, had not been aware of it: only when, struck by the extraordinary stillness, he had gone to see if his master wanted anything, did he perceive that he was dead.

Rudolf at once sent for the doctor, although one glance at the quiet face assured him that there was no need of doctors here. (pp. 356-7)

Since everything was ready for the funeral, they got right to it, and none of Master John's old friends shirked their obligation for final respects.

A tremendous crowd followed the coffin to the grave. The most eminent men in the kingdom carried torches before it, the most distinguished ladies in the land were among the mourners that followed after it. Custom demanded that the heir, the eldest son, should accompany his father's coffin. But as the heir was only six months old, he had to be carried, and it was Lady Szentirmay who carried him in her bosom. And every one who saw it maintained that she embraced and protected the child as tenderly as if she were really its mother.

Happy child!

The good old Nabob was committed to his last resting-place by the selfsame priest who had spoken such consolatory words over the body of his wife. There was much weeping, but the one who wept the most was the priest himself, who ought to have comforted the others.

Then they lowered him down into those silent mansions where the dead have their habitation, and they laid him by the side of his departed wife as he had desired. The last hymns sounded so ghostly down in the vault there as the wailing chant ascended up through the earth, even those who wept made haste to depart from thence and get into the light of day once more. And the heavy iron door clanged thunderously on its hinges behind them.

And the Nabob? Ah, now he is happy indeed, happy for evermore! (pp. 357-8)

Not much to add to that. The ending's a little bit maudlin, but when you close with a funeral, that's kind of hard to avoid.

Next: final thoughts, gripes, and nagging questions.

A Hungarian Nabob Chapters 19 and 20: And Fanny, I Miss You...

Let's not waste any time, the book seems to be telling us with only four chapters left (three shorts and a longish one). Chapter 19 ("Zoltán Kárpáthy") gives us the birth of Kárpáthy's son and boy, is our Nabob delighted.

Who can describe the joy of Squire John thereat? What he had hitherto only ventured to hope, to imagine, his hardiest, most ardent desire was gratified: his wife had a son! A son who would be his heir and perpetuate his name! who was born in happier times, who would make good the faults of his father, and by means of his youthful virtues fulfil the obligations which the Kárpáthy family owed to its country and to humanity.

If only he might live long enough to hear the child speak, to read a meaning in his sweet babblings, to speak words to him that he might understand and never forget, so that in the days to come, when he was the fêted hero of all great and noble ideas, he might say, "I first heard of these things from that good old fellow, John Kárpáthy."

What should be the child's name? It should be the name of one of those princes who drank out of the same wine-cup with the primal ancestor of the House of Kárpáthy on the fair plains of Hunnia. It should be Zoltán—Zoltán Kárpáthy—how beautifully that would sound! (p. 332)

"Cat's in the cradle and the silver goblet"? Or "Bidin' my time, watching Zolty grow"? Honestly, I lost track of this story's timeline some time ago, but assuming we're in John's late seventies by this point, he probably doesn't have a lot of time to bide watching Zolty do anything.

The Bobby Goldsboro song is the obvious choice, since soon Master John will be singing "Honey, I miss you."

Towards the afternoon the doctor emerged again, and asked him to retire with him to another room.

"Why? I prefer being here; at least I can hear what they are talking about."

"Yes; but I don't want you to hear what they are talking about in there."

John stared at him. He began to feel bad as he met the doctor's cold look; and he followed him mechanically into the adjoining room.

"Well, sir, what is it you wish to say to me that others may not hear?"

"Your worship, a great joy has this day befallen your house."

"I know it. I understand it. God be praised!"

"God has indeed blessed your worship with a great joy, but it has also seemed good to Him to prove you with affliction."

"What do you mean by that?" thundered the terrified Kárpáthy, and his face turned blue.

"Look now, your worship, this is just what I feared, and that is why I called you aside into an adjoining room; show yourself a Christian, and learn to bear the hand of God."

"Don't torture me; say exactly what has happened."

"Your honour's wife will die."

After hearing this Kárpáthy stood there without uttering a word.

"If there was any help for her in this world," continued the doctor, "I would say there is hope, but it is my duty to tell you that her hours, her moments, are numbered, therefore your honour must play the man, and go to her and bid her good-bye, for ere long she will be unable to speak." (p. 334)

Well, she didn't waste any time getting around to that. And now, at length, the death scene.

Kárpáthy allowed himself to be led into the dying woman's chamber. The whole world was blurred before him, he saw nobody, he heard nothing; he saw her only lying there pale, faded, with the sweat of death upon her glorious face, with the pallor of death around her dear lips, with the refracted gleam of death in her beautiful inspired eyes.

There he stood, beside the bed, unable to speak a word. His eyes were tearless. The room was full of serving-maids and nurses. Here and there a stifled sob was to be heard. He neither saw nor heard anything. He only gazed dumbly, stonily, at the dying woman. On each side of the bed a familiar form was kneeling—Flora and Teresa.

The good old aunt, with clasped hands, was praying, her face concealed among the pillows. Flora held the little boy in her arms; he was sleeping with his head upon her bosom.

The sick woman raised her breaking eyes towards her husband, stretched out her trembling, fevered hand, and, grasping the hand of her husband, drew it towards her panting lips, and gasped, in a scarcely audible voice, "Remember me!"

Squire John did not hear, he did not understand what she said to him, he only held his wife's hand in both his own as if he believed that he could thereby draw her away from Death.

After an hour's heavy struggle, the feverish delirium of the sick woman began to subside, her blood circulated less fiercely, her hands were no longer so burning hot, her breathing grew easier.

She began to look about her calmly and recognize every one. She spoke to those about her in a quiet, gentle voice; the tormenting sweat had vanished from her face.

"My husband, my dear husband!" she said, casting a look full of feeling upon Squire John.

Her husband rejoiced within himself, thinking it a sign of amendment; but the doctor shook his head, he knew it was a sign of death.

Next, the sick woman turned towards Flora. Her friend guessed the meaning of her inquiring look, and held the little child nestling on her bosom to the sick woman's lips. Fanny tenderly strained it to her heaving breast, and kissed the face of the sleeping child, who at every kiss opened its dark-blue eyes, and then drooped them and went on sleeping again.

The mother put it back on Flora's breast, and, pressing the lady's hand, whispered to her—

"Be a mother to my child."

Flora could not reply, but she nodded her head. Not a sound would come to her lips, and she turned her head aside, lest the dying woman should see the tears in her eyes.

Then Fanny folded her hands together on her breast, and murmured the single prayer which she had been taught to say in her childhood—

"O God, my God, be merciful to me, poor sinful girl, now and for evermore. Amen."

Then she cast down her eyes gently, and fell asleep.

"She has gone to sleep," murmured the husband, softly.

"She is dead," faltered the doctor, with a look of pity.

And the good old Nabob fell down on his knees beside the bed, and, burying his head in the dead woman's pillows, sobbed bitterly, oh, so bitterly! (pp. 335-6)

Yeah, I know, "get my insulin," but considering the cauldrons of deathbed drama Dickens could whip up, we got off light. And remember, he was Quite Worthy. Cue the female chorus.

Chapter 20 ("Secret Visitors") takes us to a snowy wood near Kárpáthy Castle, and the approach of a familiar figure who we haven't seen in quite some time.

In the rear of the sledge sat a man wrapped in a simple mantle; in front, a peasant, in a sheepskin bunda, was driving the two lean horses.

The sitter behind frequently stood up in the sledge, and swept the plain on every side, as if he were in search of something. The preserves of the Kárpáthy estate loomed darkly before him, and by the time they reached a ramshackle old wooden bridge, the visitor perceived what he sought.

"Those are pine-trees, are they not?" he inquired of the coachman.

"Yes, young sir; one can recognize them from a distance, for they are still green when the others have shed their leaves."

They were the only trees of the sort in the whole region. They had all been planted in Squire John's time.

"Here we will stop, old comrade. You return to the wayside csárda; I will take a turn about here alone. I shall not be longer than an hour away."

"It would be as well were I to accompany you, young sir, if you mean to take a stroll, for wolves are wont to wander hither."

"It is not necessary, my good friend, I am not afraid."

And with that the stranger dismounted from the sledge, and, taking his axe in his hand, directed his way through the snowy field to the spot where the pines stood out darkly against the snow-white plain.

What was beneath those pines?

The family vault of the Kárpáthys, and he who came to visit it at that hour was Alexander Boltay. (p. 338)

Yes, Alexander never stopped carrying a torch for Fanny, and since he heard of her death he's been walking around in his own special type of misery. He made this pilgrimage to confess the love in death that he couldn't in life. Master John had the pines planted so that even in the dead of winter it might be green. And see the trees, how big they've grown...

To this scene arrives another unexpected visitor, Rudolf.

"What are you doing here, sir?" asked Rudolf, who was the first to recover his composure, drawing nearer to the pedestal.

Alexander recognized the voice, he knew that it was Rudolf, and could not understand why he should have come to that place at that hour.

"Count Szentirmay," he said gently, "I am that artisan to whom you showed a kindness once upon a time; be so good as to show yet another kindness to me by leaving me here alone and asking no questions."

Then Rudolf recognized the young man, and it suddenly flashed across his mind that the dead woman before she became Dame Kárpáthy had[Pg 341] been engaged to a poor young artisan who had so bravely, so chivalrously, exposed himself to death for her sake.

Now he understood everything.

He took the young man's hand and pressed it.

"You loved this lady? You have come hither to mourn over her?"

"Yes, sir. There's nothing to be ashamed of in that. One may love the dead. I loved that woman, I love her now, and I shall never love another."

Rudolf's heart went out to the young man.

"You remain here," he said, "I will leave you to yourself. I will wait in the cemetery outside, and if I can be of any service to you command me."

"Thank you, sir, I will go too; I have done what I came here to do." (pp. 340-1)

He kisses the letters of Fanny's name on the monument and rides back to the country inn, leaving Rudolf alone with his thoughts.

Shortly afterwards the sledge disappeared in the darkness of the night by the same road by which it had come. Rudolf returned to the pine-trees, and paid another visit to the white monument. There he stood and thought of the woman who had suffered so much, and who, perhaps, was thinking of him there below. Her face stood before him now as it had looked when she had followed with her eyes the rejected amaranth; as it had looked when she galloped past him on her wild charger; as it had looked when she had hidden it on his bosom in an agony of despairing love, in order that there she might weep out her woe, amidst sweet torture and painful joy, that secret woe which she had carried about with her for years. And when he thought on these things, his fine eyes filled with tears.

He noticed the imprints of the knees of the departed youth, where he had knelt on the pedestal of the monument in the snow, and he fell a-thinking.

Did not this woman, who had so suffered, lived and died, deserve as much? And he himself bent his knee before the monument.

And he read the name. Like a spectral invitation, those five letters, F-a-n-n-y, gleamed before him so seductively.

For a long time he remained immersed in his own reflections, and thought—and thought—

At last he bent down and kissed the five letters one after another, just as the other young fellow had done. (p. 342-3)

And with that small ceremony done, he mounts his horse and rides for Kárpáthy Castle on what he's been assured is urgent business.

Sorry, I didn't have the heart to snark all over this scene. That's going to happen from time to time.

Next: More death. We are surrounded by it! Oh, also the end of the book. Now and forever.

A Hungarian Nabob Chapters 17 and 18: Rudolf the Red-Faced Jerkwad

Chapter 17 ("A Dangerous Experiment") picks up where we left off, where we find Flora masterfully baiting her bullheaded husband by denying him none of her customary affections...except the big one.

He fancied that he was enjoying to the full the victory won in yesterday's warfare, and he felt magnanimous and would not reproach his wife with her defeat in that sweet hour. But when he embraced Flora with both arms as if he were going to hold her fast for ever, the lady gently disentangled herself, and, leaning on his shoulder, whispered in his ear—

"And now, my dear Rudolf, God be with you! Let us wish each other good night."

Rudolf was dumfounded.

"You see I am not so flighty as you fancied. I am not weak even where you are concerned; but I can love, and nobody shall forbid me to love whom I will." And with that she blew him a kiss from the threshold of her bedroom, and Rudolf heard her double-lock the door behind her.

Now this of itself was more than enough to make any man angry.

Rudolf tore at least two buttons off his coat in the act of undressing, and in his wrath took down Hugo Grotius, read steadily away at it till midnight, and then dashed Hugo Grotius to the ground, for he did not understand a word that he had been reading. His thoughts were elsewhere.

And the following day passed away with the same peculiar variations.

His wife was captivatingly amiable. Like a seductive siren, she immeshed her husband in the magic charms of her caresses, was kindness, tenderness personified, loaded him with every little attention which one can look for from a gracious lady, right up to her bedroom door, which she again locked in his face.

Now this was the most exquisite torture conceivable to which a man can be submitted. Compared with this little fairy, a Nero, a Caligula was a veritable philanthropist. (pp. 315-6)

Ow. Reeeeeeeeeejected. He asks her in exasperation how long will this go on? Her answer, in essence, is "Until you get your ass off your shoulders, dear."

However, sleeping alone puts bad ideas into a man's head (yeah, tell me about it), and he decides the only way to put this nonsense to bed is to grab a coach for the Kárpáthy castle at Nagy Kun Madaras and seduce his wife's best friend. For science!

Rudolf whispered lovingly in her ear, "Come now, shall there be an end to our warfare?"

"I require an unconditional surrender," said Flora, with an unappeasable smile.

"Good! there shall be an end to it when I return, but then I shall dictate peace."

Flora shook her pretty head dubiously, and kissed her husband again and again; and when he was actually sitting in the coach, she ran after him to kiss him once more, and then went out on the balcony and followed him with her eyes, whilst Rudolf leaned out of the coach, and so they kept on bidding each other adieu with hat and handkerchief till the coach was out of sight.

And thus an honest husband quitted his house with the fixed resolve to deceive another man's wife, simply in order that he might thereby win back his own.

If only he had known what he was doing! (p. 317)

It's one of the red-letter rules in the Book of Guys: Never let common sense get in the way of an awesome plan.

Fanny and Master John are roaming through their English-style garden (and to hammer the purity angle home, author Jokai even has deer eating out of Fanny's hand) when Rudolf's carriage rolls up the pathway. Even with his old-man vision, John recognizes the Szentirmay horses, but Fanny recognizes the danger, and it sets off all kinds of alarms in her head.

"Come, come, don't you want to meet your friend?" insisted the good old man.

"It is not Flora," stammered Fanny, with frightened, embarrassed eyes.

"Then who else can it be?" asked the Squire. He must have been somewhat surprised at the conduct of his wife, but there was not a grain of suspicion in his composition, so he simply asked again, "Then who else can it be?"

"It is Flora's husband," said Fanny, withdrawing her hand from her husband's arm.

Squire John began to laugh.

"Why, what a silly the girl is! Why, you must welcome him too, of course. Are you not the mistress of the house?"

Not another word did Fanny speak, but she hardened her face as well as her heart, and hastened towards the coming guest on her husband's arm.

By the time they reached the forecourt of the castle, Rudolf's carriage was rumbling into the courtyard. The young nobleman perceived and hastened towards them. Kárpáthy held out his hand while he was still some way off, and Rudolf pressed it warmly.

"Well, and won't you hold out your hand too?" said the Squire to his wife; "he's the husband of your dear friend, is he not? Why do you look at him as if you had never seen him before?"

Fanny fancied that the ground beneath her must open, and the columns and stone statues of the old castle seemed to be dancing round her. She felt the pressure of a warm hand in hers, and she involuntarily leaned her dizzy head on her husband's shoulder.

Rudolf regarded her fixedly, and his ideas concerning this woman were peculiar: he took this pallor for faint-heartedness, this veiled regard for coquetry, and he believed it would be no difficult matter to win her. (pp. 318-9)

As this visit goes on, we'll find that Rudolf is a brilliant misreader of Fanny's signals, especially the "mortification" ones.

After spending all day with Squire John, the old man excuses himself for an after-dinner lie-down, leaving Rudolf with the choice of perusing his library or trying to befool his wife. Y'know, whatever floats your boat. Rudolf corners Madame Kárpáthy in the garden and breaks down her defenses with some double-edged flower talk.

"Yes, if only your ladyship knew the flowers, not merely by name, but through the medium of that world of fancy which is bound up with the life of the flowers! Every flower has its own life, desires, inclinations, grief and sorrows, love and anguish, just as much as we have. The imaginations of our poets give to each of them its own characteristics, and associates little fables with them, some of which are very pretty. Indeed, you will find much that is interesting in the ideal lives of the flowers."

Here Rudolf broke off an iris from a side-bed.

"Look, here is a happy family, three husbands and three wives, each husband close beside his wife. They bloom together, they wither together; not one of them is inconstant. This is the bliss of flowers. These are all happy lovers."

Then Rudolf threw away the iris, and plucked an amaranth.

"Now, here we have the aristocrats. In the higher compartment is the husband, in the lower the wife—upper-class married life. Nevertheless, the ashen-purple colour of the flower shows that its life is happy."

Here Rudolf rubbed the amaranth between his fingers, and innumerable little dark seeds fell into the palm of his hand.

"As black as pearls, you see," said Rudolf.

"Yes, as pearls," lisped Fanny, thinking it quite natural that they should pour out of the youth's hand into her own, for it was a shame to lose them. There was not a pure pearl in the Indies that she would have exchanged for these little seeds. And now Rudolf threw the amaranth away too.

Fanny glanced in the direction of the rejected flower, as if to make sure of the place where it had fallen.

"And now will your ladyship look at those two maples standing side by side? What handsome trees they are! One of them seems to be of a brighter green than the other: that, therefore, is the wife; the darker one is the husband. They also are happy lovers. But now look over yonder! There stands a majestic maple tree all by itself. How yellow its foliage is! Poor thing! it has not found a husband. Some pitiless gardener has planted it beside a nut tree, and that is no mate for it. How pale, how yellow it looks, poor thing! But, good Heavens! how pale you are! What is the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing, sir," said Fanny, "only a little giddiness," and without the slightest hesitation she leant on Rudolf's arm.

He fancied he understood, but he was very far from understanding. (pp. 320-2)

Therefore, when he knocked on the lady's bedroom door later that night, it was with certain expectations. Those expectations probably didn't include Fanny excusing herself from the room, presumably to find some moral support in her hour of darkness, and they definitely didn't include what he found carefully hidden under a handkerchief: her prayer book, with an iris and an amaranth pressed between the pages. Ooooo. In his head, the light snapped on, with the realization of what type of game he was playing and with what type of woman. And that's when Fanny reenters the room, while the evidence is lying out in the open. Now he knows, and she knows he knows, which leaves her free to have another one of her emotional breakdowns.

"Why did you come here," inquired the lady in a voice trembling with emotion—she could control herself no longer—"when, day after day, I have been praying God that I might never see you again? When I avoided every place where I might chance to meet you, why did you seek me out here? I am lost, for God has abandoned me. In all my life, no man's image has been in my heart save yours alone. Yet I had buried that away too, far out of sight. Why, why did you make it come to life again? Have you not observed that I fled every spot where you appeared? Did not your very arms prevent me from seeking death when we met together again! Ah, how much I suffered then because of you? Oh, why did you come hither to see me in my misery, in my despair?"

And she covered her face with her hands, and wept.

Rudolf was vexed to the soul at what he had done.

Presently Fanny withdrew the handkerchief from the Prayer-book, dried her streaming eyes, and resumed, in a stronger voice—

"And now what does it profit you to know that I am a senseless creature struggling with despair when I think of you? Can you be the happier for it? I shall be all the unhappier, for now I must deny myself even the very thought of you."

What could he say to her? What words could he find wherewith to comfort her? What could he do but extend his hand to her and allow her to cover it with her tears and kisses? What could he do but allow her in her passionate despair to fall upon his breast, and, sobbing and moaning, hold him embraced betwixt unspeakable agony and unspeakable joy?

And when she had wept herself out on his breast, the poor lady grew calmer, and ceasing her sobbing, said in a determined voice—

"And now I swear to you before that God who will one day judge me for my sins, that if ever I see you again, that same hour shall be the hour of my death. If, then, you have any compassion, avoid me! I beg of you not your love but your pity; I shall know how to get over it somehow in time."

Rudolf's fine eyes sparkled with tears. This poor lady had deserved to be happy, and yet she had only been happy a single moment all her life, and that moment was when she had hung sobbing on his breast.

How long and weary life must be to her from henceforth! (pp. 324-6)

Having done his damage, and with a full and awful awareness of the damage he had just done, he left for home that night without a by-your-leave. Fanny wins, but everybody loses in the long term.

Chapter 18 ("Unpleasant Discoveries") brings us wintertime in Pest, where both the days and the chapters are growing shorter (five pages (!)), and the well-to-do (including our main characters) are again making camp. The hubbub of the day was signaled by the arrival of the party maestro, "our friend" Kecskerey. This time through, his path of destruction includes a gentlemen's club, where his end of the entertainment not only includes his endless well of travel yarns, but the type of things that happens when he's in the same room with (here we go again, friends) Abellino, the increasingly ineffectual villain of this piece.

Abellino went towards Kecskerey. He attributed the fact that he drew after him a whole group of gentlemen, who quitted the tea-tables and the whist-tables to crowd around him, to the particular respect of the present company to himself personally.

"I congratulate you," cried Kecskerey, in a shrill nasal voice, waving his hands towards Abellino.

"What for, you false club?"

Thus it was clear that Abellino also was struck by Kecskerey's great resemblance to the historical playing-card already mentioned, and this sally brought the laughter over to his side.

"Don't you know that I have just come from nunky, my dear?"

"Ah, that's another matter," said Abellino, in a somewhat softer voice. "And what, pray, is the dear old gentleman up to now?"

"That's just where my congratulations come in. All at home send you their best greetings, kisses, and embraces. The old gentleman is as sound as an acorn, or as a ripe apple freshly plucked from the tree. Don't be in the least concerned on his account; your uncle feels remarkably well. But your aunt is sick, very sick, and to all appearance she will be sicker still."

"Poor auntie!" said Abellino. "No doubt," thought he to himself, "that is why he congratulates me; and good news, too. No wonder he congratulates me. Perhaps she'll even die—who knows?—And what's the matter with her?" he asked aloud.

"Ah, she is in great danger. I assure you, my friend, that when last I saw her, the doctors had prohibited both riding and driving." (pp. 328-9)

Yeah, she's sick alright, especially in the morning. And once it sinks in, ya dumb bastard, you'll be even sicker. To continue...

Even now the real state of things would not have occurred to Abellino's mind, had not a couple of quicker-witted gentlemen, who had come there for the express purpose of laughing, and were therefore on the alert for the point of the jest, suddenly laughed aloud. Then, all at once, light flashed into his brain.

"A thousand devils! You are speaking the truth now, I suppose?"

His face could not hide the fury which boiled up within him.

"Why, how else should I have cause to congratulate you?" said Kecskerey, laughing.

"Oh, it is infamous!" exclaimed Abellino, beside himself. (pp. 329)

As much of an opportunistic jerk Kecskerey has been, it's absoultely delicious how ready he is to kick Abellino when he's down. As the author said, "He never pitied any one who was unfortunate; he reserved all his sympathy for the prosperous."

Now that all that land and all that money he would've inherited is rapidly darting out of view, a question occurs to Bélá: who's the baby daddy? "Our friend" Kecskerey has the exact answer Abellino doesn't want to hear.

"I am absolutely sure I know who her lover is," remarked Kecskerey.

"Who?" asked Abellino, with sparkling eyes. "Oh, that man I should like to know!"

Kecskerey, who was having rare sport with him, drew his neck down between his shoulders, and continued—"How many times have I not seen you fall upon his neck, and kiss and embrace him!"

"Who is it, who is it?" cried Abellino, catching hold of Kecskerey's arm.

"Would you like to know?"

"I should."

"Then it is—her husband." (pp. 330-1)

John Kárpáthy, everybody. The potent potentate. The genetic jackhammer. The ram that am. Dwell on that for a moment.

Of course, Abellino being Abellino, he threatens to tear down Madame Kárpáthy's house of deceit and find out who's really been making her sooooo bloody happy. At that point, a familiar voice pipes up from across the room.

"Gentlemen," it said, "you forget that it is not becoming in men of breeding to make ribald jests about the name of a lady whom nobody in the world has any cause or any right to traduce."

"What, Rudolf! Why, what interest have you in the matter?" inquired the astonished Kecskerey.

"This much—I am a man and will not allow a woman whom I respect to be vilified in my presence."

That was saying a great deal, and there was no blinking it, not only because Rudolf was right and enjoyed the best of reputations, but also because he was known to be the best shot and swordsman in the place, and cool-headed and lucky to boot.

So from henceforth Madame Kárpáthy's name ceased to be alluded to in the club. (p. 331)

Yep, that's all it took. Nice to see he came through when it counted. I can't help think that I'm forgetting something, though...

(skips back to the first paragraph of the recap)

Flora...master baiter...heh heh. Okay, I'm done now.

Next: The homestretch of book #1! A baby! The stench of death!

A Hungarian Nabob Chapter 16: Into The Doghouse

Isn't that always the way. Just when Fanny thought she could run away from her problems again, in Chapter 16 ("Light Without and Night Within"), her problems come looking for her. Again.

Flora's husband, whom you might remember as the totally awesome Rudolf, is being installed as Lord Lieutenant, and Flora convinces Fanny to return the previous year's favor helping with the celebration planning. And even with a year's distance, Fanny still can't deal, at least until she spends some time living under the same roof with her icon.

And indeed Fanny herself found the situation much less dangerous than she had imagined. Ideals, especially ideals of the masculine gender, in their domestic circles lose very much of the nimbus which they carry about with them elsewhere. At home you hear them whistle and shout, and bully their servants and domestics, and see them immersed in everyday household affairs. You see them eat and drink and look bored. You see them with imperfect or unaccomplished toilets, and often with muddy boots, especially when they look after their own horses. You begin to realize that ideals also are as much subject to the petty necessities of life as ordinary men, and do not always preserve the precise postures you are wont to see them in when their portraits adorn the picture-galleries. With women it is quite different. Woman is born to beautify the domestic circle, woman is always fascinating whether she be dressed up or domestically dowdy, but man is least of all fascinating at home.

In a word, Fanny felt the danger to be much less when it was actually before her than it had seemed to be when seen from afar, and she looked at Rudolf much more calmly with her bodily eyes than she had been wont to do with the eyes of her imagination. (p. 302)

It's as true now as it was then: if you've overidealized a man, a surefire cure is to see how he lives. Works nine times out of ten.

So with that supposedly out of the way, we move onto the party planning and installation of Rudolf's office. He wanted to keep it as simple as possible, but obviously nobility had an interesting definition of "simple" back then.

The most eminent ladies of the county watched the procession from the balcony, and Madame Kárpáthy also was among them. It was difficult to recognize any one in particular among all those holiday faces, such a different aspect did their Oriental gravity and splendid Oriental Köntöses give them. Several of the younger cavaliers saluted the ladies with their swords.

At length the carriage of the Főispán came in sight with a clattering escort of twelve knightly horsemen. He himself was sitting bareheaded in the open carriage, and something like emotion was visible on his handsome noble face. Loud cries of "Éljen! éljen!" announced his approach. Every one knew of him by hearsay as the noblest of men, and every one rejoiced that the best of patriots and the most excellent of citizens should have attained the highest dignity in the county. Madame Kárpáthy looked at him tremblingly, better for her if she had never seen him like this.

The procession passed across the square to the gate of the town-hall, and half an hour later Rudolf was standing in the large assembly-room filling it with his sublime impassioned words, till all who heard felt their hearts leap towards him. Madame Kárpáthy also heard him, she was in the gallery. Ah, it would have been better had she neither seen nor heard him there. Now she not merely loved, she adored him. (p. 303)

Hoo-boy. Yes, this again. No winner in this race yet. Please hang onto your stubs while we review the photo...

After Rudolf unwittingly primed Fanny's pump yet again, it was time to convert the hall into a ballroom and get down to the celebration. But when it rains, it pours: during the speech, Mr. Kecskerey had been frantically signaling Fanny from the gallery, and when she begged off Rudolf's offer to dance (too much, too soon?), Kecskerey took advantage of the oppurtunity to sit it out with her. Of course, being Abellino's mole, the topic of conversation was fairly predictable.

"Will it bore your ladyship if we have a little talk together?"

"I am a good listener."

"During the last few days a joyous rumour has flashed through our capital which has made every one happy who has heard it."

"What rumour is that?"

"That your ladyship intends to spend the coming winter in the capital."

"It is not yet certain."

"You drive me to despair. Surely, my friend Kárpáthy is not such an ungallant husband? Why, he should fly to execute his wife's wishes!"

"I have never told anybody that I wanted to reside at Pest."

"The lady is secretive," thought Kecskerey. "I know that they are making their palace at Pest habitable. We shall get to the bottom of it presently."

"Yet the Pest saloons will be very attractive this winter, and we shall form some very elegant sets. The Szépkiesdys are coming up, and we may also expect to see there Count Gergely with his mother, young Eugene Darvay, the handsome Rezsö Csendey, and that genial prince of buffoons, Mike Kis."

Fanny toyed indifferently with her fan; not one of all these persons interested her in the least.

"And I know it as a fact, that our fêted friend Rudolf is also going to spend the winter there, with his handsome wife."

Hah! what impression will that make? Will she be able to conceal the smarting pain she felt at that moment? But no, she did not betray herself; she merely said, "I don't fancy we shall go to Pest."

With that she rose from her seat. The dance was over, and Flora, hastening to her friend, passed her arm round her waist, and they took a turn together round the room.

Mr. Kecskerey began to rock himself gently to and fro on the sofa and draw conclusions.

"Why did she sigh so deeply when she said, 'I don't fancy we shall go to Pest'?" (pp. 305-6)

Well, that well turned out to be a dry hole...maybe.

So while Fanny and Flora made the rounds, BFF style, Kecskerey continued doing the work God (or somebody else) created him for: planting bad ideas in the heads of others. And what's more, he finds Rudolf is shockingly easy to influence.

"Yes, true; poor Abellino, for instance, at one time, would scarce allow that a more beautiful woman had been born into the world since Helen of Troy or Ninon d'Enclos. He was quite mad about her; ruined himself, in fact, because of her. He spent sixty thousand florins upon her."

"What do you mean by that?" inquired Rudolf, much offended.

Kecskerey laughed good-humouredly. "Ma foi! that is a vain question from you, Rudolf. As if you did not know that it is usual to spend something on young women."

"But I know exactly what happened to Abellino when he forced six hundred florins into the girl's hand, and the manner in which she flung them back in his face was equivalent, among friends, to at least three boxes on the ears. I remember it well, because it led to a duel, and I was one of the seconds of Abellino's opponent."

"Ah ça, that's true! But you know how often it happens that when one has flung back a paltry five or six hundred florins between the eyes of the giver, one does not do the same with sixty thousand florins, when offered afterwards. I do not say this from any wish to injure Madame Kárpáthy, for, of course, nothing happened between them. But it is true, nevertheless, that she accepted the offer, and promised her dear mother, worthy Mrs. Meyer, that she would listen to Abellino's words, or to his sixty thousand florins, which is the same thing; and when luck unexpectedly suggested to old Jock that he should sue for her hand, in order to spite his nephew, the girl had sense enough to choose the better of two good offers, and accepted him. But not for all the world would I say anything ill of her. She is a lady of position and altogether blameless; but, for that very reason, I do not see why one or other of us might not have tried his luck with her."

At that moment several other acquaintances came up to Rudolf, and claimed him; so he parted from Kecskerey. But henceforward an unusual air of disquietude was visible on his face, and as often as he encountered his wife, who never left Madame Kárpáthy for an instant, an unpleasant feeling took possession of him, and he thought to himself, "That is a woman who might have been won with sixty thousand florins." (pp. 307-9)

He also contemplated the possibility that Kecskerey would be telling the same yarn all through the party, and that would cast a shadow on his dear wife. And more importantly, that would cast a shadow over him. But, oh yeah, poor Flora!

To his credit, Rudolf wastes no time bringing his misgivings out in the open. But to his damnation, he does it in a fairly condescending way.

"I know all about her; and you, from sheer compassion, have made her a present of your heart. Your sympathy does you honour, but the world has an opinion of this woman very different from yours: in the world's opinion she is frivolous enough."

"The world is unjust."

"Not altogether, perhaps. This woman has a past, and there is much in that past which justifies the world's judgment."

"But in her present there is much which contradicts that judgment. This woman's present conduct is worthy of all respect."

Rudolf tenderly stroked the head of his consort.

"My dear Flora, you are a child; there is much you do not understand, and will not understand. In the world there are ideas, ugly, extraordinary ideas, of which your pure, childlike mind can form no notion."

"Oh, don't suppose me so simple! I know everything. I know that Fanny's sisters were very bad, unprincipled women, and that only the energy of good kinsfolk saved Fanny herself from being betrayed and ruined. I know that in the eyes of the world hers is a very dubious record; but I also know that, so long as I hold that woman's hand in mine, the world will not dare to reproach, will not dare to condemn her; and the thought of it makes me proud and well pleased." (pp. 312-3)

Think about it this way, sweetcheeks, who do you trust more on this issue: yourself, a woman (woman!) too childlike and unbiased to be a proper judge of character (but I love you anyway, babycakes)? Or me? A guy who has barely even been in the same room with this girl until tonight, but has a title? And a penis? Anyway, to continue...

"And suppose you are attacked?"

"I don't understand."

"Suppose they say of you what they say of her, that you are a frivolous, flighty woman?"

"Without cause?"

"Not without cause. She lives in the midst of a band of empty-headed men, who certainly have no particular regard for a woman's reputation. And you, in consequence of your intimacy with Madame Kárpáthy, rub shoulders every day with her acquaintances, and will also be taken for a light, frivolous, frail sort of woman."

"I a light, frail, frivolous woman!" cried Flora, visibly wounded; but the moment afterwards she shrugged her shoulders. "It matters not. Rather let the whole world be unjust to me, than that I should be unjust to any one. And, after all, why should I care about the world, when you are the whole world to me? Let everybody regard me as a light woman for Madame Kárpáthy's sake; so long as you do not, I care nothing about the others."

"And if I, also, considered you as much?"

Flora sprang up from Rudolf's side in amazement.

"Rudolf! think what you are saying. Are you serious?"

"Yes, I am serious."

Flora reflected for an instant, then she said decidedly—

"Very well, Rudolf, I assure you that I am neither frivolous nor weak—weak not even in respect to you." And with that she sprang to the bell-rope and pulled it violently three times.

The maid entered.

"Netti, you will sleep in here with me to-night." (pp. 313-4)

Off to the guest bed with you until you come to your senses, punk. That's what you get for trying to be clever. But don't worry about Rudolf's situation...he's sure she'll come around. Kuz wimmin iz fikkul kreechurz. Besides, ol' Rudolf's got an idea. Then he'll make her crawl back. Crawl, I tells ya!

Didn't there used to be a nabob in this book? He even had a few lines of dialogue at some point...

Next: Rudolf gets ideas. BAD IDEAS.

A Hungarian Nabob Chapters 14 and 15: The EMO Chapter

It's the last grey hour before dawn, but I just couldn't hold off. With a chapter title that loaded, this one promised to be special.

Chapter 14 ("Martyrdom") begins with Fanny apparently at death's door. (Really? Is "the other girl's grass is always greener" blues a terminal disease now? Because that'd wipe out half of TMZ.com's victim list in a year...and sadly, that hasn't happened yet. And book, I love you like a brother, but how many more false alarms are you going to throw me?)

Flora the Ministering Angel stayed at her bedside for the duration, and when Fanny finally regained consciousness, her eyes landed on Flora and Aunt Teresa, whose Christian-based humility had kept her away from the fineries and wineries of Kárpáthy Castle, but wasn't about to leave her favorite niece in the lurch.

With Fanny back among the land of the living, but still fragile enough that everybody insisted on treating her like a china doll, she had a significant amount of time to overthink things. And here's where the chapter justifies the snarky name I gave it in the title bar. I was a little too old for emo by the time I found out what it was; my first reaction to seeing the word for the first time was "That's not how you spell Brian Eno, you snotty punk." But if emo is about loud, thunderous waves of overly emotional music from a pity-my-fragile-soul POV...well then, what do you call this?

And now she could coldly review the whole course of her life. What was he, what had she become now, and what would become of her in the future?

She was the scion of a wretched and shameful family, from whose fate she had only been snatched by hands which, wont to lift themselves in prayer to God, had shielded and defended her against every danger, and prepared for her a peaceful and quiet refuge, where she might have lived like a bird of the forest in its hidden nest.

This refuge she had been forced to quit, in order to take her place in the great world—that great world which had so much in it that was terrifying to her.

Then she had sought a woman's heart that could understand her, and a manly face that might serve her for an ideal.

And she had found them both—the noble-hearted friend, who had been so good, so kind to her, far better and kinder than she had dared to hope; and the idolized youth, of whose heart and mind the world itself had even grander and finer things to say than she herself had ever lavished upon him. And this woman, and this idol of a man were spouses—and he happiest of spouses too!

What must her portion be now?

She must be the dumb witness of that very bliss which she pictured to herself so vividly. Every day she must see the happy face of her friend, and listen to the sweet secrets of her rapture. She must listen while his name is magnified by another; she must look upon the majestic countenance of the youth whom she may not worship—nay, she must not even dare to speak of him, lest her blushes and the tremor of her voice should betray what no man must ever know!

How happy she would have been now, had she never learnt to know this passion, if she had never allowed her soul to fly away after unattainable desires! If only she had listened to that honest old woman she would now be sitting at home in her quiet peaceful cottage among the meadows, with nothing to think of but her flowers!

That was all, all over now!

She was no longer able to go either backwards or forwards. Only to live on, live on, one day after another, and, as every day came round, to sigh, as she got up to face it: "Yet another day!" (pp. 288-9)

Yes sir, that's how I picture the whole scene, with the horn-rims and the turtlenecks, writing all her moments of crazy misery in her high school notebook. But honestly, the Dashboard Confessional MTV Unplugged show and that Weezer album are all I know. So screw me for trying to reach out to da kidz. Moving on...and not a moment too soon...

For John Kárpáthy's part, almost losing (pardon me for rolling my eyes) his young bride made him realize how much he really loved her, so when she was well enough to start asking for favors, he was in a very receptive mood.

"Ask not one favour, but a thousand favours!" cried Kárpáthy, rejoicing that his wife asked anything of him at all.

"Are you not getting ready a new mansion at Pest?" asked Fanny.

"You wish to live there, perhaps?" cried Kárpáthy, hastening to anticipate his wife's wishes. "You can take possession of it at a moment's notice, and, if you don't like it, and want something more handsome, I'll have another built for you this winter."

"Thanks, but I shall be quite satisfied with the one at Pest. I have been thinking to myself what an entirely new life we'll begin to live there together."

"Yes, indeed; we will have lots of company, and of the merriest,—splendid parties——"

"I did not mean that. I am thinking of serious things, of charitable objects. Oh! we who are rich have so many obligations towards the suffering, towards the community, towards humanity."

Poor woman! how she would have escaped from her own burning heart amidst coldly sublime ideas!

"As you please. Seek your joy, then, in drying the eyes of the tearful. Be happy in the blessings which Gratitude will shower upon your name."

"Then you promise me this?"

"I am happy in being able to do anything that pleases you."

"Nay, be not too indulgent. I warn you that will only make me more exacting."

"Speak, speak! would that there were no end to your wishes! Believe me, only then am I unhappy, when I see that nothing delights you, when you are sorrowful, when there's nothing you feel a liking for—then, indeed, I am very, very unhappy! Would you like to go to a watering-place this summer? Where would you like to go? Command me, where would you feel most happy?"

Fanny began reflecting. Whither away? Anywhere, if it only were far enough! Away from the neighbourhood of the Szentirmays, and never come back again! (pp. 291-2)

Yep, if you have a potential point of friction with a friend, the mature thing to do is to run away and and shut them out of your life forever. That's gratitude for you after Flora burned off a month of her life because of her new friend's pyschosomatic life-threatening illness, but the Ministering Angel has a husband hot enough to kill another woman from embarassment, what is Fanny expected to do?

Fanny's other request to Master John was to allow her to never leave his side...not even for a minute. He was more than happy to oblige her on that point, so just like that, she became his second shadow.

Day by day her health returned, and she grew more and more like her old self. And then she would spend whole days with her husband, and bring her embroidery or her book into his room; or she would invite him into her room, when she played the piano; or would drive about with him, in fact, she never left him. She did not wish for any other society. She directed the servants that if any of her old visitors came to see her, they were to be told she was not feeling well, and all the time she would be sitting inside with her husband, and forcing herself to make him happy and load him with joy.

During these days she had very little to do even with Teresa, and very shortly her worthy kinswoman took her leave. Fanny parted from her without tears or sorrow, yet Teresa saw into her soul. When she had kissed the silent lips, and was sitting in the carriage on her way home, she sighed involuntarily, "Poor girl! poor girl!" (pp. 292-3)

And that's where we leave them for now, because...

Chapter 15 ("The Spy") takes us back to Mr. Kecskerey's digs...you do remember Mr. Kecskerey, don't you? Of course you don't, because I didn't really touch on him, even though he was the man who ran the parlor where Abellino got his comeuppance. That's the sad thing about not reading ahead before doing the recaps; you never know who's going to be important and when.

Okay, I stiffed him before on this point, so let's get on with a proper introduction already...

It was still early, and the worthy man was not yet half dressed. When I say not yet half dressed, I mean the expression to be taken in the literal sense of the word. He was sitting in the middle of the room on a rich purple ottoman, enfolded in a red burnous, sucking away at a huge chibook, puffing smoke all round him, and contemplating himself in a large mirror exactly opposite to him. At the opposite end of the ottoman sat a huge orang-outang of about his own size, in a similarly charming position, wrapped in a similar burnous, also smoking a chibook, and regarding himself in the mirror.

Scattered all about were heaps of scented billet-doux, verses, musical notes, and other perishable articles of the same sort. Round about the walls hung all kinds of select pictures, which would certainly have been very much ashamed if they could have seen each other. On the table, in a vase of genuine Herculanean bronze, were the visiting-cards of a number of notable men and women of the smartest set. The carpets were all woven by delicate feminine hands, and bore the figures of dogs, horses, and huntsmen. The tapestried walls revealed the presence of small hidden doors, and the windows were covered by double curtains close drawn.

In the antechamber outside, a small negro groom was scratching his ear for sheer ennui. He had orders not to admit any gentleman visitor till after twelve o'clock, from which he drew the temerarious conclusion that he was free to admit ladies up to that hour. (pp. 294-5)

Yes, at some point, the narrator drops a descriptive N-bomb when talking about this servant. No, I'm not about to point out that passage. Not even for a laugh.

Into this den of iniquity (and trained orangutans) walks...ooo, looky, it's Abellino again, back from a year of lying low after killing a man over a card game gone wrong.

"Ah, Abellino! 'tis you, eh? We fancied you had mediatized yourself in India. Come and sit down by me. Have you brought back with you some of those famous pastilles which you mentioned in your genial letters?"

"Go to the devil, and take your baboon with you," cursed the new arrival. "You resemble one another so closely that I did not know which was the master of the house." (p. 295-6)

Still a golden shaft of sunshine, our boy...

"Answer me first of all; is there still any rumour abroad about my former affair?"

Kecskerey made an angry grimace.

"My dear friend," said he, "you ask too much of me. You seem to expect that folks will talk of nothing but your beggarly duel for a whole twelve-month. Why, it is as much forgotten as if it had never been. Look now! you killed Fennimore, and Fennimore had a younger brother who by his death succeeded to the family estates. They asked him a little time ago why he did not pursue the action brought against you. 'I am not so mad,' said he, 'as to take action against my benefactor.' You can meet him at my place this very evening. He is a much finer fellow than his brother, and he'll be very glad to see you." (pp. 296)

Fine, don't say "hi." Just barge in and start being nosy. See if I care.

But from the upper-class twit's interrogation, we find out that the city of Pest is turning into a swinging social center, showing that Master John has an instinct of knowing where the good times can be had. It also comes out that Griffard realized he's been throwing his money down a hole and has cut off our lad's line of credit. Therefore Abellino, predictable as the sunrise, turns to his favorite topic: his dear uncle('s money).

Mr. Kecskerey blew himself out haughtily like a frog, and grunted in a strangulated sort of voice, "My friend, for what do you take me, pray? Am I your spy, that I should go ferreting into family secrets in order to betray them to you? What sort of an opinion can you have of me?"

Abellino, with a feeling of satisfaction, launched the remainder of the crumpled-up visiting-cards in his fist at Joko's head. He knew the manners and customs of Mr. Kecskerey thoroughly. He was wont to fling back every dishonourable commission and query with the utmost indignation, into the face of their proposer, but he executed them all the same, and reported accordingly.

"What business is it of mine what the Kárpáthys are doing? The world says, however, that Madame Kárpáthy has a fresh lover every day. At one time 'tis Count Erdey, at another 'tis Mike Kis. It says, too, that old Squire John himself invites his cronies to Kárpátfalva, and is quite delighted if his wife finds any among them worthy to be loved. He lets her go visiting at the neighbouring villages with Mike Kis hundreds of times, and much more is said to the same effect. But what has it all got to do with me? I think as little of such things as of the dreams of my baboon." (pp. 297-8)

And really, doesn't that just sound like the girl who thought she'd committed a mortal sin by accidentally reading a note from a fresh guy? I call shenanigans on this rumor.

Anyway, the party maestro also brightens our boy Bélá's day by telling him his uncle looks ten, maybe twenty, years younger, and his wife is practically shooting sunshine out of her bustle. Abellino doesn't take that news well, either.

"Hell and devils!" exclaimed Abellino, mad with rage. "What can be the reason why this woman is so happy and contented? Her husband is incapable, I'll swear, of making her so. There's falsehood, there's fraud somehow."

"There may be falsehood and fraud, my friend," replied Kecskerey, coolly clasping one of his knees with both his hands, and swaying himself to and fro in a rocking-chair.

"If I could only prove that that woman was in love with some one; if any one were able to show the world in the clearest, the most sensational manner that she had secret relations with anybody——"

"But, as a member of the family, that would naturally bring disgrace upon you also."

"They are playing a game against me."

"It may be so. The old man is quite capable of overlooking his wife's infidelity in order to do you out of the inheritance."

"But it cannot be, it cannot be! Our laws would not allow such a scandal."

Kecskerey burst out laughing.

"My friend, if our laws were disposed to make very conscientious investigations concerning the proper descent of all our great families, endless confusion would arise in the making out of our family trees."

"But I tell you I will not allow a downtrodden beggar-woman to force her way into an illustrious family, and rob the rightful heirs of their inheritance by saddling her decrepit husband with brats that are the fruit of her base amours."

At these words Kecskerey laughed louder than ever.

"Since your return you have become quite a moral man, I see. You would have been glad to have had one of these same base-born brats yourself a year ago." (pp. 298-9)

Abellino promises to either prove Fanny is disgracing the family name or invent a disgrace for her. Whatever it takes. Kecskerey--who is a respectable man running a respectable establishment, remember--refuses to offer any aid in this underbellied spree...and then proceeds to outline a likely plan of attack.

Kecskerey pulled a wry face.

"My dear friend, I know not why you say such things to me. Do I look like a person competent to give advice in such matters? It is a serious business, I assure you. I am very sorry, but you must do what you want yourself. The Kárpáthys will reside here this winter. Do as you please, corrupt their servants, set your creatures to their work, and get them to lead the young woman astray and then betray her; plant your spies about her, watch every step she takes, and put the affair in the hands of sharp practitioners; but leave me in peace, I am a gentleman, I will not be a spy, or a well-feed Mephistopheles, or a hired Cicisbeo." (p. 300)

I wash my hands of your evil schemes. Feel free, however, to take home the dirt at the bottom of the basin.

Next: Fanny wants to cry? Let's give her something to cry about...again. Sigh...

A Hungarian Nabob Chapters 12 and 13: Damn straight he went there.

We pick up with Chapter 12 ("The House-warming"), and once again the plot is moving as fast as it damn well feels like, thank you very much. Oh, there are some plot points, to be sure, but this chapter's all about the housewarming party, and thanks to Flora's intelligence report on the guests, Fanny is hard at work winning friends and influencing people.

She received Count Szépkiesdy with all the grave respect due to the most honourable of patriots, and assured him that she had long since learnt to admire him as a great orator and a noble-minded man. The Count inwardly cursed and swore at meeting with some one who regarded him as a hero. To Count Gregory Erdey she extended a smiling salutation from afar, which he requited by saluting her with his hat in one hand and his wig in another, which provoked a roar of Homeric laughter from the assembled guests. The young buffoon had had his head clean shaved in order that his hair might grow all the stronger, so that his bald pate quite scared the weak-nerved members of the company. The young housewife curtsied low in humble silence before the Főispán Count Sárosdy and his wife, whereby she greatly pleased that aristocratic patriot. He admitted that middle-class girls are not so bad when they have been brought up in gentlemen's families. And Fanny completely won the favour of his consort by impressing upon her servants to be constantly in attendance on her ladyship, and fulfil all her wishes; for, although Countess Sárosdy had brought two of her own maids with her, she did not consider them sufficient. (pp. 268-9)

Mission accomplished. And she didn't even need a flight suit or an aircraft carrier.

Next came the dinner, complete with Gypsy fiddlers, toasts, and the gracious mercy of Mr. Jokai for sparing us the full account. Of course, we do get hints of the flavor:

The dinner lasted far into the night, and towards the end of it the company began to grow uproarious. The great patriot, as usual, related his lubricous, equivocal anecdotes without troubling himself very much as to whether ladies were present or not. He was wont to say Castis sunt omnia casta, "To the pure all things are pure," and whoever blushed had, no doubt, a good reason for blushing, and was therefore corrupt enough already. The ladies, however, pretended not to hear, and began conversing with their neighbours without taking any notice of the hoarse laughter of the young bucks, who held it a point of honour to applaud the witticisms of the great patriot.

Nevertheless every one did his best to enjoy himself as much as possible.

And who so happy as the Nabob?

It occurred to him that, scarce a year ago, he had sat in the same place where he was sitting now, and had seen a horrible sight; and now he saw by his side a young and enchanting wife, and around him a merry lively host of guests with cheerful, smiling faces. (pp. 269-70)

A horrible sight? Did he book Carrot Top for a week? Oh yes, the bedazzled coffin...as you were...

In the midst of all this, Flora received a message from her husband Rudolf, and with Fanny found an out-of-the-way place to read it.

The lady broke the seal with a hand that trembled for joy, and, after pressing the letter to her heart, read its contents, which were as follows:—

"To-morrow I shall be at Kárpátfalva. There we shall meet. Rudolf. 1000." This "thousand" signified a thousand kisses.

How delighted the beloved wife was! Again and again she kissed the place where her husband's name was written, as if to snatch beforehand at least a hundred of the consignment of kisses; and then she concealed it in her bosom, as if to preserve the remaining nine hundred till later on; then she drew it forth once more, and read it over again, as if she could not quite remember the whole contents of the letter, but must needs read it anew in order to understand it properly; and then she kissed it over and over again until, at last, she herself did not know how many kisses she had taken.

And Fanny fully shared the joy of her friend, joy is so contagious. To-morrow Rudolf will arrive, and how nice it will then be for Flora! She will see the greatest joy that a loving heart can imagine, and will not be a bit jealous—no! she will rejoice in another's joy, rejoice in the happiness of her best friend, who possesses as her very own, so to speak, the man in whose honour every one has spoken so well and made such pretty speeches. And to-morrow he will be here; and, to make his wife happy till he comes, he has notified the day of his arrival. He does not come surreptitiously, unawares, like one who is jealous; but he lets her know of his coming beforehand, like one who is well assured of how greatly, how very greatly he is loved. Oh what a joy it will be even to look upon such happiness!

The two ladies with radiantly happy faces returned to the company, which diverted itself till midnight, when every one retired to his own room. Squire John helped his guests to their repose with a musical accompaniment, the gipsy band proceeding from window to window and intoning beneath each one a sleep-compelling symphony. Finally, the last note died away, and everybody dozed off, and dreamed beautiful dreams. The hunters dreamt of foxes (there was to be a hunt on the morrow), the orators dreamt of assemblies, Mr. Málnay dreamt of parties, Lady Szentirmay dreamt of her husband, and Fanny dreamt of that beautiful smiling countenance she had been thinking of so often, and which looked at her so kindly with its eloquent blue eyes and spoke to her with such a wondrously sweet voice. It is permissible, of course, to dream of anything.

Well, to-morrow! (pp. 271-3)

Well. To-morrow. And at this point, a valid question popped into my head: We haven't seen Count Rudolf yet. Fanny hasn't seen Count Rudolf yet, but she has built up this dream lover as a fixed point in her existence, and he's real enough to her that she would recognize him on first sight. If you connected the dots the way I did, then it begs the question: would Jokai really go there?

Not only that, but she's still dreaming about this fantasy man after marriage at a time in history where the institution was still Quite Worthy. Come on, Mister Author, you know that stuff never happens in real liiiiiahahaHAHAHAHA!!!! Sorry, but there's no way I was saying that with a straight face. Don't mind me, I'm as looney as a toon...

Chapter 13 ("The Hunt") brings us (well!) tomorrow(!), and we're goin' foxin', baby.

It was a glorious summer morning when the imposing cavalcade issued from the courtyard of Kárpáthy Castle. First of all came the ladies, so many slim, supple amazons, on prancing steeds, in the midst of a circle of noisy youths, who made their own horses dance and curvet by the side of their chosen dames; behind them came the wags of the party, on splendidly caparisoned rustic nags; and, last of all, the elderly ladies and gentlemen in their carriages. Squire John himself was in the saddle, and shewed all the world that he could hold his own with the smartest cavalier present, and everytime he looked at his wife he seemed to be twenty years younger, and his face beamed at the thought that she was such a pretty woman and he was her husband. (pp. 275-6)

Even our jolly pal Mike Kis comes galloping over the rise--he does a lot of last-minute arriving in this book. After all, that's why they mistook him for a gentleman at first.

Then, shaking hands right and left, and even finding time to throw a word or two to each of the foxhounds by name, he politely begged those who thronged him to make way, as he wished to pay his respects immediately to Madame Kárpáthy, whom, without the slightest embarrassment, he began to call a goddess, an angel on horseback, and other pretty names.

Unfortunately Fanny misunderstood him, and, regarding everything he said as so many capital jokes, rewarded them with far more laughter than their merits deserved.

"Squire John, Squire John!" cried Dame Marion, in a shrill, pointed sort of tone, to Kárpáthy, who was trotting beside her carriage, "if I were you I would not have a bosom friend who has the reputation of being irresistible."

"I am not jealous, your ladyship; that is the one little wheel which is wanting in my mechanism. I suppose it was left out of me when I was made—ha, ha, ha!"

"Then, if I were you, I would not come to a fox-hunt, lest my dogs should regard me as an Actæon."

"To give your ladyship cause to conduct yourself towards me like Diana, eh?"

Dame Marion pouted, and turned her head aside; the man was such a blockhead that he absolutely could not understand any attempt to aggravate him. (pp. 276-7)

It's lines like that last one which is why I read books like this. But of course, your mileage may vary...

Anyhow, before the party casts off, a few last-minute words with the lord of the manor and his wife.

Squire John selected from among the rest two pure snow-white hounds, and, whistling to them between his two fingers, led them to his wife.

"They are the finest and the boldest foxhounds in the whole pack."

"I know them: one is Cziczke, and the other Rajkó."

The two dogs, hearing their names mentioned, joyously leaped and bounded in their efforts to lick their mistress's hand as she sat on horseback.

It was very pleasant to Squire John to find that his wife knew his dogs by name, he was equally pleased to see that the dogs knew their mistress—ah! every one did her homage, both man and beast.

"But where, then, is Matyi?" inquired Fanny, looking about her.

"I am taking him with me."

"What, sir, are you going to take part in the race? Pray do not!"

"Why not? Don't you think me a good enough horseman?"

"I readily believe that you are; but pray, for my sake, do not proceed to prove it!"

"For your sake I will immediately dismount."

Flora whispered to Count Gregory, who was riding by her side, "I should like to know how many of the husbands present would give up hunting for the sake of their wives?"

And, indeed, Squire John's affection must have been something altogether out of the way to make him renounce his favourite pastime in the joyful anticipation of which he had been living for months beforehand, simply to please his wife. Fanny, deeply touched, held out her hands towards him.

"You are not angry with me, I hope," said she; "but I feel so frightened on your account." (pp. 278-9)

Well, obviously not everybody's going. It only makes sense, because the old man might fall off the horse and kill the story...I mean himself.

With Master John holding down the homefront, the hunt begins, and the narrative concentrates (very heavily) on the dogs and the fox--the dogs snapping at fox, the fox snapping at the dogs. All kinds of stuff like there, which makes for interesting reading but doesn't play into my purpose here, so you'll forgive me if I just cut to the meat of things.

After him!

Off galloped the whole party in the track of the hounds, the faces of the two ladies were aglow with the passionate ardour of the chase, and at that instant there occurred to the mind of Fanny her vision of long ago: what if he, her nameless ideal, were now galloping beside her on his swift-footed steed, and could see her impetuously heading the chase till she threw herself down before him, and died there, without anybody knowing why! But Flora thought: "Suppose Rudolf were now to come face to face with me, and see me"—and then she felt again how much she loved him.

And now the fox suddenly emerged again on the open. A newly mown field, of a thousand acres or so in extent, covered with rows of haycocks, lay right before the huntsmen; and here the really interesting part of the hunt began. The fox was a fine specimen, about as big as a young wolf, but much longer in the body, and carrying behind him a provokingly big brush. He trotted leisurely in front, not because he could not go quicker, but because he wanted to economize his strength, and all the time he kept dodging to and fro, backwards and forwards, in the endeavour to tire his enemies out, and ceaselessly threw glances behind him at his pursuers, out of half an eye, keeping about a hundred paces in front of them, and accelerating his pace whenever he perceived that the distance between him and them was diminishing.

And yet the very best hounds of Squire John's—Cziczke, the two white ones, and Rajkó, Matyi, big Ordas, Michael Kis's Fecske, and Count Gregory's Armida, to say nothing of the whole canine army behind them, were hard upon his traces. (pp. 281-2)

That thing where Flora was thinking about her husband as Fanny was thinking about her fantasy lover...oh nonono, just coincidence. Not foreshadowing at all. The author wouldn't dare go there.

So it's back to dogs and foxes, foxes and dogs...but soft! What be this brouhaha coming over the rise?

Here a pretty high fence confronted the hunters, which they were obliged to take, and which gave both the ladies another opportunity of showing their agility; both of them successfully cleared it. At that moment they perceived a horseman coming towards them on the high-road, whom, owing partly to the high bushes and partly to their attention being directed elsewhere, they had not observed before.

"'Tis he!"

Flora's face that instant grew redder than ever, while Fanny's turned as pale as death.

"'Tis he!"

Both of them recognized him at the same time. 'Tis he, the loving husband of the one, the beloved ideal of the other.

Flora rushed towards him with a cry of joy. "Rudolf! Rudolf!" she cried.

Fanny, in dumb despair, turned her horse's head, and began to gallop back again. (pp. 284-5)

Of course Jokai went there. It was such a compelling there to go that there was never any doubt. And since the hunting party thinks Fanny's horse is running away with her, instead of the other way around, Rudolf catches up with her and snatches her off the horse just in time for her to pass out. And isn't that just a dandy scene for the chapter end?

A couple of random thoughts to close out this entry:

• Hey, we're past the halfway point on book #1! Somebody buy me a cake or something!
  
• Yeah, even less of my jokey joke stuff this time around. Maybe I'm giving this section the short end because I smell melodrama in the wind. That's my fox for this blog, and I'm chasing it like the dog that I am.
  
• Maybe it's because I'm picking up speed, but these past few chapters have seemed particularly short. Not DaVinci Code bite-sized chunks with their tiny, tiny words and tinier, tinier thoughts, but consider that the first chapter was 31 pages long and the last three were all under 10. It does make things feel a bit brisker, especially if you're "watching the clock" like I am, but makes me wonder if these are the chapters that were heavily edited by Mr. Bain.
  
• Part of me wished the dream man would be Mike Kis, seeing as how much page-space was spent setting him up and yet he's effectively a bit player in the story at all so far. Still, that sets up one of those emotional conflicts that my instinct tells me the romantic, sentimental side of the story will be happy to wallow in.

Next: The wallowing. The chapter's called "Martyrdom", what else are we supposed to expect?