Light within the Shade: Eight Hundred Years of Hungarian Poetry

The Ordeal of the Bier

já nos a r a n y | 45 The Ordeal of the Bier In Radvány’s dark forest they found him, Bárczi Benő with a blade in his heart; Long and keen was the dagger that downed him, ”Proof before God of the murderer’s art: Guilty the hand that has slain his young heart.” Him to the castle his father bids carry, Set they him down in the chill of the tower; Laying-out, washing—no rites customary; He in his blood shall lie hour after hour, Day after day on a crude makeshift bier. Four halberdiers he charges to keep him ”No soul through this door shall enter or leave! . . .” ”Might not his mother, fair sister, come weep him?”— ”Back!” says the father, “however they grieve, Woe to the guard that lets come without leave!” Sobbing and softness of womanly grieving, Muffled and hidden, from hall to long hall.— Those his eye notes, in his hawk-like conceiving Suspect, he calls to their trial by his seal: ”If the wounds bleed, that man’s guilt they reveal.” Black is the cloth that beshrouds the great mansion, Darkness at noon where the sun does not shine: Sergeant at corpse-side stands at attention, Priest in canonicals, cross, candles nine: Flickering wax-light yellows his shrine. ”Let his foes come, if any there happen!” In order they come, whom the father has named; Vain! for the wound of the corpse will not open, 46 | Light within the Shade This one or that one may stand unashamed; ”Neither this one . . . nor that one . . . for murder be blamed.” ”Then who? . . .” startles Bárczi, in dark desolation, ”This ancient blood unavenged shall not be; Murderer, hither! . . . come face accusation, Charged though my heart be with this felony: Everyone living is suspect, to me! ”Let then be brought the young friends of his banner!” Heroes well many in order march in, Grieve that he died not in battle with honor, Caked with his blood their beloved paladin. Yet no red flows on the white of his skin. ”Let the court enter! the great and the lesser . . . ! Come, all the people that live in the town!” Not a man leaves him unwept by his blesser, Weeping their young lord so swiftly struck down. Still, though, the wound remains clotted and brown. ”His mother, his sister!” and now for her brother Outside is heard the high scream of her woe; Cooing and cradling, on her son falls the mother, Unmoved, the corpse will not open and flow: Yet the cracked foulness no signal will show. ”Let come at last his beautiful lover, Abigél Kund, promised secret his bride!” She comes—and her eyes flash, are glued to the dagger; Face turned to stone, feet rooted in stride.— Red from the wound spouts the bubbling tide. Not a tear rolls; and her grief makes no murmur, Only she claws at the nest of the brain— Dreadful the darting that pierces its armor! . . . já nos a r a n y | 47 Shock to the heart freezes every vein: ”Daughter, you murdered the young chatelain!” Twice this is said—she’s struck dumb, in disorder— Finally yields to her liege’s demands: ”Bárczi Benö, no, I did not murder, Witness the sky and its heavenly bands! Ah, but this dagger—I placed in his hands!” “He had my hand in true love—would he knew it— There was no dam between him and my breast; But with hot words he still urged me to ‘do it’; If not, he would kill himself. Lightly, in jest, I gave him the dagger, and said: ‘Be my guest.’” And wildly she tears out the dirk from his body, Eyes like a stranger’s, flaming and fey; Laughing and crying she flashes it, bloody, And with a falcon-scream she runs away. No hand dares touch her nor force her to stay. Down the street headlong she runs through the city, Shamed not to dance nor to sing on the way; Merry the tune: “Once a girl who was pretty Thought it fine sport with a young lad to play, Just like the cat with a mouse for its prey!” 1877 ...