Thirteen at Table

Thirteen at Table
by M—r J—kai
We are far amidst the snow-clad mountains of Transylvania.
The scenery is magnificent. In clear weather, the plains of Hungary as
far as the Rez promontory may be seen from the summit of the
mountains. Groups of hills rise one above the other, covered with thick
forest, which, at the period when our tale commences, had just begun to
assume the first light green of spring.
Toward sunset, a slight purple mist overspread the farther pinnacles,
leaving their ridges still tinged with gold. On the side of one of these
hills the white turrets of an ancient family mansion gleamed from amid
the trees.
Its situation was peculiarly romantic. A steep rock descended on one
side, on whose pinnacle rose a simple cross. In the depth of the valley
beneath lay a scattered village, whose evening bells melodiously broke
the stillness of nature.
Farther off, some broken roofs arose among the trees, from whence the
sound of the mill, and the yellow-tinted stream, betrayed the miners'
dwellings.
Through the meadows in the valley beneath a serpentine rivulet wound
its silvery way, interrupted by numerous falls and huge blocks of stone,
which had been carried down in bygone ages from the mountains
during the melting of the snows.
A little path, cut in the side of the rock, ascended to the castle; while
higher up, a broad road, somewhat broken by the mountain streams,
conducted across the hills to more distant regions.

The castle itself was an old family mansion, which had received many
additions at different periods, as the wealth or necessities of the family
suggested.
It was surrounded by groups of ancient chestnut trees, and the terrace
before the court was laid out in gardens, which were now filled with
anemones, hyacinths, and other early flowers. Now and then the head
of a joyous child appeared at the windows, which were opened to admit
the evening breeze; while various members of the household retinue
were seen hastening through the corridors, or standing at the doors in
their embroidered liveries.
The castle was completely surrounded by a strong rail-work of iron, the
stone pillars were overgrown by the evergreen leaves of the gobea and
epomoea.
It was the early spring of 1848.
A party, consisting of thirteen persons, had assembled in the
dining-room. They were all members of one family, and all bore the
name of B‡rdy.
At the head of the board sat the grandmother, an old lady of eighty
years of age, whose snow-white hair was dressed according to the
fashion of her times beneath her high white cap. Her face was pale and
much wrinkled, and the eyes turned constantly upwards, as is the case
with persons who have lost their sight. Her hand and voice trembled
with age, and there was something peculiarly striking in the thick
snow-white eyebrows.
On her right hand sat her eldest son, Thomas B‡rdy, a man of between
fifty and sixty. With a haughty and commanding countenance,
penetrating glance, lofty figure, and noble mien, he was a true type of
that ancient aristocracy which is now beginning to die out.
Opposite to him, at the old lady's left hand, sat the darling of the
family--a lovely girl of about fifteen. Her golden hair fell in luxuriant
tresses round a countenance of singular beauty and sweetness. The

large and lustrous deep-blue eyes were shaded by long dark lashes, and
her complexion was pale as the lily, excepting when she smiled or
spoke, and a slight flush like the dawn of morning overspread her
cheeks.
Jol‡nka was the orphan child of a distant relative, whom the B‡rdys
had adopted. They could not allow one who bore their name to suffer
want; and it seemed as if each member of the family had united to heap
affection and endearment on the orphan girl, and thus prevented her
from feeling herself a stranger among them.
There were still two other female members of the family: Katalin, the
old lady's daughter, who had been for many years a widow; and the
wife of one of her sons, a pretty young woman, who was trying to teach
a little prattler at her side to use the golden spoon which she had placed
in his small, fat hand, while he laughed and crowed, and the family did
their best to guess what he said, or what he most preferred.
Opposite to them there sat two gentlemen. One of them was the
husband of the young mother. J—zsef B‡rdy--a handsome man of
about thirty-five, with regular features, and black hair and beard; a
constant smile beamed on his gay countenance, while he playfully
addressed his little son and gentle wife across the table. The other was
his brother, Barnab‡s--a man of herculean form and strength.