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Updated: May 10, 2025
The thing now was the painful contrast between the high-spirited, forward lad, who on this spot had sung out a last hoarse farewell to his sweetheart, Marcsa, on the first day of mobilization, and the disfigured creature who was standing in front of the same railroad station with one eye gone, a shattered cheekbone, a patched-up cheek, and half a nose, embittered and cast down, as if it were only that morning that he had met with the misfortune.
John Bogdan stood stockstill, as if some one had struck him on the chest. It was Marcsa! There was not another girl in the whole country who walked like that. He threw his luggage to the ground and dashed off. "Marcsa! Marcsa!" his cry thundered out over the broad courtyard. The girl turned and waited for his approach, peering curiously through half-closed eyes.
I'll let you take care of the horses again, if you care to. But Marcsa is to be let alone. I won't have any rumpus. If she still wants to marry you, all well and good. But if she doesn't, she's to be let alone. If I hear once again that you have annoyed her, I'll chase you to the devil. Do you understand?" Foaming with rage, Bogdan let out the stream of his wrath. "To the devil?" he shouted.
Mistress Borcsa screamed, Marcsa grunted, and the pig squealed loudest of all. "Kill it at once to stop its cries!" cried Sárvölgyi. "What a horrible noise over a pig!" "Don't kill it! Don't make it squeal while I am listening," exclaimed Borcsa in a terrified passion: then she ran back into the kitchen, and stopped her ears lest she should hear them killing her favorite pig.
The humpback's eyes flashed. "Marcsa, the beautiful Marcsa! I should say so! She's been made a forelady, though they say she's never had a shell in her hands, but, to make up, the lord's hands have " With a short, hoarse growl John Bogdan flew at the humpback's throat, squeezed in his Adam's apple, pressing it into his neck, and held him in a merciless clutch.
Even John's master, the lord of the castle, had patted him on the shoulder almost enviously when Marcsa and he had become engaged. "A handsome couple," the pastor had said. John Bogdan groped again for the little mirror in his pocket and then sat with drooping body, oppressed by a profound melancholy. That thing in the glass was to be the bridegroom of the beautiful Marcsa?
A cripple is a cripple, and Marcsa had engaged herself to John Bogdan, not to the fright that he was bringing back home to her. His melancholy gradually gave way to an ungovernable fury against those people in the city who had given him all that buncombe and talked him into heaven knows what. Marcsa should be proud because he had been disfigured in the service of his fatherland. Proud? Ha-ha!
"This is a pretty business. Well, who stole them?" "No one else than the cursed gypsy woman Marcsa, who lives here in this village." "We shall call her to account as soon as she appears." "Naturally. She went there while I was weeding in the garden; she prowled about and stole." "Well I'll soon have her by the ears, only let her come here."
"Csicsa sent to say he will come with his twelve musicians this evening: he begs you to pay him in advance as the musicians must hire a conveyance then," she continued, dropping her voice to a tone of jesting flattery, "a little suckling pig for supper, if possible." "Very well, Marcsa," said Sárvölgyi, with polite gentility. "Everything shall be in order. Come here towards evening.
If he no longer pleased her now that he was disfigured, well, then she could look for another man, and he, too he would find another woman. He wasn't bothered about that. This was what he had wanted to tell Marcsa. He bounded after her and overtook her a few feet from the machine shop. "Why do you run away from me?" he growled, breathless, and caught her hand.
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