The Little Servant Girl

A Poignant Tragedy of a Faithful Heart and a Strange Wedding Night

FERENC MOLNÁR

THIS happened in Hemp Street, a long time ago when we were all still young. There was a house which was painted pink and had four windows facing the street. It had a large gate, and a smaller one. The people went in and out by the small one and the large one was only opened at night when the cart returned home. The cart was about the most distinguished lodger in the house. All the other tenants were miserable, unlucky creatures, who lived in the greatest poverty and loathed each other. Almost in the middle of the courtyard there was a flat which one had to enter by going down three steps; to all the other flats one had to go up four steps— thus this was the most miserable of all. A sexton lived here, who was on night duty in the old cemetery and who, not wanting his bed to go to waste, used to rent it out for the night. In this bed a conjurer slept from six p.m. to six a.m., and a strange fellow he was. He might have been about thirty or forty. It was difficult to tell. He had golden coloured hair which reached to his shoulders. Years ago he had been a goldsmith's asssitant, and from that time retained fine manners which, most likely, originated from his having handled tiny pieces of very valuable metal and precious stones. His hands were soft and white, his eyes blue and his voice whispering. He whispered the most insignificant things oracularly into people's cars, and at such time an ethereal smile marked his features. The men thought him halfwitted, but the women used to ask him to tell their fortunes.

HE EARNED his living by making charm rings and bracelets from thin wire as his customers watched.

But he gradually came to drop this very arduous labour and confined himself to prophesying miracles profitably by wringing tears out of impressionable servant girls. His boots were worn out, his trousers ragged, and he wore a frayed scarf around his neck where his collar ought to have been. But his face radiated distinction and intellect, and his hair was golden and soft.

As he shaved seldom, his chin was bristly, and everybody took him for a rogue. His name was Maurer, if I remember rightly.

It was his custom to walk about with organ grinders. The organ breaks the silence of a house, and makes the servants swarm out into the court yard. That was just what Maurer wanted.

People threw money wrapped in paper, to the organ grinder, and the servants surrounded Maurer. He sang songs to them and turned their heads; he told their fortunes and gave them advice in regard to love.

After collecting coppers from them he used to leave with a languid smile of farewell and walk behind the organ grinder.

One day when he thus made his departure, a grimy little servant girl followed him. The man with the wooden leg, who owned the organ and license, went in front. He had an assistant who pushed and turned the organ, and behind him trouped the conjurer and the little servant girl.

The conjurer did not speak to her until they had started down the street:

"What's your name?"

"Bessie."

"Have you a job? "

"No, not any more."

"What do you want from me."

"Nothing."

She shrugged her shoulders and looked at Maurer with glowing love and tears in her eyes. She said again:

"Nothing."

Maurer spoke softly:

"And why did you follow me?"

The girl looked above his head.

"I just wanted to—"

"Why?"

"Because—"

Thus the dirty little servant girl confessed her love to the conjurer. She walked behind him clung to him, like a hungry stray dog.

The conjurer walked on, the little girl behind him. She didn't take her eyes off him, and caught hold of his hand now and again. She did not speak, only stared at the fair man.

Night came.

"Well, what now?" asked the conjurer when he arrived in Hemp Street, to lie down in the overworked bed which never got a rest.

The girl stared on the ground.

"Wait," said Maurer. He went in and after some negotiations with the sexton's wife came out to fetch the girl.

"What's your name?"

"Bessie, I told you once."

"Well, Bessie, come in."

He took her in, helped her undress and lay down near the bed on the floor.

The next morning a detective came.

"Does a man named Maurer live herer?" he asked.

"Yes, he does."

Maurer heard. He grinned bitterly, rose, dressed and went away with the detective. The dirty little servant girl was still asleep in the overworked bed. The woman came in and roused Bessie.

"Get out of bed."

Bessie asked:

"Why? "

"Because my husband needs it. Because the detectives have taken Maurer away with them. Maurer is a thief. He is a notorious thief." "That doesn't matter," said the girl sadly. The woman slapped her face and the girl said again:

"It doesn't matter."

The sexton began to punch her in the ribs, and she was finally thrown out into the courtyard. This was the aftermath of her bridal night.

I'm sure I've heard of more beautiful bridal nights.

MAURER sat in the cell at the police station and refused to talk. They took his photograph and he smiled pleasantly, then after a perfunctory trial they sent him off to prison for a five year term. Where he had told fortunes, he had stolen as well. Here and there he had resorted to downright burglary. But now Maurer, who is still rotting away in jail, steps out of the story for good and all. Only Bessie remains.

She made her way along Hemp Street. There are days when this street seems as short as it is wide. Such a day was yesterday, when Bessie walked along with the conjurer. She felt that they had hardly started when they reached its end, but on this day Hemp Street was ten times as long as the longest boulevard, and by becoming so long it seemed to be so narrow that the two rows of little, one-storied houses almost crushed Bessie. It is certain 'hat they pressed on her heart.

"Oh! my," said the women in their sloppy negligees "there she goes . . . there she goes . . . Maurer, the thief. . . . " "It doesn't matter," said Bessie to herself.

Further on, two men approached:

"Hello! Maurer had a sweetheart, too, Maurer had two sweethearts. One was young and he gave her the money which he received from the other, who was old . . . Oh! my . . . Oh! my. . . ."

They croaked derisions at her.

Bessie smiled and said:

"It doesn't matter ... it doesn't matter at all. . . ."

She continued her walk along Hemp Street. It might have been about half past seven by the time she reached the banks of the Danube. There was a heavy fog and the lamps were burning in the huts on the banks. The Danube shivered, as it flowed along quietly, slowly, very sleepily as if it were expecting to turn in for rest beneath the ice. Its water was gloomy and dark, almost hid behind the dense winter morning fog. Mount Gellert was covered with snow and sorrow was floating about in the air from the other bank of the river, and sorrow came *from the island, too, and sorrow was flying about everywhere, and all the sorrows settled on Bessie. Bessie went down the steps and poked the toe of her shoe in the Danube. No one was near. Bessie stopped smiling, and dropped into the water like a clumsy little animal. In a moment she had disappeared.

Continued on page 114

Continued from page 73