The Village Notary: A Romance of Hungarian Life
by báró József Eötvös · English · Gutenberg #34819 · 1,012,244 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Village Notary: A Romance of Hungarian Life
Author: báró József Eötvös
Commentator: Ferencz Aurelius Pulszky
Translator: Otto von Wenckstern
Release date: January 2, 2011 [eBook #34819]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34819
Credits: Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VILLAGE NOTARY: A ROMANCE OF HUNGARIAN LIFE ***
Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
THE VILLAGE NOTARY;
A ROMANCE OF HUNGARIAN LIFE.
TRANSLATED FROM
THE HUNGARIAN OF BARON EÖTVÖS,
BY OTTO WENCKSTERN.
WITH INTRODUCTORY REMARKS BY FRANCIS PULSZKY.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR
LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1850.
LONDON:
SPOTTISWOODES and SHAW
New-street-Square.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
VOLUME I
PREFACE iii
CHAPTER I. 1
CHAPTER II. 37
CHAPTER III. 62
CHAPTER IV. 89
CHAPTER V. 132
CHAPTER VI. 139
CHAPTER VII. 151
CHAPTER VIII. 171
CHAPTER IX. 187
CHAPTER X. 235
CHAPTER XI. 251
CHAPTER XII. 273
NOTES 275
VOLUME II
CHAPTER I. 1
CHAPTER II. 11
CHAPTER III. 29
CHAPTER IV. 61
CHAPTER V. 72
CHAPTER VI. 97
CHAPTER VII. 118
CHAPTER VIII. 147
CHAPTER IX. 171
CHAPTER X. 196
CHAPTER XI. 217
CHAPTER XII. 235
CHAPTER XIII. 267
NOTES 279
VOLUME III
CHAPTER I. 1
CHAPTER II. 42
CHAPTER III. 62
CHAPTER IV. 90
CHAPTER V. 105
CHAPTER VI. 128
CHAPTER VII. 138
CHAPTER VIII. 161
CHAPTER IX. 178
CHAPTER X. 217
CONCLUSION 236
NOTES 242
PREFACE.
When Joseph, Baron Eötvös, wrote his "Village Notary," and when he
dedicated that work to me, neither he nor I could anticipate the sudden
and unexpected downfall of the political and social institutions which
he attempted to portray. It is true that my friend did not, in the
present work, make an exclusive use of his poetical faculties. The dregs
of opposition were fermenting in his mind, and his ostensible object, to
give a sketch of life in a Hungarian province, was mixed up with the
desire to make his story act as a lever upon the _vis inertiæ_ of our
political condition. In those days, the liberal party in Hungary was
divided into three factions. Our great reformer, the Count Széchenyi,
was worn out by his long and seemingly resultless struggles against the
policy of the Court of Vienna. He made a surrender of the leading ideas
of his political life. He had ever since 1829 been the champion of equal
taxation and of legal equality. He had advocated the abolition of
feudal burdens on the land. But he lived to consider these objects of
his former aspirations as matters of secondary import. He became a
practical man, and directed his energies to the steam-navigation on the
Danube, to the damming and dyking of the river Theiss, to railroads,
&c.; and for the furtherance of these plans the Count Széchenyi, though
still faithful to his principles, had drawn close to the conservative
party, and become reconciled to the government at Vienna. He did not,
indeed, deprive himself of the pleasure of recounting numberless
anecdotes and sketches from life, all of which tended to prove the
incapability and the malevolence of that government; but his voice was
silent in the debates of the Parliament, and the whole of his energies
were devoted to the execution of practical improvements. "_Make money,
and enrich the country!_" such was the advice he gave to us, his younger
friends; and he added,--"_An empty sack will topple over; but if you
fill it, it will stand by its own weight._"
Count Széchenyi's practical clique was flanked by a more numerous and
influential party. M. Kossuth's parliamentary opposition, taking a firm
stand on the letter of the law, waged an unceasing warfare against the
machinations of the Vienna bureaucracy. His party advocated the
institutions of the counties, the free election of civic magistrates,
and the independence of boroughs; and they stood ready to repel any
direct or indirect blow which might be aimed at these institutions. This
party was supreme, both in strength and in numbers. The middle classes
and the gentry belonged to it; while Széchenyi's followers were members
of the high aristocracy, who resided in the metropolis, and who scarcely
ever busied themselves about the county elections.
Baron Eötvös was the leader of a third party. He was imbued with the
levelling tendencies of French liberalism. The men of Eötvös's school
admired the theoretical perfection of Centralisation, and vied with the
Vienna party in their aversion to the county institutions, with their
assemblies and elections. But the Austrian Camarilla wished to establish
the so-called "Paternal Absolutism" in the place of the county
institutions; while the Eötvös party dreamed of a free parliamentary
government. His party considered Hungary as a "_tabula rasa_," and they
endeavoured, in defiance of history, to raise a new political fabric;
not on the ground of written law, but on the treacherous soil of the law
of nature. It was chiefly composed of young men of letters, who, full of
spirit and ability, were but too prone to discover the weak and faulty
parts of the county government, while they were unable to appreciate its
practical soundness and its salutary influence. This circumstance caused
them to withdraw from the elections, and to look down upon the struggles
and contests of parliamentary life. Their doctrines could not,
therefore, have any influence. To obtain a license for printing and
publishing a newspaper was extremely difficult. Nevertheless, the Eötvös
party had got possession of a newspaper. Their leaders, though spirited
and witty, failed in bringing their ideas of centralisation home to the
minds of their readers. The national instincts of the Hungarian people
were opposed to such notions. But so convinced was Baron Eötvös of their
truth and justness, that he resolved to publish them and make them
popular, at any hazard. He wrote a novel, in which he put together a
variety of small sketches and studies from nature, and formed them into
one grand picture, for the express purpose of caricaturing the political
doings in our counties. But, fortunately for the public, Baron Eötvös
was a better poet than a politician, and his political pamphlet ripened,
very much against his will, into one of the most interesting works of
fiction that the Hungarian literature can boast of. His book was eagerly
read and enthusiastically admired, it was devoid of all political
action. Baron Eötvös missed the object at which he aimed; but he carried
off a higher prize. Instead of popularising his ideas, he popularised
himself, and the poet atoned for the sins of the politician. Nor was
this difficult. Baron Eötvös was a thoroughly romantic character. He was
more than the hero of a novel: his adventures and his fortunes made him
a real hero. His years, though few, had been full of strange
vicissitudes, and his life, from the cradle to his mature age, was one
uninterrupted chain of strange and untoward events.
The grandfather of Joseph Eötvös was a Hungarian government officer of
high rank; his grandmother was a passionate woman, and a furious Magyar.
She was therefore greatly incensed at her son (the poet's father)
marrying a foreigner, viz., the Baroness Lilien, especially as the young
lady had been so utterly neglected as to be ignorant of the Hungarian
language. Often did the old lady vent her feelings on this point in the
presence of the Baron Lilien, and emphatic were her protests that the
German woman would remain childless--a prediction which it may be
supposed was not at all calculated to gratify the baron. But when it
became apparent that the family of Eötvös was not likely to become
extinct, she changed her tactics by protesting, with the utmost
boldness, that a German woman could not, by any chance, give birth to a
boy, and that the family of Eötvös would become extinct in default of
male issue. Baron Lilien put in a demurrer, and at length laid her a
wager of one hundred ducats in favour of his daughter giving birth to a
boy. The wager was duly accepted by the baroness, who lost it, and paid
the amount, saying: "It's a boy after all, but he will turn out to be a
German and stupid. I'll never see him, for I'll never prize him at a
hundred ducats!" But the young Baron, Joseph Eötvös, lived to defeat all
his grandmother's prophecies. She did indeed remain true to her word,
for she never cared for him, and devoted all her tenderness to his
younger brother; in her will she cut him off with an old piece of
household furniture, which, after all, was taken from him, and given to
a distant relative, by virtue of a codicil; but the German grandfather
made up for the grandmother's harshness.
Young Joseph's earlier years fell in that period of apathy which weighed
down upon Europe after the feverish excitement of the French wars.
Constitutionalism and nationality were sneered down as idle and
reprehensible things. Hungary, too, partook of the lethargy of Europe;
and the government, which alone was on the alert, made sundry
successful attempts to wrest from us part of our old historical rights.
The borough elections and the meetings of the counties were interfered
with; pains were taken to extend the iron net of Austrian bureaucracy
over Hungary; and, in 1823, it was thought that all power of resistance
had left us. It was thought that the Hungarian Constitution was breaking
up, and ready to be buried in the same grave with the Constitutions of
Spain and Italy. The Cabinet of Vienna ventured to strike the last blow.
Without consulting the parliament, they raised the taxes, and decreed a
larger levy of recruits. These two points, if carried, abolished our
Constitution, and crowned the endeavours of the House of
Hapsburg-Lorraine. Great hopes of success were entertained at Vienna:
the love of our ancient constitution had seemingly become extinct in
Hungary; the German language had of late come to be the fashionable
idiom at Pesth; and several of the most powerful magnates were willing
to assist in completing the ruin of their country. The men at Vienna
knew, indeed, that all the counties would demur to the decrees of the
Hungarian Chancery, especially since the Chancellor, Prince Kohary, had
entered his protest against the intended violation of the Hungarian
Constitution. But the Cabinet of Vienna were resolved to execute their
plan; and, if all other means failed, to _force_ the Hungarians into
submission. Commissioners with unlimited powers were sent to the
refractory counties. These men were instructed to coerce the county
meetings by means of the military force. Baron Ignaz Eötvös (the poet's
grandfather) was appointed commissioner. He accepted the office. His
wife disapproved of the course he had taken, and left his house. The
Vienna Cabinet were at length forced to yield to the obstinate
resistance of the counties. They revoked their illegal decrees, and the
convocation of a parliament was declared to be at hand. But the public
voice spoke loud against the commissioners. The Count Illyeshazy became
the most popular of all the magnates, because he had declined to accept
the post of a commissioner, while those who had consented to act as the
tools of oppression were scorned and insulted by the multitude.
Young Joseph Eötvös, was, of course, profoundly ignorant of these
events. Pampered by his grandfather, and idolised by his mother, he
passed that period of bitter reality amidst all the bright dreams of
happy childhood. He was, indeed, informed of the honours and dignities
which the emperor had been most graciously pleased to confer upon his
father and grandfather; but he knew nothing of the curses of the people;
he knew nothing of the contempt with which his family name was
pronounced by the Hungarians. But the time was at hand for him to learn
it all, and feel it too. Young Eötvös was sent to a public school.
His father, an able diplomatist, had hitherto placed the boy under the
care of a tutor, Mr. Pruzsinsky. This gentleman was a staunch
republican. In his earlier years he was a party to the conspiracy of
Bishop Martinovich, the friend of Hajnotzy.[1] Pruzsinsky, with no less
than thirty of his associates, had been sentenced to capital punishment.
They were compelled to witness the execution of five of their friends.
At the same time, they were informed that their punishment had been
commuted into imprisonment for life. Hajnotzy, on his way to the
scaffold, entreated Pruzsinsky to protect his only sister, whom his
death would deprive of her last friend. Pruzsinsky promised to fulfil
the last request of the dying man; but it was long before he could
redeem his pledge. During eight years he was confined in several
Austrian prisons. When the French armies invaded the country, the state
prisoners were taken from the Kuffstein to the Spielberg, from the
Spielberg to Olmütz, and from Olmütz to Munkatsh; and everywhere they
met with that barbarous treatment which, at a later period, has been so
faithfully recorded by Silvio Pellico. After eight years of
imprisonment, Pruzsinsky was at length released; and, after ascertaining
the residence of Hajnotzy's sister, he informed her of the promise he
had given to her brother; adding, that his poverty allowed him no other
means of protecting her than by offering her his hand. The poor girl,
who at that time was reduced to severe distress, joyfully accepted the
proposal. They were married. Pruzsinsky lived in the greatest happiness
with his wife, whose love and devotion made ample amends for his past
sufferings. But this blissful period was of short duration; at the end
of two years Mrs. Pruzsinsky died.
[Footnote 1: He was executed in 1795.]
The events which we have detailed had their due share of influence in
forming Pruzsinsky's character. Naturally severe and independent, it was
by misfortune rendered harsh and all but repulsive. Baron Eötvös chose
this man to be a tutor to his son, because he expected (and not without
some show of reason) that the tutor's severity and his unamiable
character would disgust his pupil with the political ideas of which he
was the advocate and the martyr. But the boy took a liking to his
master, in spite of the harshness and coldness of the latter; and an
event which at that time took place gave Pruzsinsky an opportunity of
gaining a still stronger hold on his pupil's mind. Joseph Eötvös was
sent to a public school just at the period when every liberal speaker in
parliament denounced his family name, and when the country cursed it.
The boys shunned young Joseph; the form on which he sat was deserted,
and though he would fain have considered this circumstance as a mark of
respect, paid to him as the only member of the aristocracy that his
school could boast of, he was soon given to understand that there is
some difference between honouring a peer and sending him to Coventry.
His grandfather, too, on visiting the school, was received by the boys
with unmistakeable signs of disrespect; and when young Eötvös demanded
an explanation, he was told that his grandfather was a traitor. "And
you, too, are a traitor," added they. "You are almost thirteen years of
age, and you cannot speak Hungarian. We are sure you will be a traitor!"
Young Joseph was not a little shocked at this prediction, and of course
consulted his tutor about the likelihood of its ever coming true.
Pruzsinsky said simply, that the boys were right, and continued
grinding his pupil in Cornelius Nepos and the Latin grammar. But
Joseph's mind was not what it had been. He studied the Hungarian
language, and devoted his attention to the political conversations in
his father's _salon_, asking his tutor for an explanation of those
things which he did not understand. Thus, for instance, he asked why the
decease of the Count N. was so greatly lamented? "Who was the Count N.?"
"The Count N.," said Pruzsinsky, "was, by his talents and learning, one
of the most eminent men in Hungary: his character was odious. He filled
a high post in the state. As for you, boy, you will never equal him in
spirit and knowledge." A fortnight afterwards the tutor asked whether
Count N.'s death was still the subject of conversation; and when Joseph
replied that nobody thought of it, Pruzsinsky said: "This is well. That
man has been dead a fortnight, and nobody remembers his death, in spite
of his talents. The society to which he sacrificed his name and his
honour wants but two weeks to forget his existence. Mark this, boy, and
see what thanks you will get from the noble and great!" At another time
Pruzsinsky took his pupil to the green behind the Castle at Buda, on
which his five friends had been executed. "Here," said he, "they shed
the blood of five true friends of the country. No monument marks the
spot where they bled and lie buried, but the feet of the passing crowd
have worn the green into the form of a cross, and thus marked the place.
The time will come when these men will have their monument. That
monument will be a triumphal arch for the liberated people--it will be a
gallows for those who opposed our liberties!"
Words like these were calculated to make a deep impression on the mind
of young Eötvös, who manifested his political conversion by addressing
his schoolfellows in an Hungarian oration, by which he informed them
that, though his ancestors had served the house of Austria, and betrayed
the interests of Hungary, he (the Baron Joseph Eötvös) was resolved to
atone at once for the crime of his fathers, and that he (the said Baron
Eötvös) meant to be "liberty's servant, and his country's slave." The
boys received this speech with the greatest enthusiasm. They rushed up
to the master's desk, which the young orator had converted into a
tribune, and, seizing the object of their admiration, lifted him on
their shoulders, and carried him to the next coffee-house!
But, alas! how short is the step from the capitol to the Tarpeian rock!
The procession had no sooner reached its destination than the
school-master's servant appeared to arrest the speaker. His _début_
began on the master's desk; it ended in the black hole.
Amidst these, and similar impressions, passed the boyhood of Baron
Eötvös. In the year 1826 the Emperor Francis was compelled to conciliate
the good will of the Hungarian parliament. He reiterated his promise to
respect the constitutional rights of the country. The season of popular
excitement was over, and the hatred to the name of Eötvös grew gradually
less. In 1829, the Count Széchenyi published his plans of reform; the
old aristocratic opposition of Hungary became a liberal opposition, and
the party of national progress grew in strength and numbers. The youth
of Hungary joined this latter party. Tours to foreign countries became
the order of the day with all young men of education. Baron Eötvös, too,
made the grand tour of Europe. He was amiable, and a great favourite
with women; some of his occasional pieces had introduced him to the
public as a poet; he was rich,--in short, he had all that is requisite
to act a brilliant part in the capitals of the Continent.
In the course of the carnival of 1837, Baron Eötvös, who was then at
Paris, was invited by a young Frenchman to accompany him to Mademoiselle
le Normand, the notorious Parisian soothsayer. The poet consented; and
leaving a brilliant and merry party in the Faubourg du Roule, the two
young men repaired to the house of the mysterious lady. Mademoiselle le
Normand, after gazing long and earnestly at the handsome face of our
hero, said at length, "You are rich. The day will come when you will be
poor. You will marry a rich woman. You will be a minister of state in
your own country. You will die on the scaffold." Nothing was so unlikely
as this prophecy: Baron Eötvös was greatly amused with it, and after his
return to Hungary, he used to tell the anecdote for the amusement of his
friends.
The financial crisis of 1841, and the money speculations of the old
Baron Eötvös, led the family to the brink of ruin. Joseph Eötvös was
compelled to live by his pen; anywhere but in England and France, the
bread of literature is poverty indeed. In 1842, he married an amiable
and accomplished woman; but still he smiled at Mademoiselle le Normand's
prophecy. As a peer and as a public writer, he belonged to the extreme
opposition; and although his party had the greatest influence in the
country, there was no reason to suppose that it would ever be called
upon to grasp the reins of government. The movements of the year 1848
changed the aspect of affairs and the position of parties. A cabinet was
formed under the auspices of the Count Batthyany; and Joseph Baron
Eötvös was one of the members of that cabinet. In the month of August
the political horizon of Hungary became clouded: Jellachich, the Ban of
Croatia, prepared to invade our country. The duplicity of the Vienna
Cabinet became daily more manifest. The landsturm assembled in Pesth.
The Count Lamberg fell a victim to the unbridled passions of the people.
The Croatians advanced almost to the very gates of Buda. Le Normand's
prophecy came home to Baron Eötvös's mind, and scared him to Vienna. But
he had scarcely reached the Austrian capital, when the revolution of
October broke out. Eötvös fled. He hastened to Munich, and remained in
voluntary exile, without taking any active interest in the fate of his
country and the wayward fortunes of his friends. His career as a
statesman is ended for many years to come. It is to be hoped that his
faculties as a writer will survive the blow which crushed his country;
and that his countrymen will have many a song and a few more novels from
so clever and spirited a pen. It is the pleasing office of fiction to
reconcile us to the anxieties and misfortunes of real matter-of-fact
life. May my friend succeed in pouring balm into the fresh wounds of the
country; and may his works alleviate, though it be but for a moment, the
anguish which in this season of sorrows eats into the heart of every
Hungarian!
FRANCIS PULSZKY.
THE VILLAGE NOTARY.
CHAPTER I.
The traveller in the districts on the lower Theiss, however narrow the
circle of his peregrinations, may be said to be familiar with the whole
of that part of Hungary. Some families boast of the resemblance, not to
say the identity, of their members. To distinguish one from another, we
must see them long and often. The case of these districts is very much
the case of those families; and the traveller, after a few hours' sleep
on our sandy roads, has no means of knowing that he has made any
progress, unless, indeed, it be by looking at the setting sun, or his
jaded horses. Neither the general character nor the details of the
country will remind him of his having been subjected to locomotion. As
well might the seaman on the Atlantic endeavour to mark his course on
the watery plain which surrounds him. A boundless extent of pasturage,
now and then diversified by a broken frame over a well, or a few storks
that promenade round a half dried up swamp; bad fields, whose crops of
kukuruz and wheat are protected by God only, and by that degree of
bodily fatigue to which even a thief is exposed;--perhaps a lonely hut,
with a couple of long-haired wolf-dogs, reminding you of the sacredness
of property; and the ricks of stale hay and straw, left from the harvest
of last year, impressing you with the idea that their owners must either
have an excess of hay, or a want of cattle:--such were the sights upon
which you closed your eyes, and such, indeed, are the sights which you
behold on awaking. The very steeples, which, before you fell asleep,
were visible on the far plain, seem to have gone along with you; for
there is as little difference between them, as between the village which
you were approaching in the early part of the afternoon and the one to
which you are now drawing near. The low banks of the Theiss, too, are
the same; our own yellow Theiss is not only the best citizen of our
country,--for it spends its substance at home,--but it is also the
luckiest river in the world, since nobody ever interferes with it. The
Theiss is, in fact, the only river in Europe of which it may be said
that it is exactly such as God has made it.
Somewhere on the banks of the lower Theiss, in any of its
districts,--say in the county of Takshony,--close to where the river
flows in the shape of a capital S, and at no great distance from three
poplars on a hill (there is not a hill for many miles in whichever
direction you may go, and, least of all, a hill with trees upon it),
lies the village of Tissaret, under the lordship of the Rety family, who
have owned the place ever since the Magyars first came into the
country,--a fact which Mr. Adam Catspaw, the solicitor of the family, is
prepared to prove at all times, and in all places, to any one that might
be inclined to doubt it.
Than the family of the Retys none can be more ancient; and it cannot
therefore be a cause for wonder that the village of Tissaret came in for
a few spare rays of that dazzling brilliancy which surrounded its
masters. There is a large park, in which the trees, which were planted
as early as thirty years ago, have grown to a fabulous height. There is
a pond, the waters of which are sometimes rather low, but which, no
matter whether high or low, are always beautifully green, like the
meadow around. In rainy weather that meadow is rather more sandy than
the paths, which, though frequently covered with fresh earth, are still
sometimes in a condition which induces strangers to call them dirty,
thereby astonishing the gardener, who thinks that they are exactly what
paths ought to be. And, besides, there is a large castle, with a high
roof with gilt knobs on the same; and with a Doric hall, in which the
sheriff used to smoke his pipe; and with a gothic gate, in front of
which a crowd of supplicants might at all times be seen loitering and
losing their time. There is a yard, with stables to the left, and a
glass-house and a hen-roost to the right, without mentioning the grand
dunghill which covers more than one half of the stables. Every thing, in
short, is grand and comfortable, and shows--especially the high-road
from the door of the house to the county-town, and which has been made
expressly for the Retys--that the place is the residence of a sheriff.
All the buildings of the Retys are of a monumental character; and the
more so, since one distinguishing feature in monuments, viz. their being
built at the public expense, belonged to every fabric, road or bridge,
made by the Retys. Every one in the county knew of this fact; and,
though a few persons pretended to blame them for it, the great majority
of the people were quite satisfied, as, indeed, it was their bounden
duty to be.
But there will be plenty of occasions in the sequel to make my readers
acquainted with the beauties and comforts of the seat of the Retys, and
of the village of Tissaret. For the present, I will take them by the
hand and lead them about two miles from the said village, to the hill
which is commonly called the Turk's Hill, and which is remarkable, not
only for its three trees, but also for the distant view you enjoy on it
of the mountains of Tokay, which, on a clear day, like the one that
opens this tale, may be seen looming in the distance like dark-blue
haystacks.
The warm rays of an October sun fell upon the plains of Tissaret; there
was not a cloud in the sky, not a speck of dust on the heath. The solemn
silence of the scene was interrupted only by those vague sounds which
herald the approach of evening,--the carol of the birds, the faint
tinkling of distant sheep-bells, and the song of a lonely workman
wending his way homeward, with his scythe on his shoulder. The view from
the hill commands the country to the wood of St. Vilmosh, the acacias of
Tissaret, and the far windings of the Theiss. On that hill there are
two men, whom I take the liberty of introducing to my readers as Mr.
Jonas Tengelyi, the notary, and Mr. Balthasar Vandory, the curate of the
village of Tissaret.
Every aristocracy has its marks of distinction. Long nails, a tattooed
face, a green or black dress, a button on the hat, a ribbon in the
button-hole, a sword or a stick with an apple,--these are a few of the
marks which in various times and places have served, and still serve, to
separate them from the common herd; which, wherever that strange
animal--man--has left the savage state and become domesticated, part
them asunder from their birth to their dying hour; and which, in the
most civilised countries, show you by the very gallows that the culprit
is not only a thief, but also a plebeian. Nature, too, has her nobility;
she, too, puts marks of distinction on her aristocrat, by which you may
know her elect, in spite of all the preachers of a general equality.
Nature does not, indeed, compete with civilisation in ennobling a man's
fathers that lived before him, or the babe unborn that is to call him
father,--but there are cases in which Nature's nobility is unmistakeably
expressed in individuals. Any man that has once seen the notary Jonas
Tengelyi, will confess that my statement is correct; and to make this
fact still more comprehensible, I will add that Tengelyi's nobility
dates more than a hundred years back, and that, in the present instance,
Nature had all the advantages which the "usus" could give her.
Tengelyi is about fifty years of age, though his thin locks sprinkled
with flakes of grey, and the deep wrinkles with which Time has marked
his forehead, would cause you to think him older; but then he is like a
sturdy oak, with gnarled roots and branches bearing witness to its age,
while its leaves are still fresh and green, and show that there is a
strong and hearty life in it. Tengelyi's manly form and erect bearing
under his silvery locks, and his shining eyes beneath his wrinkled
forehead, bespeak him at once as a man whom Time has not broken, but
steeled,--and who, like colours that have seen many a battle-field, in
the course of years, had lost nothing but his ornaments.
The man who, sitting at Tengelyi's side, counts the petals of a flower,
while his eyes are directed to the blue mountain-tops of Tokay looming
in the distance, appears still more advanced in age, and his mild and
regular features form a striking contrast to the severity which is the
leading characteristic of Tengelyi's face. That face exhibits the
traces of fiery passions and fierce contentions, which, though soothed
into oblivion, might still under circumstances break forth afresh; while
Vandory's features might be likened to a clear sky, on which the passing
storm has left no trace. Vandory's appearance needs no aid from his
clerical dress to inform you that you accost one of those men whom God
has sent to represent his mercy upon earth. The notary's bearing shows
an honest man, who had but little happiness in the world,--while Vandory
is a living demonstration of the old adage, that virtue is its own
reward, even in this world of ours.
Vandory at length interrupted the silence which the two friends had
observed for the last half-hour, by saying, "Where are your thoughts, my
friend?"
"I scarcely know," was Tengelyi's reply. "I thought of my youth,--of
Heidelberg,--of my career as a 'jurat.' Do you sometimes think of
Heidelberg? _I_ do; and whenever my thoughts return to the green
mountains and the bright rivers of that country, I feel inclined to
quarrel with fate for casting my lot in this desolate champaign."
"Do not, I pray, abuse our country," said Vandory, smiling. "What can be
greener than this meadow? Is not that river beautiful, flowing as it
does among the reeds? And what can be more striking than the far
steeples and the mountains of Tokay? As for the blue sky and the rays of
the setting sun, they are beautiful anywhere. You are very unjust, sir,
and that is the long and the short of it."
"And you are the greatest optimist I ever met with," rejoined Tengelyi;
"there is not a man on earth but you can talk of his good qualities, and
by the hour too. But your taking this country under your protection
makes me verily believe that God, for all that he is omnipotent, cannot
create anything so bad but that you would hit upon some redeeming point
in it."
"Why should I quarrel with His works?" said Vandory. "We ought to be at
peace with all men,--and with all countries, too," added he, smiling.
"We ought--but all cannot!"
"We can. Believe me, we are all optimists, every man of us. God made his
creatures for happiness; and as Scripture says that heaven and hell are
both peopled by the denizens of paradise, so is each joy and each sorrow
the result, not of our nature, but of our will."
"But experience!" interposed Tengelyi.
"Experience proves but what we wish it to prove. If you are pleased
with the present, you will find pleasant reminiscences in the past, and
_vice versâ_. Go merrily to the glass, and you will see a smiling face
in it; and even Echo, lovelorn woman though she be, will speak in joyful
notes, if you but address her with accents of joy."
Tengelyi laughed. "There is no disputing with you. I trust when Mr.
Catspaw's 'canonisation' comes on, that they will retain you as Heaven's
advocate. You will then have a fair chance of showing how many occasions
for the exercise of signal virtues that worthy Catspaw gave in his life;
for every body who ever refrained from thrashing him, exercised the
virtue of self-denial to a remarkable extent. The very hare which the
young gentlemen are hunting down yonder ought to be counselled not to
appeal to you. You would tell her that to be hunted to death is a hare's
happiness and pride. Indeed," added Tengelyi, with great bitterness,
"you have undertaken quite as difficult a task in endeavouring to
convince your parishioners of what you are pleased to call their
happiness, and in pointing out to them for what they ought to be
thankful to Providence."
But this taunt was lost upon Vandory, whose whole attention was with the
hunt, which then took the direction of the Turk's Hill. "This is savage
sport," cried the clergyman at length, "one unworthy of Christian men. I
cannot understand how men of education and parts can delight in it!"
"Still it engages your interest," said Tengelyi; and, casting a look at
the hunting-party, who were just assembled round the body of the
wretched hare, he added, with a sigh, "Alas! _these_ men are happy!"
"As for me," repeated Vandory, "I cannot understand how men of education
can delight in that sort of thing."
"I dare say you cannot," rejoined Tengelyi, smiling. "Rarely as we
understand the sorrows of others, their joys are a sealed book indeed.
But this sport is much the same with other enjoyments which pride or
strength procures us. To spy an object out, to hunt it, to gain upon it,
and at length to seize it, is indeed a happy feeling--no matter whether
the object is a hare or whether it is the conquest of a country. It is
always the same sensation; and the difference, if any, is for the
spectator, but not for the actor."
"But this is cruel. Consider the sufferings of the poor animal! What an
unequal contest! A score of dogs and horsemen after _one_ hare. It is
really shocking."
"You are quite right about the inequality," retorted Tengelyi, "but
where in this world do you see a fair fight? The cotton-lord and the
factory-workman--the planter and the negro--they are all unequally
matched. Believe me, friend, hare-hunting is not a very cruel sport, if
compared to some which I could name."
Vandory sighed, and though, as an optimist, fully convinced of
Tengelyi's being in the wrong, he resolved to reserve his reply; for
Akosh Rety and his party, seeing the two friends on the hill, advanced
from the plain and put a stop to the conversation.
Of the company which now assembled round the notary and the old
clergyman, there can be no doubt that my lady-readers would be most
struck with Akosh Rety and Kalman Kishlaki. They were very handsome;
indeed it was a common saying in the county of Takshony, that handsomer
young men could not be found in any six counties of Hungary. They showed
to great advantage after the hunt, with their flushed faces, and their
curly hair escaping disorderly from beneath their small round hats.
Their short blue shooting-coats, too, gave them an appearance of great
smartness, and----but I am conscious of my duty as a Magyar author, and
I know that the Justice ought to have the precedence in his own
district. I therefore beg leave to introduce to my honoured readers the
justice and his clerk, Mr. Akosh Rety's companions in the hunt.
Learned men maintain that our country is inhabited by a race of classic,
viz., of Scythian, origin. At times we may forget this fact; for, even
among the men whose names most unmistakeably proclaim our Eastern
source, there are many whom any one but a philologist would class with
quite a different race of people. It is notorious that the current of
the Rhine loses itself in mud and sand. Even so are the descendants of
families who were glorious in their generation, intent upon magnifying
their fathers by eschewing to eclipse the brilliancy of ancestral fame.
There are men of whose high descent we are only reminded by the
impossibility to conceive what they could live on, unless it were on the
inheritance of their fathers.
Far different is Paul Skinner, the justice of the district. Every doubt
about the authenticity of our national origin must vanish on seeing him
on his dun horse and lighting his pipe; for Paul Skinner is a striking
evidence of the fact that the Scythian blood of our ancestors still
flourishes in the land.
For the benefit of those unacquainted with the administration of
Hungary, I ought to remark that the office of a district justice is
unquestionably the most troublesome and laborious in the world. A
district justice is a firm pillar of the state; he upholds public
order,--he protects both rich and poor,--he is the judge and the father
of his neighbourhood; without him there is no justice--or, at the least,
no judicature. All complaints of the people pass through his hands; all
decrees of the powers that be are promulgated and administered by him.
The district justice regulates the rivers, makes roads, and constructs
bridges. He is the representative of the poor, the inspector of the
schools; he is lord chief forester whenever a wolf happens to make its
appearance; he is "protomedicus" in the case of an epidemic; he is
justice of the peace, the king's advocate in criminal cases,
commissioner of the police, of war, of hospitals; in short, he is all in
all,--the man in whom we live, move, and have our being.
If, among the six hundred men holding that office in our country, there
is but one who neglects his duty, the consequence is that thousands are
made to suffer: a want of impartiality in one of them kills justice for
many miles round; if one of them is ignorant, Parliament legislates in
vain for the poor. And whoever will condescend to compare the reward
with the labour, and consider that, besides a salary of from 100 to 150
florins per annum, a district justice must expect, after three years'
impartial administration of his office, to lose it by the
instrumentality of some powerful enemy,--whoever, I say, considers all
this, must confess that there are in this country either six hundred
living saints, or as many hundred thousand suffering citizens.
From what I have stated it is easy to see that there are two drawbacks
to the office of a district justice, viz. too much work and too little
pay. There are indeed some justices who endeavour to doctor their
dignity, by neglecting part of it, viz. the work,--and who of the other
part,--that is to say, of the pay,--take more than the law obliges them
to take. But the more enlightened, scorning such petty improvements,
advocate the principle of out-and-out reform in all that regards the
faulty composition of their office. Most wisely do they accept of what
the office yields with such profusion, (viz. work,) only when it
promises to yield what they lack, viz. pay. Most wisely, I say; for how
else could Spectabilis Paul Skinner rear his four sons to be pillars of
the state? and how else could he possibly make the respectable figure
which suited his office, and on the strength of which, whenever he, as
chief dignitary, perambulates the happy meads of the district of
Tissaret, he imparts a salutary quaking to the said happy meads?--of
course I mean to their humblest part,--to the abandoned population which
presumes to solicit a share of the most precious treasure of civil
liberty, viz. justice, and for nothing too.
But even those who know nothing of all this cannot fail to feel, in Paul
Skinner's presence, that sacred awe which is so necessary for the
maintenance of order. His external appearance is calculated to frighten
both the innocent and the guilty. Fancy a bony man, bilious, and
wrinkled like a baked apple; add to these graces a black beard, a pair
of large mustaches, green piercing eyes, which, it appears, are made to
wound rather than to see, and the short pipe which sticks to him like
any other member of his body,--fancy a tone of voice so shrill, so
cutting, that it alone can frighten the whole population of a village,
and you will confess that every body in the district (with the sole
exception of the rogues) must tremble on beholding Paul Skinner. But
never did Justice assume a more terrible shape than when she appeared in
the guise of the said Paul Skinner travelling his circuit. Then might be
seen the four horses with their postilion, furnishing a living
demonstration of the rapid progress of Hungarian justice; behind the
postilion, the county hussar with his feathered calpac; and--"post
equitem sedet atra cura,"--behind the hussar a bundle of sticks,
reminding the lovers of antiquity of the old Roman lictors (thus named
from their _licking_ propensities); and behind the sticks the judge,
always smoking and sometimes cursing, his feet stuck in a huge but empty
sack, which, "quia natura horret vacuum," travels with its master that
it may be filled. Even the boldest were frightened out of their wits by
this gradation of terrors.
It is impossible to conceive the idea of a district justice without a
clerk. Nature produces all creatures in pairs; and the Hungarian
Constitution, proceeding from natural principles, and acting up to them,
produces Justice only by the joint agency of two beings, viz. judge and
clerk. After introducing my readers to Mr. Skinner, it is but just that
I should recommend Mr. Kenihazy to their notice. That gentleman is at
this moment engaged in an interesting conversation with one of the dogs,
and in the joy of his heart--for that lucky dog caught the hare!--he has
just uttered certain quaint imprecations, which a shepherd was fined at
the last sessions for using. Andreas Kenihazy, or Bandi Batshi, as his
most intimate friends are in the habit of calling him, is his master's
right hand. He is not such a right hand as may sometimes be found among
other assistants, who, according to the words of Scripture, unconscious
of the doings of the left hand, that is to say, of the justice, do the
very reverse of what he did. No! Bandi Batshi is a loyal right hand,
co-operating to the welfare of the whole of which it is part. As a good
Christian, Kenihazy practised the lesson about the smiting of cheeks.
Whenever his superior was insulted (that is, when he was bribed, which
is the greatest insult you can offer a judge), Kenihazy would hold out
his hand also, nor would he be pacified unless he was exposed to a like
indignity. Nevertheless, Kenihazy was not easy to be bribed. To insult
him was a difficult and dangerous business; and those who had once
witnessed the outpourings of disgust with which the honest man resented
so gross an outrage, trembled when they offered their gift to that
righteous judge, who, for all that, remained mindful of his oath, and
who, to make matters even, showed himself most favourable to those who
had tried his temper, unless, indeed, the other party gave still greater
offence.
We are sure to meet Kenihazy again, and we will not therefore expatiate
on his blue jacket, which once upon a time boasted of a dozen
buttons,--or his waistcoat, which owes its present colour to the
sun,--or the time-honoured neckcloth, which gave the wearer a hanging
look--and much less on his grey pantaloons. We mention his round hat and
his boots and spurs merely in order to say that Kenihazy is the very
picture of seedy gentility; and, having said thus much, we turn to a
certain prejudice, which, though luckily obsolete in life, is generally
accepted in theory. The prevailing opinion of the venality of judges is,
I protest, utterly groundless. It has no foundation but those feelings
of envy, which low people are wont to indulge in with respect to their
betters.
Not to mention the fact, that according to our laws--and according to
laws of which the boldest innovator dare not say that they are obsolete,
inasmuch as their antiquity makes them venerable--our judges are allowed
to accept presents: we need only point out the high estimation in which
gratitude was held by all nations, both ancient and modern. To be good,
a man ought to be grateful; and is it not therefore very wrong to insist
upon a judge showing himself insensible to kindness? We are told we
ought to do by others as we wish them to act by ourselves. Supposing now
A., the judge, to be in the place of him from whom he accepts a present;
that is to say, suppose A., the judge, were to plead a cause, about the
justice of which he entertained some modest doubts, would not A. be very
happy if the learned gentleman who sits on his case were to take a
present and pronounce judgment accordingly?--and this being the case,
ought not A. to deal with his fellows as he wishes to be dealt with by
them?
It is a legal maxim that the judge ought to consider and weigh the
proofs which are preferred in the suit. Supposing now the proofs of the
claimant and those of the defendant are of equal merit, or nearly so,
and supposing the claimant adds a few bank-notes to the legal documents,
without the adverse party making a rejoinder to a plea of such universal
power; what, in the name of fair dealing, can the judge do, but give
judgment for the best pleader?
Returning to the party on the hill, we find Kalman eagerly disputing
with Vandory. Their conversation was, of course, of the merits of
hare-hunting. Tengelyi and Akosh took no part in it;--the former because
he protested that the subject was one about which on consideration there
could be but _one_ opinion, while every body would at times act in
opposition to that opinion; and Akosh declined to second his friend's
argument, because his mind and heart were hunting on another track. He
inquired of old Tengelyi how his daughter Vilma was, and his blushing
face showed that he thought more of Vilma than of all the hares in the
world. Tengelyi gave him but short answers, and even those reluctantly.
Paul Skinner and his clerk conversed about the election, and of the
means of gaining the public confidence. The names of certain villages
occurred frequently in their interesting dialogue; and when Mr. Skinner,
brightening up, murmured, "Ten butts, one dollar," Kenihazy was heard to
respond with, "That will do to keep us in!" and, giving vent to his
satisfaction, the worthy clerk, knocking his spurs together, blew an
immense column of smoke from his pipe. In fact, he smoked with such
violence, that one might have likened him to a steam-engine, but for the
indecency of comparing a vulgar working machine with an Hungarian
gentleman.
The party were about to leave, when their attention was suddenly
directed to something which was going on in the plain below. Two men on
horseback, and one on foot, were seen approaching over the heath; and it
was remarked that the individual, whose means of locomotion were so
unequally matched with those of his companions, walked in front of the
horses, and sometimes even between them. The servants of the party, nay,
the very justice, were in doubt as to who or what they were; whether
Pandurs or robbers, for at that distance it was quite impossible to make
out the difference, which doubtlessly does exist, between brigands and
the familiars of the Hungarian Hermandad. On a nearer approach, however,
all doubts were removed by the considerate manner in which the cavaliers
sought to divert the attention of the pedestrian from the length of the
way, by beating him; and it was at once clear that these were servants
of the county escorting a prisoner, whom they were subjecting to the
customary introductory proceedings.
"Let somebody ride down to the Pandurs and tell them to bring the
culprit to this place," said Mr. Skinner to his clerk. "I'm sure he is
one of Viola's gang; his case ought to be tried by a court-martial.[2]
What did I tell you?" he continued, turning to Akosh, "I was sure we
should catch the birds; and though I may not be re-elected, I mean at
least to deserve the confidence of the county by hanging a parcel of the
beggars on this hill."
[Footnote 2: See Note I.]
"Not before you've caught them, and I doubt whether you ever will.
Tengelyi says it is next to impossible to find an honest man. Now your
example proves that nothing is more easy, because hitherto you've
caught none but honest men; and I would almost swear," added Akosh,
"that Viola's comrade, the mighty outlaw whom your people are bringing
us, and to whose hanging you mean to treat the county,--that other
Jaromir and Angyalbandi[3],--is no less a personage than our old gipsy."
[Footnote 3: See Note II.]
Upon this everybody recognised old Peti, and there was a general burst
of laughter.
"Poor Peti!" cried Akosh with a great show of sentiment. "The country
cannot boast of a man more gifted, more useful. When a house is built,
it is he who makes the bricks; when a lock is out of order, he puts it
to rights. He is a born blessing to property. He shoes your horse and
fastens your spurs; there is not a wedding but he plays the first fiddle
at it; nay, he is useful to the last moment of your life, for he digs
your grave. It is said of him that, in his youth, he served the state as
a hangman. Truly, truly, the world is ungrateful to great men, but still
more so to useful men!"
"I don't see anything to laugh at," said Mr. Skinner, looking still more
solemn and black than was his wont. "Possibly there is a case for a
'statarium.' As for me, I don't think it is your old gipsy, but if----"
"_If_ it is not Peti," cried Akosh, laughing; "if that fellow dares to
sport a white skin, there is not, of course, any obstacle to his being
hanged."
"Enough of this! who says the fellow yonder is not a gipsy? but I say,
who knows whether that old rascal, whom you mistake for an innocent
musician----?"
"Has not masqueraded as a gipsy all along! But you will bring the truth
to light. You, Skinner, will skin the culprit. You'll strip him of his
brown hide; you'll show the world that Viola the great robber is
identical with Peti the gipsy."
"Don't make a fool of _me_, sir! I won't suffer it!" cried the justice,
whose pipe had gone out with the excess of his rage. "Paul Skinner is
not the man whom you can fool, I can tell you! But never mind; who knows
what that fellow Peti has done all his life besides brick-making? and I
apprehend that if he set out with being a hangman, he'll end with being
a hanged man."
This said, the justice lighted his pipe, muttering his imprecations
against untimely jokes and bad tinder.
Poor Peti had meanwhile proceeded to a distance of five hundred yards
from the Turk's Hill; and so great was the good man's natural
politeness, that even at that distance he bowed to the party on the
hill. Little did he know the intensity of Paul Skinner's rage; but the
first words of the worthy magistrate showed him that it was an evil
hour, indeed, in which he had come before his judge.
"Hast at last gone into the snare, thou precious bird?" thundered
Skinner. "Never mind, you old rascal! never mind! I'll pay you, and with
a vengeance, too!"
"Most sublime----" sighed the wretched musician; but the justice,
unmindful of this appeal to his better feelings, continued:--
"Hold your tongue! I know all! all, I tell you. And if you will not
confess, I'll freshen your memory!"
"Most sublime Lord!" sighed Peti; "I am an innocent, poor, old man.
I----"
"Dog!" retorted Mr. Skinner. "If you dare to bark, I'll pull your ears,
that you shall not forget it to the day of judgment. Is it not horrible?
the profligate fellow would give me the lie!"
"No, sweet, gracious Lord!" cried Peti, weeping; "I do not deny any
thing, but----"
"It's better for you; at all events, we need not ask you any questions.
The judge knows every thing." Turning to the Pandurs, Mr. Skinner
added: "Now Janosh, tell me, what did you bring that culprit for?"
"Only because we have been told to arrest all suspicious characters."
"Ah!" cried Akosh, "and the old musician is a suspicious character! You
are fine fellows, and ought to be promoted!"
"We'll see that by and by!" snarled Mr. Skinner. "Now tell us, Janosh,
what is the old rascal's crime?"
"Why," said the Pandur, "the long and the short of it is, that it was
about three o'clock,--was it not, Pishta?--after having had our dinner
and rest at the Murder-Tsharda, we rode up to St. Vilmosh forest. We had
been on our legs from an early hour this morning, and were apprehensive
that we should not be able to obey his worship's orders about arresting
at least one suspicious character, when Pishta spied a horseman near St.
Vilmosh forest, and a man to whom he was talking. 'Suppose this is
Viola,' said Pishta, who was just lighting his pipe. 'Ah, indeed!
suppose this is Viola!' said I; and when I looked at the horseman, I
thought it was----"
"Viola?" said Mr. Skinner, with a voice which left no doubt about the
answer which he expected.
"I'm sure it was he, your worship," replied Janosh; "I'll bet any thing
it was he."
"Now this fellow is short-sighted," interrupted Akosh; "I wonder how
many robbers Pishta saw."
"We'll see that by and by!" said Mr. Skinner, angrily. "The devil may be
a judge when robbers and vagabonds find such protection. Go on. What
happened next? Did you see any thing more of the criminal?"
"How was it possible? We spurred our horses on, but the poor beasts were
so tired they would not run; and when we came to the place, we found no
one but the old gipsy, walking to St. Vilmosh."
"Well?" said the judge impatiently.
"Of course they handcuffed him, for who knows what outrage he might have
committed if he had come to St. Vilmosh," cried Akosh. "They are the
very fellows to be sent after robbers. They will soon starve all
robbers, by preventing honest men from leaving their houses."
Old Peti saw that he had found a protector. Growing bolder, he asked to
be freed from his handcuffs, and though the justice opposed, he yielded
at length to the entreaties of Kalman, Akosh, and Vandory, though not
without muttering something about "patibulandus" and "fautores
criminum."
"And what happened when you came up with the gipsy?" said Mr. Skinner,
again addressing the Pandurs. "Was there any thing very suspicious about
the old hang-dog scoundrel?"
"There was indeed!" said Janosh, twirling his moustache. "When we came
up with the gipsy,--which was rather late, for the old Moor ran very
fast,--Pishta called out to him, at which he appeared frightened."
"Frightened?" said Mr. Skinner. "Frightened, indeed; I'd be glad to know
the reason;" and the Clerk, shaking his head, added, "This is indeed
suspicious!"
"Begging your lordship's pardon," cried the gipsy, "the gentlemen swore
at me, and cocked their pistols, which made me believe that they were
robbers."
"Hold your tongue, you cursed black dog! If you say another word, you
shall have beating enough to last you a twelvemonth." Having thus mildly
admonished the prisoner, Mr. Skinner proceeded with the "benevolum." "Go
on, Janosh," said he.
And Janosh went on: "Upon this Pishta asked him, 'Where is Viola?' and
he answered, 'I never saw him.'"
"But we saw him in conversation with Viola!" cried the second Pandur. "I
said, 'Peti, you are a liar; we have seen you talking to Viola! and
unless you confess it, we'll make you dance to a queer kind of music."
"What did the gipsy say to that?" asked the Clerk.
"He said he did not know who the horseman was, which made me angry; for
your worship is aware that Peti knows every body. When he saw me angry,
he wanted to run away."
"Oh, Goodness gracious!" cried the gipsy; "why should I not run away,
when they fell to beating me, and offered to handcuff me?"
"An honest man," said Kenihazy sententiously, "cares not for handcuffs."
"I thought so too," quoth Janosh; "therefore, when we saw that he was
indeed a criminal, we hunted him down, bound his hands, and took him to
his worship."
"You did your duty," said Mr. Skinner. "Now take the old fox to my
house. To-morrow we'll commit him to gaol."
"But," cried Peti, "I assure your worship I am as innocent as the babe
unborn!"
"I dare say you are!" said the justice with a bitter sneer. "You don't
know Viola,--of course you don't. Who shod Viola's horse? eh?"
"Yes, I do know him," sighed the gipsy; "but is it my fault that I
lived in the same village with him Heaven knows how long! for Viola was
the best man in the world before he fell into the hands of the County
Court. I confess that I did shoe his horse; but what is an old man to do
against robbers armed with sticks and pistols?"
"But why do the robbers come to you? Why don't they employ honest
smiths?"
"I think," said Peti, quietly, "the robbers prefer coming to my house
because I do not live in the village."
"And why do you not live in the village? you scarecrow!"
"Because, my lord, the sheriff will not allow the gipsies to live in the
village since Barna Jantzi's house was burned. This is hard enough for
an old man like myself."
Every one of these answers was, in Mr. Skinner's eyes, a violation of
the judicial dignity. The best of us dislike being mistaken in our
opinion as to the merit of our fellow men. We would rather pardon their
weaknesses, than be brought to shame by their good qualities. No wonder
then that Paul Skinner, whose knowledge of self had given him a very bad
idea of his species, would never believe a man to be innocent, whom he
once suspected of any crime. It is but natural that, in the present
instance, he did all in his power to make the gipsy's guilt manifest.
"Never mind," said he, "I wonder whether you'll give yourself such airs
when you are in _my_ house; Viola too will be caught by to-morrow
morning. Take him to my house, and don't let him escape,--else--"
Upon this the Pandurs prepared the handcuffs, when Akosh interfered,
offering to be bail for the gipsy's appearance. Mr. Skinner, however,
was but too happy to have his revenge for the jokes which the young man
had made at his expense in the course of the interrogatory.
"You know I am always happy to oblige you," said he, "but in the present
instance it is impossible. By to-morrow Viola will be caught, and it
will be then found that this gipsy is one of his accomplices."
"If you keep Peti until Viola is caught," said Kalman Kishlaky, "you'll
keep the poor fellow to the end of time."
"We'll see that!" sneered the justice. "All I say is, I am informed that
he is to be at the Tsharda of Tissaret this very night. He'll find us
prepared. We take the landlord and his family, bind them, and lock them
up in the cellar, while the Pandurs, disguised as peasants, wait for
him at the door. It is all arranged, I tell you."
"Of course always supposing Viola will come," said Akosh.
"This time he will come," replied Mr. Skinner with great dignity. "I
have trusty spies."
Old Peti seemed greatly, and even painfully, struck with this
intelligence. His brown face exhibited the lively interest he felt in
Viola's danger; and his features were all but convulsed when he heard of
the preparations for the capture of the robber. It was fortunate for him
that his excitement was not remarked by any but Tengelyi; and when Mr.
Skinner at length turned his searching eye upon his captive, he saw no
trace of old Peti's emotions in his imploring attitude. The Pandurs were
in the act of removing their prisoner, when the latter, turning to
Akosh, said:--
"I most humbly intreat you, since I _must_ go to prison, to tell my
Lord, your father, that old Peti is in gaol, and that it is not my fault
if the letters do not come to hand."
"What letters?" said Akosh.
"My Lord's letters, which he gave me," answered the gipsy, producing a
packet from beneath the lining of his waistcoat, and handing it to
Akosh. "I am my Lord's messenger; and I should not have been too late,
for my lady promised me a present for taking these letters to St.
Vilmosh before sunset, but for these----gentlemen, who caught me when I
entered the forest."
Akosh took the letters, opened them, and, having perused their contents,
he handed them to Mr. Skinner, who appeared not a little distressed
after reading them.
"You've spoiled it," said Akosh in a low voice. "If you lose your
election you have at least one comfort, namely, that you have defeated
your own plans. With the three hundred votes from St. Vilmosh against
you, you have not even a chance."
"I trust not," murmured Mr. Skinner; "I trust not. The men of St.
Vilmosh----"
"Are by no means fond of you; and if they elect you, they do it to
please their notary, who is, indeed, on my father's side; but Heaven
knows how long! This morning we learned that Bantornyi's party were
negotiating with him, but that they could not agree. My father writes
these letters, promises to comply with all the notary's demands, and
invites the St. Vilmosh gentry to come to him and pledge their votes. So
far all is right. But you interfere with your Pandurs, you stop our
messenger, and assist our enemies, who will by this time have repented
of their stinginess."
"But who could have foreseen that your father would send an important
message by a man like Peti?"
"Did not I tell you," said Akosh, evidently amused by the judge's
perplexity, "that old Peti is our servant and messenger. Who would ever
have thought of the sheriff's quick-footed gipsy being taken up and
handcuffed?"
"It is true," said Mr. Skinner, despondingly. "But why didn't he
speak?--why not mention the letters? Come here, you d---- old rascal!"
thundered the judge, who was one of those amiable men whose rage reaches
the boiling point at a minute's notice, and whose words are most
offensive when they ought to be most conciliating. "You dog! why did you
not say that you were sent by the sheriff? I have a mind to give you two
dozen--I have!"
The gipsy was aware of the favourable change in his prospects, and he
replied, with considerable coolness, that the cruel treatment of the
Pandurs had caused him to forget all about it; "besides," added he, "my
lady told me not to show the letters to any one; and, moreover, I was
sure my innocence would come to light."
"Your innocence! it is shocking," cried the justice, holding up his
hands; "the fellow has a letter from the sheriff in his pocket, and the
blockhead relies on his innocence! Here are your
letters;--go!--run!--and woe to you if the letters come too late to St.
Vilmosh!"
The gipsy nodded his head, and hastened in the direction of St. Vilmosh!
He was scarcely gone, when Mr. Skinner vented his passion upon the
Pandurs. He expressed his astonishment, intermixed with curses, at the
impertinence of these worthy men for having caught the sheriff's gipsy;
and when they appealed to Mr. Kenihazy, all the comfort they received
was a gentle hint of certain misgivings that gentleman entertained
respecting their being suffered to go at large. Akosh and the rest of
the company were amused with Mr. Skinner's violence and the agility of
the gipsy, who every now and then looked back, and ran the quicker
afterwards. The notary and the clergyman remained serious: and when the
party had left, and neither the merry laugh of Akosh nor Skinner's
ever-ready curses fell upon their ear, Tengelyi turned to his friend,
saying, "Do you still think that hare-hunting is the _cruellest_ pastime
of these gentlemen?"
"No, indeed!" sighed Vandory; "and to think that these men are public
functionaries, and that the weal and woe of thousands is in their
hands!"
"Ha!" cried Tengelyi, turning round, and directing the attention of his
friend to a dark point which moved over the vast expanse of the heath,
"is not that our gipsy?"
"Yes; but he runs rather in a line with us, instead of to St. Vilmosh."
"So it seems," said Tengelyi, "and for once the sheriff's orders will
not be obeyed. Perhaps he is bribed by the other party; but who knows?
Skinner may be right, and Peti is leagued with Viola. In that case he is
now on his way to inform the outlaw of what the judge most wisely
communicated to him, for I am sure that gipsy does not run so fast
without good cause. But what does it matter to us?"
And the two friends returned to the village.
CHAP. II.
On a ridge of the Carpathian mountains, where, gradually lessening, they
descend to the green Hungarian plain, lies the village of Bard, amidst
meadow land, forests, and vineyards. Its situation is most pleasant,
though lonely; and, removed as it is from the busy high road and the
means of traffic and communication, the village is both unknown and
poor. About fifty years ago, there lived in this village Esaias
Tengelyi, the curate of Bard, and father to Jonas Tengelyi, whom we
mentioned as notary of Tissaret. The life of Esaias Tengelyi passed
peaceably and unnoticed, like the place in which he exercised his sacred
calling, or the valley and the mountain side which sheltered his humble
cottage. The condition of the Reformed Church in Hungary does not by any
means deserve the epithet of "brilliant," even in our own days; but the
present village pastors are most enviably situated in comparison to
their brethren of fifty years ago. Still the life of the Reverend Esaias
Tengelyi, though full of privations, was rich in enjoyment. He loved
his cottage, its straw-covered roof, and the brown rafters of its
ceiling. Sometimes, indeed, he wished to have the windows of his room a
little larger,--and he went even so far as to take the resolution of
administering, at his own expense, to this drawback to the comforts of
his home. The huge stove, too, which served also the purpose of an oven,
made his room preposterously small, and on baking days it threw out a
greater quantity of heat than was consistent with comfort. The
neighbouring curates, whenever they came to pay their respects to the
Reverend Esaias, were violent in their strictures upon the parish of
Bard, for neglecting to provide their pastor's study with a decent
flooring: nay, more, the good man was seriously reproved, and earnestly
adjured to follow the example of his brethren in office, who had
successfully petitioned the Synod respecting the gross indecency of
pastoral clay floors. But Tengelyi could not be moved to stir in behalf
of his house: perhaps he liked it better as it was. Its windows were
indeed small; but then he had often sat by them reading the Scriptures;
and they had seen the roses on his wife's cheek. The stove was
large,--of course it was,--but in winter it offered a convenient and
warm seat; and the clay floor of his study was the same on which his
father's feet had trod, when he was meditating his sermons, while the
son made his first attempt to stand on a pair of trembling little legs.
After all, there was nothing like the window, the stove, and the floor,
for a countless number of sweet and tender emotions were connected with
them. Esaias Tengelyi was happy; he felt that the largest window, that
the smallest stove, and the most splendid floor of old oak, could not
add to his happiness.
But that happiness could be lessened. The pastor's wife died, and the
heart which had harboured so much bliss was henceforth the home of
bitter sorrow. Tengelyi gave no words to his anguish, nor did he strive
to add to or lessen his grief; but his friends felt that time was as
nothing to the sorrow of his heart, and that his hopes and wishes were
not on this side of the grave. His little son, Jonas, was the only tie
which bound the old pastor to the world. The boy was but four years of
age when his mother died; what would become of him, if he were also
bereft of his father? People have scarcely a heart for their own
children; how then is an orphan to fare for love? And the boy was most
beautiful, when he cast his deep blue eyes upwards to the father's sad
face! His voice had the tones of that dear voice which taught him his
first words; his yellow locks were smooth and orderly, as if fresh from
his mother's hands;--what was to become of the child on this wide earth,
and with no kindred, but his parents in the grave? Tengelyi would not be
comforted, but a sense of his duty kept him alive.
Little Jonas throve under his father's care. He knew not what it was to
be motherless in this world, where the heart finds that trusty, faithful
love it yearns for, only at a mother's breast. A child's heart is a
little treasury of joy, and there is no room in it for great griefs. In
the first days after the event, little Jonas called for his mother, and
receiving no answer from that mild, loving voice, he sat down and wept
his fill; in the night he dreamed of her, and lisped her name. But as
time wore on, his mother's name was rarely mentioned, and when spring
came, with its flowers, her memory passed away like the distant notes of
a song. All this was natural. Children are most enviable, because they
are most forgetful. A thousand flowers are blooming round a child: why
should it ponder on the sorrows of the past? A thousand melodies flit
around it, and the young heart leaps to them: it has no ear for the sad
accents of distant love.
Thus did the first years pass away. When Jonas had completed his eighth
year, his father commenced his education. The old pastor's plan was
extremely simple. He made the child ask questions, and answered them in
a manner which was at once explicit and adapted to the boy's capacities.
He had no idea of making his son a phenomenon; on the contrary, he did
all in his power to limit his mental activity to a narrow circle, to
prevent his being confused by a variety of subjects. The classical
languages, as far as Jonas could understand them, and the rudiments of
natural and political history, were all that old Esaias taught his son;
they were all he thought necessary for that son's future vocation.
For old Tengelyi, like the majority of fathers, had already chosen a
profession for his son, and though, on consideration, he would have
shrunk from the idea of forcing anybody, and much less his own boy, into
a career which might be repugnant to his tastes, still, when he thought
of his child's future life, he could not possibly fancy that his son
should wish for any thing besides the curacy of Bard. Old Tengelyi had
himself followed his father in that sacred office. It was so natural to
think that he in his turn would be followed by his son. But while the
father was thus tracing out his future career, and planting in the
garden, besides improving the house, as he thought, for the child of his
heart, the boy Jonas Tengelyi anticipated other scenes and a different
sphere of action. The poor curate's library contained but few books, but
among them was a great treasure; namely, a copy of Plutarch--a relic of
college life, with a portrait of the hero to each biography. This
illustrated copy of Plutarch was the only book of its kind in the
vicarage, and indeed in the village of Bard. Jonas passed many hours in
looking at the solemn faces of the classic heroes, nor was it long
before he knew all their names and actions; and though the old pastor
regretted that the book was not an illustrated Bible, by which means he
might impress upon his boy's mind the history and the deeds of the
heroes of our faith, still his heart grew big with joy when the child
expatiated on the virtues of Aristides, or (his little cheeks glowing
all the while) told of the death of Leonidas and Socrates. And old
Esaias blessed the pagan author who wrote the book, and the college-chum
who made him a present of it, and even the very printer who had produced
it. The whole future life of Jonas was influenced by these early
lessons; and though the milder doctrines of Christianity made a deep
impression on his heart, yet his mind would always return to the models
of classic excellence. His sympathies were all with the heroes of
Plutarch.
At times, when old Tengelyi was from home, Jonas would follow his
fancies through the dark shades of the woods. He would sit on the ruins
of Bard Castle, looking at the forest-clad mountains and the wide
distant plain, and there he sat and pondered until the sun went down and
the evening breeze woke him from his dreams. There he was happy; for
there is no greater happiness than the delight which a pure heart feels
when thinking of great deeds and generous men. The childhood of nations
and individuals idolises all heroes, and thus did Jonas.
A child's perceptions of distance are very weak: it is the same in the
moral world. Children try to grasp any shining bauble which strikes
their eyes, no matter whether far or near. Life has not yet taught them
to wait, to plod, and perhaps to be disappointed. The boy is equally
ignorant of the bitter truth, that there is usually but _one_ road which
leads to the high places of this world, and that the ascent, though easy
to some, is impossible to others, for from where they stand there is no
path which leads to the top. And yet how closely is our boyish
admiration of a great man allied to the idea that he is our example and
our hope! Children, when isolated,--that is to say, when they are
deprived of the society of other children,--are apt to become dreamers:
and this was young Tengelyi's case. His dreams were of a dangerous kind,
and his conversation was such that his hearers became convinced of fate
having destined that boy to be either very great or very wretched.
Old Esaias did not indeed suffer from these apprehensions. His son's
enthusiasm, his hatred of tyranny, his love of his kind, proved nothing
to old Tengelyi but that Jonas would turn out a first-rate village
pastor. He never dreamt of this enthusiasm being applied to other
purposes than those of the pulpit; and he did all in his power to
develop the talents of so hopeful a preacher. He enlarged on the
sufferings of the poor and the cruelty of the rich; on the equality of
mankind before God, and the duties we owe to our fellow men.
In the course of time Jonas was sent to school at Debrezin. Though he
was only thirteen, his character was already formed. His was a boundless
enthusiasm for all things noble and generous; his was an equally
boundless hate against all that is mean; his was the daring which is
ever ready to oppose injustice with words and with deeds; and his was
that austerity of principle which is apt to make a man unjust. In short,
poor Jonas would have proved a model man in Utopia. In our own
civilised society, the excess of his good qualities was likely to cause
him to be shunned, if not hated. Nevertheless he was popular with the
masters and the boys; and the happiest years of his life were spent in
the dull routine of a public school. The masters admired his ambition,
and the rapid progress it caused him to make; and though he seldom
condescended to join in the plays and athletic exercises of his
comrades, they paid a free tribute of admiration to his love of justice
and his courage. His studies delighted him, for his soul yearned for
knowledge. Jonas was indeed happy!
Old Esaias Tengelyi continued meanwhile in his life of tranquillity and
contentment. His humble dwelling grew still more quiet when his son left
it; and the grey-headed pastor walked lonely among the fruit-trees of
his garden, where he formerly used to watch the gambols of his child;
but the serenity of his mind was still the same. His life passed away
like the course of a gentle stream which mixes with the ocean. Esaias
was aware that his days were numbered; but there was nothing appalling
in the thought. He was at peace with God and the world; and though he
grieved to leave his son, his soul yearned for her that had left him.
His last remaining wish was to expire in the arms of his son. His wish
was granted. Jonas returned to Bard, and a fortnight after his return
his father was laid in the grave. The poor of Bard wept with Jonas, for
they too were the old man's children; a simple stone with an inscription
of rude workmanship (for the hands of poor peasants wrought it) marks
the last resting-place of Esaias Tengelyi.
His father's death threw Jonas into a different career. Hitherto he had
sacrificed his ambition to his sense of duty, but now his choice was
free; and, at his time of life, there are few who will tread an humble
and tranquil path. Jonas preferred to embark in a political career; and
since the study of law is the first condition to eminence, he devoted
the whole of his energies to the rudiments of that dry and uninteresting
science. Having turned his paternal heritage into money, and realised
the modest sum of six hundred florins, he passed three years at the
German universities, but especially at Heidelberg, where the strongest
bonds of friendship united him with that very Rety, in whose village our
readers have seen him established as notary. His studies ended, we find
Jonas Tengelyi at Pesth, in the act of entering into public life. He had
great hopes, great ambition, and very little money. But Jonas was not a
man to be daunted by privations. He took his oath, was admitted as
"juratus," rattled his sword for eighteen months on the steps of the
Curia, and, being thus duly prepared, he was at length admitted to the
bar.
This period of our hero's life contains nothing whatever for his
biographer or the public to take an interest in, excepting always the
negative wonder of Tengelyi having been a "juratus" for eighteen months
without having once fought, got drunk, or played at billiards. Need we
add that he was very unpopular among his comrades?
But we will add that Jonas Tengelyi, though deeply read in law, could
not prevail upon his examiners to insert into his diploma a better
qualification than the simple word "laudabilis," while two young
gentlemen, whom he himself had ground for the examination, passed
triumphantly each with a "præclarus." Poor Jonas, though thus roughly
handled at the very threshold of public life, forgot all his grief that
very evening, when he took his seat in the humble conveyance which was
to take him to the county of Takshony. The jolting of the coach which
bore him to the scene of his future struggles, opened the brilliant
realms of a fanciful future to his mind. The past was forgotten.
The reasons why the young barrister proposed to practise in the county
of Takshony are very obvious. He was not, indeed, a large landholder in
that blessed county, nor could he expect the patronage and the support
of powerful friends. He chose Takshony because, of the fifty-two
Hungarian counties, there was not one which offered more, nor, indeed,
less chances for him, poor and friendless as he was. Hungary was all
before him where to go, and he went to Takshony. If he was to trust the
evidence of the natives of the county, it was the most enlightened
district in the kingdom; and, if credit could be given to the assertions
of its neighbours, there never was a county so destitute of common
sense: a man of Jonas's stamp was therefore certain to prosper in any
case. In an enlightened county his merits were sure to be appreciated,
and in a dull county they were as certain to be wanted. Besides, he
trusted the promises, and looked for the support of his friend Rety, who
was son to the sheriff of Takshony. Tengelyi was, consequently, not a
little elated and excited when, after a tedious journey, the coach
deposited him safe and sound in the high street of the county town,
whose appropriate name in English would be Dustbury. This town, unless a
traveller happens to see it on a market-day, has little to distinguish
it from the common run of Hungarian villages; indeed, there would be
considerable danger of its being thus lowly estimated but for the
imposing bulk of the county house, before whose massive gates a batch of
culprits may at all times be heard roaring under the beadle's rod, and
thus proclaiming the force of the laws of Hungary.
Dustbury, the capital of the county of Takshony, was to be the scene of
Tengelyi's future labours and triumphs. He sent his letters of
recommendation to their various addresses, read his diploma in the
market-place, hired a small study, and waited for clients. Nor did he
wait long. Young physicians and young advocates have in general plenty
to do, but their practice is rather laborious than profitable. As a tax
upon entering public life, they are called upon to exert themselves in
behalf of the poorer members of the community. Tengelyi's turn of mind
made him eminently fit to be the advocate of the poor. He embraced the
cause of his humble clients with uncommon enthusiasm, and pleaded it
with equal warmth. He was the friend and protector of the oppressed, and
his love of justice made him soon something like a marked man in the
town of Dustbury.
At first his position was rather tolerable, for he confined his
practice to criminal cases. A prisoner whom he defended was indeed
condemned to death, and some other clients of his received a severer
sentence than they had a right to expect; but this was, after all, the
gentlest means for the court to show their sense of the impertinence
which prompted "such a vagabond counsel to lecture his betters;" and
certainly the court showed an admirable tact by this indirect
manifestation of the contempt in which they held Tengelyi's pleadings.
But there was no feeling of personal animosity against him, until he
dared to take up a civil process against one of the assessors, whom he
all but forced to refund a certain sum of money which that gentleman had
condescended to accept as a loan from a poor peasant. This affair
settled Tengelyi. The young counsel's impertinence was the nine-days'
wonder of Dustbury. His colleagues shunned him,--his landlord gave him
warning to leave his house,--and there is no doubt that the
self-constituted advocate of the poor would have been ignominiously
suspended from his functions but for the intercession of the sheriff
Rety, who pleaded Tengelyi's extreme youth in extenuation of his
offence. "He is sure to profit by our example," said old Rety; "and when
he has once sown his wild oats he will be a credit to the county."
An event occurred meanwhile which promised to establish Tengelyi in his
career. The counsel of the Baron Kalihazy died, with sundry cases still
pending on his hands; and the head of the family of Kalihazy, who had
made Tengelyi's acquaintance at Dustbury, thought of appointing the
young barrister to the vacant post of fiscal; that is to say, he
proposed to make him the legal friend and adviser of the Kalihazy
family. So determined was the whimsical Baron to turn the young man's
talents to account, that not all the persuasions of his friends could
induce him to relinquish his insane project, which he was on the point
of executing, when Paul Hajto, the leading counsel of the Dustbury bar,
interfered. Mr. Paul Hajto was the most intimate friend of our hero.
Instead of censuring him for his violence, as others were apt to do,
that worthy man seized every opportunity (when alone with Tengelyi) to
urge him to still more violent attacks upon the court. In the present
instance, too, Mr. Hajto did all in his power to remove Tengelyi from
the temptations which beset the life and threaten the integrity of an
advocate.
"You are not fit for the bar," he was wont to say: "you are made to
shine in a more elevated sphere. If I were in your place, I would devote
myself wholly to politics. As it is, you lose your cases; your labours
are not only unprofitable, but useless. Hungary wants a thorough reform;
you are the man to regenerate the country. Besides, you can be an
advocate and a politician too, if you _will_ stick to the bar." Tengelyi
resisted; but flattery is too persuasive, especially for youthful minds;
and he set about seriously to prepare a speech for the next Sessions.
The day came. Tengelyi made his speech, which astonished the whole
assembly, not solely by its classic Latin and its most modern
sentiments. No! The astonishment of the meeting was chiefly caused by
the unheard-of fact that a young advocate, scarcely twenty-four years of
age,--and a man who was not even an assessor, and much less a
landowner,--dared to speak at all. Such effrontery was so marvellous, so
unaccountable, so unheard-of, that the noble members of the meeting were
utterly at a loss to express their disgust. But they did express it
somehow; and the sheriff, and the notary, and the recorder of the county
overwhelmed the young intruder with a torrent of words, of which we will
only say that they were rather sincere than elegant. Tengelyi, nothing
daunted, replied to each of them, and carried the matter so far that
every man in the room cried "Actio!"[4] whereupon the discomfited
reformer was obliged to pay the usual fine of five-and-twenty florins
into the recorder's hands.
[Footnote 4: See Note III.]
The loss of this sum was a severe blow to Tengelyi, who had not another
florin left. Besides this, he lost the fiscalship and the briefs of
Kalihazy's family; for that gentleman was among his opponents, and
Tengelyi had not spared his future patron's arguments or feelings. The
Kalihazy briefs were that very evening made over to his friend, Mr. Paul
Hajto.
To make a man a martyr is the surest means of making him popular, at
least with _one_ party. Every sheriff, recorder, or notary has at least
_one_ enemy, namely, the man who wishes to oust him in the next
election. The truth of these great political axioms was tested in
Tengelyi's case. His attack upon the magistrates of the county, and his
subsequent martyrdom, gained him some friends. Konkolyi, in particular,
who thought of opposing Rety at the next election, was loud in his
praises of the young man's courage and common sense. The smaller nobles
were not fond of Konkolyi, for they thought him proud; but they idolised
Rety, who had an amiable way of calling them his cousins, and of taking
a vast interest in the health of their wives and children. Konkolyi had
not, therefore, any chance of prevailing against Rety, though he, too,
exerted himself to the utmost, by means of bounties, drinking-bouts, and
dinners, to convince his fellow nobles of his merits. Hajto was
Konkolyi's fiscal. He was aware that his patron possessed large domains,
a fine castle, and on income of twenty thousand florins a year, and that
a man of such transcendent merits wanted but one thing for the
shrievalty, namely, a trifling majority of votes. But so great was
Rety's popularity, that Hajto had lost all hopes of carrying his
patron's election, when Tengelyi's quarrel with Rety opened a fresh
field for intrigue.
Hajto came that very evening to see the poor young man; he praised his
speech, censured Rety's tyranny, protested that the county magistrates
_must_ go out at the next election, and finally persuaded him to come to
Konkolyi's house.
Konkolyi was a courtier, and chamberlain to his Majesty the Emperor. The
great man received Tengelyi with unwonted condescension; and,
corroborating every one of Hajto's words, he protested that poor Jonas
must allow his friends to elect him to the justiceship of the district,
as the only means of giving his opinions the weight which they
deserved. Jonas pleaded his youth, his poverty, his being a stranger to
the county; but his objections were overruled.
"We know you, my dear Sir, we know you," said the chamberlain, with his
kindest smile. "You have made a speech; that's enough. 'Ex ungue
leonem.' We have put our hearts upon making you a justice. You are
noble; and a nobleman, however poor and unknown he may be, is entitled
to the highest place in the kingdom."
What could Tengelyi do? He consented, and became a distinguished member
of Konkolyi's party. It was Hajto's task to make him friends among the
lesser nobility. Nothing could be better adapted for this purpose than
the speech which had caused Jonas to be fined at the Sessions. Hajto
took possession of that speech, and translated it,--of course with a few
unimportant alterations. Wherever Tengelyi mentioned the poor, his
translator inserted the words "poor noblemen;" and the blame which
Tengelyi bestowed upon the undue length of criminal prosecutions and the
ill-treatment of the prisoners, was artfully changed into denunciations
of the unseemly despatch which was used in criminal proceedings against
noblemen, and the unjustifiable tyranny of the county magistrates who
refused to bail certain incarcerated noblemen for the election. If the
author had seen his production in its altered state, the chances are
that he would have disapproved of it; but certain it is that Hajto's
edition of the speech insured its popularity. The noble constituents of
the parishes at Ratsh and Palfalva were in raptures with their new
advocate; and though Rety's party endeavoured to disenchant them by
publishing the original text of the speech, they found it impossible to
undermine Tengelyi's popularity, confirmed as it was by the martyrdom of
an "actio." Whenever the noblemen came to Dustbury, they made a point of
paying their respects to their tribune; whenever he accompanied Konkolyi
to some neighbouring seat, he was received with deafening cheers. His
popularity brought him some more substantial benefits, in the shape of
briefs and fees, for his professional advice; in short, he had every
reason to be satisfied with the progress he had made. His future
promotion was all but certain. But suddenly a compromise was talked of.
Rety was willing to withdraw from the contest under the condition that
his son was accepted as justice. Konkolyi's party opposed, because that
very place was promised to Tengelyi; but Hajto interfered, and, as
usual, succeeded in arranging matters to the satisfaction of all
parties concerned. Tengelyi was at that generous time of life when men
are prone to make sacrifices. He, therefore, was prevailed upon to
withdraw his claims to the justiceship, and to solicit the votes of the
county for the inferior post of deputy-justice. The election commenced
in due course, and Konkolyi and the younger Rety were returned. Tengelyi
was pleased with the triumph of his friend, and not the less because
that triumph was obtained at his own expense; but who can picture his
dismay when the election of the deputy came on, and another man, a
friend of Konkolyi's, was chosen to fill that place? His heart was
crushed within him, for he, the proud man, saw too late that he had been
the tool of a party which cast him off the very moment that his services
could be dispensed with. His popularity passed away like a dream. The
part which young Rety had acted in the election was, to say the least,
suspicious; and that brotherly attachment, which distingushed the two
young men at college, received a serious shock. But this was not all.
Jonas loved for the first time in his life; he loved as only those can
love who are alone in the world, for whom there is no other being on the
face of the earth whom they place their trust in, whom they hope for,
and to whom they cling. Erzsi, the object of Tengelyi's attachment, was
fully deserving of his love; but she was poor: nevertheless our hero
married her. He was consequently still more imperatively called upon to
resign his early dreams of glory, and to devote his energies to gain a
livelihood.
Tengelyi and his wife left Dustbury; but they returned two years later
poorer than ever, and the more disappointed from the very humbleness of
their wishes and plans. In the course of those two years he had tried to
keep a village school, to be tutor in a rich man's family, and to act as
steward on another rich man's lands; but he signally failed in each. His
return to Dustbury marked the saddest period of his life. Up to that
time he had undergone privations; now he suffered from want; his
struggles with the world had been full of disappointments, but now he
was borne down by utter hopelessness. Thus he passed three years of
misery; and although Rety had by this time succeeded to his father's
estate, and to the almost hereditary dignity of sheriff of the county,
he never assisted his old friend. He respected Tengelyi too much to
relieve the poor man's necessities by a gift of money: his principles
were too rigorous to allow him to use his influence and his patronage in
behalf of his friend. Nevertheless, after three years of unutterable
wretchedness, Tengelyi was surprised to see Rety enter his little house.
The sheriff came to tell his old friend that the notary of Tissaret was
just dead; and offering that place to Tengelyi, he assured him, with a
generosity which did honour to his heart, that the new notary should
have the same immunity from local and parish burdens which had been from
time immemorial enjoyed by all his predecessors in office.
Jonas thanked Rety for this unexpected favour. That very week he went to
Tissaret, where we found him at the commencement of our tale, as a
village notary of twenty years' standing, and with grey hair, but still
sound in mind and body. The twenty years he lived at Tissaret had passed
as such a number of years in the life of a poor village notary is likely
to pass; nor did they contain any notable events beyond Tengelyi's
acquiring a small freehold in the parish of Tissaret, and the birth of
two children, a daughter and a son, the former of whom grew up to be the
prettiest girl in the county. Perhaps we might add, that Mrs. Ershebet
had lately lost part of that sweetness of temper which formerly
warranted the name of "_good_ Erzsi," which Tengelyi was pleased to give
her, and that his friendship with Rety had ever since the last election
fallen into the seer and yellow leaf. But this is all. Years had passed
over his head without changing his character; his sufferings had, in a
manner, soured his temper, but his love of justice was the same, and his
courage in behalf of the oppressed remained undaunted. Mrs. Ershebet had
a right to say, as indeed she did, that her husband would never come to
be prudent and make his way in the world.
Tengelyi had but one friend, viz. Balthasar Vandory, the whole tenour of
whose mind was in the strangest contrast with his own. Where Tengelyi
condemned, Vandory was sure to excuse; and whenever the perpetration of
some great wrong turned all Tengelyi's blood to gall, his strictures
upon the cruelty and injustice of mankind failed to move Vandory to any
more determined sentiment than deep grief. The notary was at war with
the world; the curate was reconciled to it.
Little was known of Vandory's previous history. He never made any
allusion to his family, but his accent gave unmistakeable proof of his
Magyar origin. His parishioners adored him, and even the Retys made no
exception to the general rule.
My readers are now informed of all that can be said of the character and
the history of the notary and his friend. I will therefore leave them
alone to improve their acquaintance with Tengelyi, who, after parting
with the curate, proceeded to the gate of his house, which he was
prevented from entering by his daughter Vilma.
"I cannot let you go in," said she; "I want to ask something, and you
must grant it."
"Well, what is it?" said Tengelyi, smiling at her earnestness.
"I want you not to be angry."
"Why should I be angry?"
"Because we have done something without your knowledge."
"Very well then," said Tengelyi, laughing, "I pledge my word I will not
be angry."
"But you must also approve of it."
"That is a different thing altogether; but if _you_ did it, I think I
can promise as much." With these words the notary followed his daughter
into the house.
CHAP. III
The village of Tissaret was peaceful and quiet when the notary returned
to his house. A few workmen wending their way homewards from the
meadows, with their scythes on their shoulders, walked slowly along,
stopping every now and then to say good night to the people in the
houses. The evening-bell swang slowly to and fro, sending its drowsy
tones over the country. The very tavern was all but deserted; and Itzig,
the Jew, who usually sold his liquors at high prices because he was in
the habit of giving credit on the security of next year's harvest,
lounged in the hall, listless and sullen. The manor-house, and the
surrounding fields and gardens, were not less quiet, which is saying a
great deal, for a Hungarian manor-house is usually the noisiest place in
the village. But we know that the son of the house, accompanied by all
the dogs, was out hare-hunting; and as for the sheriff, he was closeted
with the chief bailiff and the recorder. The conversation of the three
dignitaries would doubtless have touched upon very weighty matters, had
it not been for the sultriness of the day, which set them "All
a-nodding," as the old song has it. And the sheriff's lady's voice,
which usually filled the house as the song of the nightingale does the
woods, with the sole difference that Lady Rety's voice waxed louder in
tone, and more frequent in use, as she advanced in the summer of her
years; Lady Rety's voice, too, was silent in the hall, for that lady
walked in the garden. That garden was a splendid place! It contained a
hermitage, an oven to dry plums in, a pigeon-house built like a temple,
a fishpond, with a fisherman's hut, a grotto, a cottage, and a variety
of other things, bearing witness to the inventive genius of the Retys,
and astonishing the travellers who were favoured with a view of its
marvels, its stout Bacchuses, thin Pomonas, artificial ruins, and
Chinese arbours. Its furthest end merged in a poplar wood--a real wood
of real poplars, and which, but for the unaccountable fancy which the
lord lieutenant had taken to it, would long ago have been compelled to
make room for a batch of new wonders which the sheriff Rety longed to
establish in his garden. For truly that poplar wood was quite a savage
place; there was no trace of modern civilisation and refinement in its
luxuriant foliage and the sturdy generation of brushwood which
surrounded the massive trees. A single path wound through it, or,
rather, round about in it. In this path we see Lady Rety engaged in an
important and interesting discussion with her most humble and obedient
servant and solicitor, Mr. Catspaw.
Lady Rety is of a _certain_ age--I cannot possibly say more on so
delicate a point--she is tall and full-grown. Her hair--though we have
none of us a right to judge of her hair until we see her without a cap,
an event which is very unlikely to happen--is most probably dark,
unless, indeed, we are deceived by the colour of her thick eyebrows, and
of that slight but treacherous shade on her upper lip. Lady Rety's face
is full of majesty, but at certain times (and these times are very
_certain_, for they embrace a regular period of six months out of
thirty) that face is beyond all measure condescending and kind, though
its usual expression is one of scornful pride, which, by the agency of
two warts on her upper lip and chin, becomes so strongly marked that it
merges into something like an habitual sneer. The lucky possessor of
that sneer is as high-bred a lady as any in the country; her household
is on a grand scale; none of her dinners was ever shorter than two
hours, and her courts and outhouses are full of poultry and guests, of
which the latter, if of high rank, are waited upon with the kindest
consideration. Lady Rety's voice is of an easy flow, like a generous
fountain, and sweeping, for it would shake even stronger walls than
those of Jericho, besides causing the servants to quake. Her discourse
is admirable, for it is a verbal repetition of the sayings of her liege
lord. This rare instance of conjugal harmony alone would entitle Lady
Rety to our respect; but we are free to confess that we venerate her for
that sound knowledge of common and statute law, which her conversation
betrays, and which marks her as a practical woman, besides giving to her
words, as such knowledge never fails to do, a peculiar grace and
amiability. There was not a lawyer in the kingdom fonder of arguing a
point of law; and so great was her discernment and readiness of mind,
that Mr. Catspaw would often confess that he purloined the substance of
his best pleadings from the conversations of the most noble, the Lady
Rety.
Mr. Catspaw himself is a small spare man of more than fifty years of
age, with a pale face, a pointed nose, and a pair of small restless
eyes, whose look, though piercing, it is difficult to catch. His back is
bent, more from habit than from age. Add to this his high bald forehead,
and his scanty hair of bristling grey, and you will have a tolerable
idea of Mr. Catspaw's outward man. He was most devoted to the Rety
family, in whose service he had passed the last thirty years, and with
whom he had at length come to identify himself. This last assertion of
his was of course contradicted by his enemies, who protested that his
attachment to the Retys sprang from motives of the most sordid
selfishness. But however this may be, certain it is that on the evening
in question the worthy solicitor was by no means identified, either with
the Rety family in general, or with Lady Rety in particular; for while
that majestic lady stalked through the poplar wood, with Mr. Catspaw
following at her heels, she favoured him with a very violent oration;
nor would she condescend to listen to the humble remonstrance, by means
of which the lawyer sought to assuage her anger. For, shaking her head
with great impatience, she gave that learned gentleman to understand
that it was easy to talk,--that every body was aware that Mr. Catspaw
would not allow any one to speak,--and that real devotion showed itself
by deeds. "I will candidly tell you," said Lady Rety, stopping short,
and thumping her parasol on the ground, "what you told me drives me to
despair!"
"But, my lady, allow me to observe, that there is no reason why you
should despair, for I am sure----"
"Oh! I dare say! You don't despair--not you! What do _you_ care for our
troubles? You do not mind what becomes of us!--you have your profession,
and who knows but----"
Here she was in her turn interrupted by Mr. Catspaw. "Is this my
thanks," cried the solicitor, in a generous passion; "is this my thanks
for my service of thirty years? I, Adam Catspaw, have more than once
risked my life in promoting the interests of your family, and, in lieu
of gratitude, you suspect me!"
"I really beg your pardon," said Lady Rety, very humbly, for she saw at
once that her zeal had led her too far, and that she was not now
addressing her husband,--"I am a woman, and my unfortunate
circumstances--and----"
"All this is very fine, my lady," retorted Mr. Catspaw, emboldened by
his success; "but your ladyship talks always advisedly. All I can do is
to look out for another place. A solicitor whom his employers
suspect----"
"But who tells you that we suspect you?" entreated Lady Rety. "It is you
on whom we rely. What could we do without you? Besides, you know our
promise about the grant."
"As for the grant," muttered Mr. Catspaw in a milder tone, "the Lord
knows I toil not for the sake of gain; but if, for my faithful
service--_ob fidelia servitia_--you will remember me, I am sure my
gratitude will outlast my life."
"I know that your generous mind scorns to be selfish; but for all that
it is a fine grant, and though its value is as nothing to your services,
still it is a splendid property."
"And I will obtain it, in spite of a thousand obstacles!" exclaimed the
solicitor.
The lady sighed. "Are you still confident? As for me, I have no hope!"
"But why? because our first attempt had no success? This is mere
childishness. Consider: the man who broke into Vandory's house was as
expert a thief as any. To avert suspicion, I instructed him to take not
only the papers which your ladyship wants, but also some money and
trinkets--it made the affair look like a _bonâ fide_ robbery. But the
fellow did not find any money, and while he was rummaging the drawers,
the curate came home and alarmed the neighbours. Tzifra had not time to
look for the papers; all he could do was to escape through the window.
Those papers are at present in Tengelyi's house, who, I am informed,
keeps them in the iron safe near the door, with his own papers and the
parish records. I pledge my word that we find them, and perhaps
something else, for I have an account to settle with that notary."
"But the notary's house is much frequented. I tremble lest Tzifra should
be caught."
"In that case we will hang him fast enough," said Mr. Catspaw, with
great composure; "God be praised! the county has the Statarium."
"But supposing he were to confess?"
"Oh! he won't confess. Leave me to manage that; and if he were to
attempt it, I promise you he shall be hanged before he can do it."
"Oh, if you could but know,"--cried Lady Rety--"if you could but know
what it costs me to take this step; and when I consider--that--but who
can help it? The honour of my name, the welfare of my children--all that
which makes life worth having, compels me----"
"A mother shrinks from no sacrifice for her children's sake!" said Mr.
Catspaw, wiping his eyes, for the darkness allowed him to dispense with
tears. "Nobody," continued he, "knows the goodness of your heart as I
do; but, Lady Rety, if the world could know it, it would go down on its
knees before you!"
"God forbid!" cried Lady Rety, alarmed but still pleased; for she was
happy to see the ease with which so ugly a thing as theft undoubtedly is
could be brought to assume the more grateful names of motherly devotion
and generosity of feeling. "God forbid that any body besides you and I
should know of this matter. The world is severe in its judgments, and
perhaps it might be said----"
The lady did not finish her sentence. She was astonished, for she felt
herself blush.
Mr. Catspaw understood the feelings of his patroness. "Why should you
thus torment yourself?" said he. "It is an every-day affair, to say the
worst of it. Such things are so common in Hungary, that nobody ever
thinks twice of them, excepting perhaps the party who fancies he is
aggrieved. Title deeds, mortgage deeds, and promissory notes are lost
somehow or other; but who cares? The present case is not half so
bad--for what are the papers your ladyship wishes to possess? Why, they
are simply some confidential letters, most of them in the sheriff's own
handwriting, which you have an objection to leave in the hands of
strangers. The matter is most innocent, though the manner is perhaps in
a way open to objection."
"Yes! yes! the manner!" sighed Lady Rety. "It is
house-breaking--robbery--Heaven knows how they might call it!"
"It is indeed burglary," observed the man of the law; "but who is the
burglar? The man who actually breaks into the house, I should hope.
Suppose A. talks to B., who, though not a very respectable character, is
not at the time under any criminal prosecution, and whom the law
consequently supposes to be an honest man; and suppose A. tells B., in
the course of conversation, of a certain packet of papers in a certain
closet in Mr. Vandory's house, which packet of papers A. wishes to
possess, either from curiosity, or caprice, or for some scientific
purpose; and suppose A. were to remark, quite incidentally of course,
that he would gladly give one hundred florins to any man who should
bring him the said packet: suppose all this, and tell me whether such a
conversation could be called criminal? Of course not. Very well then;
now suppose A. adds that the curate is to be from home on Saturday
night, he being asked to take supper at the manor-house, and that it has
been observed that the door which leads to the garden is never locked,
and that there was indeed danger of some dishonest person scaling the
garden wall and committing the abominable crime of stealing the said
papers,--than which indeed nothing could be more easy; suppose A., who
is something of a gossip, says all this in the course of conversation,
is there anything criminal in mentioning a neighbour's imprudence? By no
means. Well then, and if B. is wicked enough to abuse A.'s confidence,
if B. scales the garden wall, enters the house and steals the
packet--can you accuse poor A. of having committed a robbery? And if B.
takes the packet to A.--thereby reminding A. of his promise to pay a
certain sum of money to any man who should bring the packet--is not A.
bound to abide by his word? That is my case. As an honest man, I pay the
money; the rest does not concern me."
"You are quite right," said Lady Rety; "but the world judges
differently."
"Of course the world does; but then it is always wrong. However, the
world will never know of this business."
"I, too, should think so, if those papers were still at Vandory's,"
returned Lady Rety; "but they are at Tengelyi's. His house is much
frequented; besides, there is a watchman at night."
"True, but the papers are in an iron safe; and though there are but two
keys to the said safe, there are plenty of locksmiths in the world."
Here the conversation was interrupted by young Rety's retriever breaking
through the brushwood and running up to Lady Rety.
"My son is come home," said she; "let us go to the house." She was in
the act of going when the manner and the barking of the dog directed her
attention to the thicket, and to a slight rustling among the branches.
The dog advanced, but returned, after a few minutes, yelping and
limping. Akosh Rety and his sister, Etelka, came up at that moment and
joined the pale and trembling pair.
"What is the matter?" said Akosh.
"Did you not hear any thing?" replied his mother.
"Of course! My retriever barked. There must be a dog or a fox
somewhere."
"No, young gentleman," cried Mr. Catspaw, with his eyes still directed
to the spot whence the noise had proceeded, "I'll stake my life on it,
it was a man."
"Perhaps some poor fellow from the village," said Akosh, caressing the
dog.
"The fellow has heard our conversation. I am positive he came to
listen!" said Lady Rety, greatly excited, and to the signal annoyance of
Mr. Catspaw.
"I cannot think he did," said Etelka. "Mr. Catspaw is indeed known to
be the worthiest person alive, but I cannot believe that anybody will
creep up in the darkness to listen to him, and in October too."
The attorney frowned. "My dear Miss," returned he, "you do not
understand these things. We were discussing matters of great
moment--there are several suits now pending----"
"Ah! I understand!" cried Akosh, laughing. "You mean to say that the
counsel for the other side has lurked among the trees to find out the
plans of our crafty attorney. But why not arrest the culprit? Gallant
Mr. Catspaw, I understand, does not shrink from any odds."
"I!" said the little man, trembling, "I should----"
"Of course. Why should you not? Come along with me. If there's any one
hidden in these bushes, we will have him out in no time!"
"I really beg your pardon, _domine spectabilis_!" cried Mr. Catspaw, in
great distress, while Akosh pulled him along; "but, _domine
spectabilis_, we are quite defenceless, and the night is very
dark--and--and--shall I call for help?"
"Nonsense! The fellow will be gone long before anybody can come to
assist us. Come along, dear sir! Let my mother and Etelka go home, while
you and I, heroes both, brave all dangers. Let us conquer or die, or
run away. Is it not so, most intrepid of fee-taking counsel?"
Mr. Catspaw was by far too much engrossed with fear for his personal
safety to care for the jokes of his companion; nevertheless he protested
that it might be advisable to send for the servant. But Lady Rety
entreated him to accompany Akosh; and, after some further delay (for he
wisely thought his best plan would be to give the listener a good
start), the little attorney at length buttoned his coat with great
deliberation, and loudly protesting that he had no fear, as far as his
own safety was concerned, he followed Akosh into the thicket, while Lady
Rety and Etelka directed their steps to the house: the dog, thinking
perhaps that one beating was enough for one evening, accompanied them.
Young Rety and his reluctant companion were meanwhile beating the bushes
in search of the mysterious stranger. Mr. Catspaw was vastly comforted
by the darkness, which his instinct taught him would defeat the plans of
any assassin who might fire at them; and, besides, if by ill-luck they
should fall in with a stranger, he was firmly resolved to run away and
call for assistance. But there was little chance of any unpleasant
_rencontre_, for, what with the darkness and the brushwood, and the
time which had been lost by Mr. Catspaw's prudent delay, Akosh could not
expect to do any thing, except to annoy his mother's man of business.
And annoy him he did, by madly rushing into the thickest part of the
wood, and causing the branches of the trees to strike Mr. Catspaw's
face, until at length they arrived at the furthest border of the
plantation. Here Akosh stopped, and, turning to Catspaw, who stood
breathless by his side, he said, "I'll take my oath there is no one in
the wood; will you now confess that you were mistaken, or frightened by
a hare or partridge, or some such formidable animal?"
"It was a sound of human footsteps; Lady Rety is my witness, and I----"
"Of course, if that is the case, let us go back and beat through another
part of the plantation, until the fellow is caught."
"Don't, don't!" sighed Mr. Catspaw. "I am sure no one is there; goodness
knows our search was minute enough. I can scarcely stand on my feet,"
added the little attorney, wiping his forehead.
"Very well, sir, if you are satisfied that nobody is hid here, I am so
too. But let us cross the ditch; there is some chance of finding him on
the other side." Saying which, Akosh leaped over the ditch, while Mr.
Catspaw descended into the depth of the cutting, from whence a few bold
gymnastic evolutions brought him to the other side. Having joined his
companion, the two men walked silently on, and disappeared at length
round the corner of the garden-wall.
All around was hushed. The night was as dark and comfortless as October
nights usually are. The brilliant setting of the sun was followed by a
looming and cloudy sky. The wind sighed over the boundless heath,
shaking the yellow leaves from the trees. Here and there a solitary
star, or the watch-fire on the far pasture-land, threw a faint and
melancholy light on the scene. The footsteps of the two men were lost in
the distance, and the stillness of night was at intervals interrupted
only by the distant barking of a dog, or a shepherd's song floating on
the breeze, when a man rose from the ditch close to the place where
Akosh and Catspaw had crossed. His broad-brimmed hat, and the rough
sheep-skin which hung over his shoulders, were enough to hide his
features and stature, even if the night had been clearer. The man
listened to the song as it rung through the stilly night, and, after
looking cautiously round to satisfy himself that no one was near, he
stepped out of the ditch and hastened towards the fire.
But it is time we should return to Tengelyi, whom we left just when,
accompanied by his daughter, he crossed the threshold of his humble
dwelling.
Reader, did you ever know domestic happiness? did you merely see it in
others, or are you among the blessed whose homes are heavens of peace
and love? If sacred family love is known to you; if you are convinced
that this, the most precious gift of heaven, can only fall to the share
of a pure heart; if you feel that all the distinctions, all the glory we
struggle for, all the wealth we covet, are an nothing to the joy and
love of the domestic hearth; then you will enter the notary's house with
a feeling of reverence, and you will pray that happiness and peace may
continue to dwell there.
After Tengelyi sat down, he said to his daughter, "Now tell me the great
secret, for you must know," added he, addressing his wife, "that Vilma
would not allow me to enter the house until I consented to pass a bill
of indemnity in her behalf.'
"I know," said Mrs. Ershebet; "and I consented only to please my
daughter. Speak, Vilma!"
But Vilma did not speak. She looked vainly for a form of words in which
to prefer her suit.
"Am I to be informed of the matter or not?" said Tengelyi, impatiently.
"She cannot have committed a crime!"
"Of course not, dear father. But you promised me not to be angry."
"To be angry? do I look like a tyrant? Tell me girl, where have you
learned to fear your father?"
"No, father, I am not afraid of you," said Vilma. "If I did wrong, I
know you will tell me that it was wrong, and I shall have your pardon
for it. But I do not think I did wrong. You know there was an execution
in the village, and you went away with Vandory, for you said you could
be of no use to the poor people, and their sorrow grieved you too much.
Mother and I remained at home, and saw all the horror. They took our
neighbour's cows, and from John Farkash they took the pillows and
blankets of his bed, and Peter's widow (you know she used to sell eggs,
and do jobs in the town,) has lost her donkey. The son of the woman
Farkash would not allow them to take his mother's bed away, and they
beat him and bound him with cords, and took him to the justice's. They
say he is going to prison to-morrow. We saw and heard all this,"
continued Vilma, wiping her eyes, "and we wept bitterly. Mother said it
must be so, for the taxes are put on by law, and these poor people were
not able to pay their dues. But I prayed that you might come home soon,
for you read so often in your law-books, and I should say there _must_
be some little law in those books providing that something at least
ought to be left to the poor who cannot pay their taxes, hard though
they may work."
"You are wrong, dearest child," said Tengelyi, "you would vainly look
for such a law in my books. The nation have been so busy for the last
800 years, that they have not found time to make such a law."
"Have they not? Then I am afraid their laws will do little good, for
they want God's blessing!" said Vilma, with a deep sigh. "But though the
law may not, our Creed assuredly does command us to pity our neighbour's
sufferings, and therefore I went to Mrs. Farkash to see whether I could
not help them in some way. We are not rich, but we can do something for
an honest man, and the Farkashes were always good neighbours."
"You did right, my daughter," said Tengelyi, whose eyes filled with
tears. "You did right; may God bless you! I, too, have eaten the bread
of poverty; and I will not shut my door against my neighbour."
"I thought so, too," said Mrs. Tengelyi, pressing her husband's hand.
"When I came to the house," continued Vilma, "I found them all in
despair. Old Farkash sat on the floor, leaning his head on his hands,
and looking at the empty stable; his wife was bewailing the loss of her
son. The lesser children sat by the stove: they could not understand
what had happened, but they wept with their mother. In the room were a
few broken chairs; and the straw from the bed was spread about the
floor, just as if the German soldiers had sacked the house. And the
neighbours were there, comforting the poor family, and cursing the
officers;--my heart bleeds to think of it! I did my best to console
Mother Farkash. I promised her that the curate should talk to the
sheriff, and that her son should not go to prison; for she was most
afraid of that, saying, that all men who were sent to prison, were sure
to come back robbers. She thanked me for my promise, but declined our
assistance; for she said, if her son were free, they could manage to go
on. 'We poor people,' said she, 'stand by each other; one of my
neighbours gives me some bedding, another gives me bread, and a third,
a few pence; and so, mayhap, the Lord will help us on. If Mr. Kenihazy
had paid for the two horses which my husband sold him at Whitsuntide, we
would never have come to this. But there's the misfortune. We are
distrained for the taxes, and yet we are not allowed to claim our own.
But at the Restauration[5], I mean to go and speak to the
Lord-Lieutenant. At the last Restauration, he helped several of our
neighbours, who had claims on Mr. Skinner, the justice.'
[Footnote 5: General elections.]
"'Oh, you are well off, you are!' said old Mother Liptaka. 'You have got
a husband, and Missie tells us that John shall not go to prison, and he
will work for you. Besides, you are an honest woman; but what is to
become of Viola's wife? She is dying,--she, and her baby, and the little
lad, and she has got a sentinel in the room, for the justice has ordered
them to arrest every one that comes near the house--let alone entering
it; for he says they are Viola's pals, every man of them. And that same
Susi was a pretty girl and a good girl, when a child; it is not her
fault, is it, that her husband is a robber? Missie, if you could help
poor Susi, 'twere a good deed!'
"I inquired after Susi," continued Vilma, "and understood that Viola,
formerly a wealthy peasant, had become very poor, for that he, as a
robber, could not attend to his husbandry. His cattle and his ploughs
were taken away, his fields are untilled, and his poor wife is left
alone with two children. She is ill, almost dying. I told them to show
me to the house, for I knew they would not suspect me of being an
accomplice of Viola."
"You were right," said the notary; "pray go on." Thus encouraged, Vilma
continued,--"The misery of the Farkash family was indeed as nothing to
the wretchedness which I saw at Viola's. On approaching the house, I was
struck by a fearful noise. The justice has been informed that Viola
intends to see his family this very night; he has put three haiduks into
the house, ordering them to lie there and to catch Viola in case he
should enter. The haiduks were drunk, and would not allow anybody to
leave the house, lest Viola might be informed of the snare that was laid
for him,--although their drunken noise rendered this precaution
perfectly superfluous. The house was quite empty; nothing was left but a
heap of ashes on the hearth, and the seat by the stove, which is of
clay, and which could not be taken away; every other particle of
furniture that might have been there had fallen into the clutches of the
justice. When I entered the kitchen the corporal recognised me at once,
for he has often brought letters to our house. He came up to me, and
asked me what I wanted; and on my telling him that I had come to look
after the sick woman, he said it was scarcely worth while, and that the
woman might be dead, for all he knew to the contrary; but if she lived
till to-morrow, she would be a widow by the hangman's grace. His
comrades laughed at this rude joke, but when I insisted on seeing the
woman Viola, the corporal took me to the room where she lay. I asked
them to remain quiet, though only for a little while, and entered the
apartment, which was so dark that it was a good while before I could
discern any thing. The poor thing lay in a corner on a heap of musty
straw. The baby and the little boy lay by her side. They did not speak.
The noise of the revellers outside contrasted painfully with the silence
in the room. The woman was asleep, and so was the baby, but the little
boy knew me, and creeping up to me and nestling in my arms, he told me
the history of their misfortunes. Three days ago his mother had fallen
sick. She had a bed to lie on; but early this morning the justice came,
and ordered her to pay one hundred and fifty florins. She had no money,
and could not pay; the justice cursed her, and told the haiduks to take
everything away. His mother was driven from her bed, and old Liptaka was
kicked out of doors by the justice, who told the haiduks to sit and
drink in the kitchen. 'After this the justice went away; and mother has
been in a sad state ever since,' added the poor boy, weeping; 'and I
have made her a bed of the straw which they tore from our good bed. It
was all that mother could do to creep up and lie on the straw, and she
has been wandering in her mind ever since. The justice and the soldiers
said terrible things. They said father would come in the night, and they
would hang him. Mother has gone on about that. I was quite frightened.
After that, my little brother fell a-weeping, and it struck me that he
had not had anything to eat. As for me, I was very hungry,--so I stole
out to ask our neighbours to give me some bread; but they would not, for
the justice has said that no one should give us any thing, and that we
are to die like dogs! I brought nothing but some water, and a few
flowers which I broke from the hedge for my little brother to play with,
for I would not come back empty-handed.' That is the boy's story. He
wept bitterly while he told it."
"Poor little fellow!" said Tengelyi, "his is indeed an early knowledge
of life's bitterness;" and, turning to Mrs. Ershebet, he added, "I trust
you sent some relief to those wretched people. I'll go at once and see
what can be done for them."
"Do not trouble yourself, father, dear," interposed Vilma. "We did not
send them any thing; we have brought them to this house."
"To my house!" exclaimed Tengelyi. "Did you consider the consequences?"
"I did. I considered that they were sure to perish if they remained
where they were; and I entreated the corporal, and implored him, and
vowed that I would bear the blame, until he gave me his permission to
remove the woman to this house. Nay, more, he helped me to carry her."
"You were right in taking them away," said Tengelyi, walking to and fro,
evidently distressed; "I only wish you had taken them to some other
place. I would willingly pay for any thing they want. But here! the
robber's family in the house of the notary of Tissaret! What will my
enemies say to that?"
"But, father, you often told me that we need not care for the judgment
of mankind, if we know and feel that we do that which is good and
right."
"Of course, if we are quite convinced of that. But they tell me Viola
is passionately fond of his wife. She is ill, and he will brave all
dangers to come and see her. What am I to do? My duty, as a public
functionary, forces me to arrest him, while my feelings revolt at the
idea."
"I know you will not arrest him, dearest father," said Vilma, softly.
"You cannot do it."
"And suppose I allow him to escape, what then? I shall lose my place. I
bear the stigma of being the accomplice of a robber, and nothing is left
to us but to beg our bread in the streets."
"No, father, that will never be!" said Vilma, confidingly, though her
eyes filled with tears. "God cannot punish you for a good action."
"God may not, but men will sometimes. But do not weep," added Tengelyi,
seeing his daughter's tears, "we cannot now undo what you have done, and
perhaps my fears are worse than the reality."
"Oh do not be angry with me," sobbed Vilma. "I never thought of the
consequences. I never thought that I _could_ be the cause of so great a
misfortune."
"Angry?" cried the old man, pressing her to his heart--"I be angry with
_you_? Art thou not my own daughter, my joy, and my pride? my fairest
remembrance of the past, my brightest hope of the future?"
"But if Viola were to come," said Vilma, still weeping, "and if things
were to happen as you said just now?"
"I know he will not come," replied the anxious father, who would have
given anything to have concealed his apprehensions. "And if he were to
come, it is ten to one that nobody will know of it. You know I am always
full of fears. At all events it is not _your_ fault, for if I had been
at home, and if I had known of this woman's distress, I too would have
taken her to my house--ay! so I would, though all the world were to turn
against me. Dry your tears," he continued, kissing Vilma's forehead,
"you did but your duty. Now go and look after the woman, while I go to
Vandory: he is half a doctor."
Saying this, the notary hastened away to hide his tears, and as he went
he passed some severe strictures on his own weakness, which caused him
to indulge in tears, a thing which is only pardonable in a woman.
CHAP. IV.
The stranger of the ditch, whom we left in the act of approaching the
fire, had meanwhile accomplished that object, and proceeded to the place
where a man sat squatting by the flame, poking the burning straws with
his staff, and singing a low and mournful melody.
"Are you at it again? again singing the Nagyidai Nota?"[6] said the
stranger, touching the singer's shoulder.
[Footnote 6: See Note IV.]
Peti the gipsy (for it was he who kept his lonely watch by the fire)
started up, and, seizing hold of the stranger's hand, dragged him away
from the light, whispering, "For God's sake, take care! Some one might
see you!"
"Are you mad?" retorted the stranger, disengaging his hands, and
returning to the fire. "I've lain in the ditch, and am all a-muck. I
must have a warm."
"No, Viola, no!" urged Peti, "the village is filled with your enemies.
Who knows but some of them are by? and if you are seen you are done
for!"
"Now be reasonable, old man," replied Viola, taking his seat by the
fire. "Not a human being is there on this heath that I wot of. What is
it you fear?"
"Oh! you know this very afternoon you and I, we were near the wood of
St. Vilmosh, and the Pandurs were here close to the park palings, and
yet they knew you even at that distance."
"Yes, very much as we knew them. They presumed it was I. But if they
have a mind to make my acquaintance, I'd better look after the priming
of my pistols. So! Now let them come. After sunset I fear no man."
"Oh! Viola, Viola!" cried Peti. "I know your boldness will be your bane.
You laugh at danger, but danger will overtake you."
"But, after all, were it not better to die than to live as I do?" said
the robber, feeling the edge of his axe. "I curse the day at dawn
because the light of the sun marks my track to the pursuer. The wild
bird in the brake causes me to tremble. The trunk of a fallen tree fills
me with dread; for who knows but it may hide the form of an enemy? I fly
from those I love. I pass my days among the beasts of the forests, and
my dreams are of the gallows and the hangman. Such is my life! Believe
me, Peti, I have little cause to be in love with life!"
"But your wife and your children!"
"Ah! you are right! my wife and my children!" sighed the robber, and
stared fixedly at the fire, whose faint glow sufficed to display to Peti
the cloud of deep melancholy which passed over the manly features of his
companion.
Viola was a handsome man. His high forehead, partly covered by a forest
of the blackest locks, the bold look of his dark eyes, the frank and
manly expression of his sunburnt face, the ease and the beauty of each
movement of his lofty form, impressed you with the idea that in him you
beheld one of those men who, though Nature meant them to be great and
glorious, pass by humble and unheeded; happy if their innate power for
good and for ill remains a secret; yes, happy are they if they are
allowed to live and die as the many, with but few to love them and few
to hate.
"Don't be sad, comrade," said Peti. "It's a long lane that has no
turning. But go you must, for here you are in danger of your life. The
election is at hand, and Mr. Skinner has every chance of losing his part
in it. He will move heaven and earth to catch you. After I met you this
afternoon, the Pandurs arrested me, and took me to him. May the devil
burn his bones! but he treated me cruelly: he was so savage that my hair
stood on end. Had it not been for the younger Akosh (God bless him!),
I'd be now taking my turn at the whipping-post. He has his spies among
us; he did not mention their names, but certain it is that he knows of
every step you take; I protest nothing short of a miracle can have saved
you! But certainly if we had not agreed to meet by this fire, you could
scarcely have escaped him. The landlord and his servants are bound and
locked up in the cellar, and Pandurs, dressed up as peasants, watch in
the inn. There are also Pandurs in your house; and the peasants have
been ordered to arm themselves with pitchforks, and to sally out when
the church-bells give the signal. When I was Mr. Skinner's prisoner he
cursed me, and mentioned his preparations; I have found out that he said
rather too little than too much."
Viola rose. "There are Pandurs in my house, and you tell me that my wife
is ill?"
"Oh! do not mind _her_. Susi has left the house; she is as comfortable
as a creature can be with the fever. They have taken her to the notary's
house."
"To Tengelyi's? Is she a prisoner?"
"Oh, by no means; it's all Christian love and charity. Oh! friend, that
same Christian love is a rare thing in these times. May God bless them
for what they do for her!"
"Christian love and charity! Fine words! fine words!" muttered Viola.
"But who tells you that this is not a snare? My wife is in the notary's
hands, and with her my life."
"For once you are mistaken!" cried the gipsy. "I, too, had my suspicions
at first; why should I not? since I am no peer, but merely a gipsy. It's
not my fault, surely, that I mistrust those officials; and when they
told me that Susi was at the notary's, I did not half like it. But I
understood that old Tengelyi knew nothing at all about it, and that his
daughter, Vilma, did it all. Now Vilma is a born angel, take my word for
it. But do not stop here. I ought to be at St. Vilmosh before the sun
rises, and every minute you stay is as much as your life is worth."
"I'll not stir a single step unless you tell me all about Susi. I cannot
understand it."
Peti knew Viola too well not to yield to this peremptory demand; and he
tried, therefore, to inform his friend, in as few words as possible, of
all the particulars of Susi's illness. Viola, leaning on his fokosh,
listened with eagerness. He stood so still, so motionless, that, but for
the deep sighs which at times broke forth, he might have been mistaken
for a statue.
"Poor, poor woman!" cried the robber at length, "has it indeed come to
this? A beggar, eating the bread of charity! a vagabond, abiding under
the roof of the stranger! God, God! what has _she_ done that thy hand
should strike _her_?"
"Let us be off!" urged Peti. "Your wife is all snug and comfortable, and
we ought not to stand here like fools, railing at the injustice of the
world. Besides, the day of settling our accounts is perhaps nearer than
you think. I owe Mr. Skinner more than one turn. Cheer up, comrade! many
a man has been in a worse scrape than you are, who got out of it after
all."
"What do I care for myself? I am used to it. There is blood on my hands,
and, perhaps, it is but just that Heaven's curse pursues me. But she,
whom I love,--she, who never since her birth did harm to any one,--she,
who stands by my side like an angel of light, withholding my arm from
deeds of blood and vengeance! Oh! she kneels at church, and prays by the
hour. That she loves me is her only crime,--why, then, should _she_ be
punished? Let them hunt me down--torment me; ay! let them hang me! what
care I, if she is but safe and free from harm?"
"So she is!" cried Peti, impatiently. "She was never better off in her
life, man! Come along, or else we are done for, and by your fault too!"
"Do you mean to tell me that none of the villagers helped her?--that
none of them would shelter her?"
"No! I told you, no! the judge forbade it; and none of them dared to
look at her."
"Very well; I mean to be quits with them. I never harmed any of them.
None of them ever lost a single head of cattle; and now that my family
are in distress, there is not one of them but thinks that this is as it
ought to be. But Viola is the man to make bonfires of their houses!"
"You are right!" cried Peti, seizing the robber's hand. "A little
revenge now and then serves your turn. It puts them on their guard! It
reminds them that there is still some justice in this world. But come to
St. Vilmosh. You are safe there, at least for a few days, for the
kanaz[7] there is one of our people. We will go down to him, and see
what can be done."
[Footnote 7: See Note V.]
"You had better go first; I have some business here."
"Where?" cried Peti, stopping his friend as the latter turned to leave
the place.
"I tell you to go first to St. Vilmosh, and to wait for me at the
kanaz's. I want to speak to the notary. By the time the sun rises I mean
to be with you. Get something to eat, for I am hungry."
"Maybe the ravens are hungry, and have told you to go and be hanged, to
make a dinner for them!"
"What a coward you are! I tell thee, man, it is not so easy to catch
Viola as you may think. Go and tell them to cook me some gulyash[8]; and
if you think it will ease your mind, I will bring you the chief haiduk
gagged and bound."
[Footnote 8: See Note VI.]
"All this were well and good if the people of Tissaret were still on
your side, for in that case you might do as you please. But since the
parson's house has been broken into, they are all against you, they will
have it that you committed that robbery."
"I did no such thing; and it is just on that account I want to speak to
Tengelyi. I have never been obliged to any man, who had the dress and
appearance of a gentleman. The notary is the first of the kind to whom
I owe any thing, and, by G--d, he shall not call me ungrateful."
"But of what use can your capture be to the notary?" said Peti, who now
yielded to Viola's obstinacy, and accompanied him to the village.
"Some villany is abroad, and Tengelyi is to suffer. It's the same affair
as it was with the parson. I'll inform him of it."
"Not to-night?"
"Ay, this very night! Who knows but to-morrow it might be too late? The
birds are greedy for their prey. It will scarcely take me an hour. You
ought to go to St. Vilmosh."
"Not I!" said the gipsy. "If you are mad, and won't be advised, you
cannot, at least, force me to leave you alone in this scrape. If they
hang you, they must hang me too."
Viola said nothing; but he pressed the hand of his faithful comrade. The
two adventurers approached the village, where every thing was prepared
for the capture of the robber. Not only was Viola's house occupied by
the Pandurs, not only was the inn garrisoned, and its inmates gagged and
bound, but the streets of Tissaret, and the cottages of those peasants
who were suspected to be in communication with the robber, were occupied
by soldiers, or, at least, closely watched. Rety's servants, armed with
pitchforks and cudgels, were assembled in a barn, and every peasant was
prepared, at the first signal from the steeple, to rush out and attack
the outlaw. Some generous men, devoted to the public safety, and fearing
for their cattle, and some not less generous women, had contributed a
few hundred florins as a reward for that lucky peasant, or Pandur, who
should succeed either in capturing or killing the robber. There could be
but one opinion about Viola's fate, in case he should happen to come to
Tissaret; but whether he would come or not was an open question, to say
the least of it; for while the justice and his clerk were out
hare-hunting, the inspector Kanya had thought proper to publish Mr.
Skinner's instructions by means of the public crier, who, on this
important occasion, was preceded by a couple of drums, and whose
commands to the peasantry were backed by the threat of five-and-twenty
lashes, as a punishment of the refractory or negligent; and though the
justice on his return had poured out a most energetic volley of
imprecations on Mr. Kanya and his zeal, and though he had immediately
given orders that no one should be permitted to leave the village, yet
there was good reason to fear that Viola would smell more than one rat.
Indeed, so much probability was there for this supposition, that by the
time Viola and Peti drew near to the village the inhabitants of Tissaret
to a man had thought proper to retire for the night, leaving the
soldiers and Pandurs to follow their example, which, to do them justice,
they did.
"Wait a few moments," said Peti to his companion, when they came to the
threshing-floors, "I'll look out for you. It is just here where they
have placed a guard of those rascals in frogged jackets. I'll try to
find out what they are after." Saying which, the old man crept through
the ditch and disappeared. He returned almost immediately. "They are
fast asleep. If the others are equally vigilant, we are safe enough."
Viola advanced with Peti. They entered the village, and walked quickly,
but noiselessly, along the hedges and under the shadow of the houses.
Tengelyi's house, the neatest building in the village, was on one side
bordered by a narrow court-yard, and on the other by a garden of
somewhat larger dimensions. The buildings in his immediate neighbourhood
were on the one side the Town-hall, and on the other the workshop of the
village smith; while over the way there was the only shop in Tissaret,
the property of Itzig, the Jew, and remarkable, not only for its amazing
stores of European and Indian produce, but also for its bright yellow
paint, and its pillars of glaring sky-blue which ornamented the hall
outside.
There were but two roads to Tengelyi's house--one leading by the
Town-hall, and the other touching the smithie; and though the sound of a
hammer ringing on the iron of the anvil was still to be heard from the
last named place, still Peti thought it advisable to take the latter
road, and this the more, since he perceived that there was no light in
Itzig's house,--a circumstance which led him to suppose that that "toad
of a Jew" had retired into the interior of his den, there to sleep on
his dollars. Quitting, therefore, the dark corner between the smith's
shop and the main road, the two men hastened up to the house of
Tengelyi. The fire from the smithie threw a ruddy glare on the road and
on the Jew's shop, the closed shutters of which seemed to denote that
all the inmates had retired to rest. But while they were in the act of
crossing the road, Peti suddenly seized Viola's hand, and pointing to
the Jew's house, he whispered, "They have seen us!" A human form was
indeed visible behind the pillars. It moved quickly to the door, and
disappeared.
"Go to the notary's! Just by the wall there's a hole in the hedge. Creep
through it, and hide yourself as best you may; but for God's sake don't
enter the house! I'll come to fetch you as soon as the alarm is over."
So saying, Peti crossed the road and disappeared among the buildings.
Viola hastening onward, found the opening in the hedge. He had scarcely
crept through it and hidden himself among the shrubs, when he saw that
the gipsy was fully justified in his apprehensions. Voices were heard in
the streets, lanthorns were carried by, and the quick tramp of steps,
and the sound of the village bell, proved to him that the alarm was
indeed given, and that the people of Tissaret were up and in arms to
arrest him. Mr. Skinner's and Mr. Kenihazy's answering imprecations
might have proved, to any one who doubted the fact, that the public
justice of this country is not always asleep, but that its eyes are
sometimes open as late as 10h. 30m. P.M.
Viola was in a dangerous position. The notary's garden was but an
indifferent hiding-place. It was small, and but thinly planted with
trees. A strong light from the windows of the house illumined part of
it, and nothing could save Viola, if the hole in the hedge was
discovered, and a lanthorn passed through it. But the robber was
accustomed to danger. He kept his weapons in readiness and waited.
After some time the noise of the robber hunters grew gradually less. The
crowd rushed to another part of the village. The sound of distant voices
and the continued ringing of the bell showed that the danger was at
least in part over.
On these occasions it is only the first quarter of an hour which is
dangerous in our country; after that '_mauvais quart d'heure_' has once
passed, there is none but seeks for an excuse for discontinuing the
search. For we are an Eastern people, nor did we come to the West to
toil and slave. Indeed, that man was a profound historian who protested
that our ancestors left their homes in search of a country where the sun
rose late, and allowed them to sleep longer than they could in their
former abodes. Viola, who had often been hunted, and who was perfectly
familiar with the leading features of our national character, rose from
the ground and walked boldly up to the house.
That house harboured his wife, the only being on the face of the earth
who loved him; the only being he could call his own, and whose mild
words made him feel that, though exiled, pursued, and condemned, there
was still something which he could call his own, which the world could
not take from him, and which bound him to life and to his Creator. And
Viola's heart, however unmoved by danger, beat loud and fast when,
creeping by the windows of the house, he stopped at length in front of
the one window for which he sought. Everything was tranquil in that
room. His wife lay sleeping, and Vilma sat by her side, watching her,
while the old Liptaka was seated at some distance, reading her Bible,
and rocking a cradle. His little boy lay in an arm-chair. He was fast
asleep. The robber looked long and earnestly at the group before him. He
wept.
The child in the cradle awoke. Old Mother Liptaka took it up and carried
it to and fro. Little Pishta too awoke; he rubbed his eyes and stared
around, as if uncertain where he was, or how he came to be there. But
looking up to the window he beheld Viola, and jumping from the chair he
clasped his hands and shouted--"Father! father!"
"God forbid that he should be here!" said Mother Liptaka, walking up to
the window. "You are half asleep, child, and talk in a dream: you see
there is no one here."
"He is not there now,--but he was there. He is gone now, but I am sure
he is in the garden. I will go and call him in."
"Don't think of it!" said the Liptaka, seizing the boy's hand. "You know
your father is----" Here the good woman stopped, for she was at a loss
to find gentle words for a harsh fact.
"I know!" said the boy, "my father must hide himself; but I am sure it
is not true, what they say about his being a robber."
"Of course not, child: be quiet, and don't say a word about it, not even
to Miss Vilma. I will go, and if your father is in the garden, I'll
speak to him." And the old woman left the room.
Viola's situation had meanwhile become more dangerous. When he retired
from the window where his boy recognised him, he found that his
movements were watched by a man, who stood in the opening through which
he had entered the garden, and who withdrew when the robber's face
turned in the direction of the hedge. Viola was at a loss what to do. He
could not stay in the garden, for it was too small; the streets were
filled with peasants and Pandurs, and the inmates of the house were
strangers to him. He could not trust his life to their keeping. The
tocsin was again sounded, and the approach of lights and steps showed
him that his pursuers were aware of his hiding-place, and that they came
to take him.
At this critical moment the Liptaka entered the garden, and called the
robber by his name. Seeing no other means of escape, he walked up to
her and informed her of the danger of his situation.
"Ay, brother, why _did_ you come this blessed night?" said the old
woman. "Two days later you might have been safe."
"But what is to be done? Can you hide me in the house?"
"I can, for the notary is not in, and Vilma will not betray you. Stand
here until I call you." She returned into the house, and Viola stood up
against the wall to hide himself. The noise increased meanwhile, and the
sonorous voice of the justice was heard, denouncing the eyes, souls, and
limbs of his trusty Pandurs, when the door opened, and the Liptaka
appeared, motioning Viola to advance cautiously, lest the light from the
windows might mark his figure: the robber crept along the wall and
entered the house.
"Where is he? where?" screamed Mr. Skinner, from the other side of the
hedge.
"Steady, boys!" shouted his clerk, from the furthest rear. "At him! Why
should you fear the scoundrel? The man that catches and binds him shall
have a hundred florins."
"Are any of you at the other side of the garden?" bawled the
commissioner, with a stentorian voice.
Nobody answered.
"Smash your souls, you cursed hellhounds!" roared Mr. Skinner. "Why are
you all here? Why are you not at the other side of the garden?"
"Your lordship's lordship told us to come to this place," said a Pandur;
but a blow from Paul Skinner's stalwart arm sent him sprawling to the
ground. "Be off!" shouted the intrepid justice; "be off a few of
you--but not too many. Seize him and bind him!"
"Shoot him on the spot, if he shows fight," urged the clerk.
"Shoot him--indeed!" roared the justice. "I'll brain the man that dares
to shoot him, for I must have the satisfaction of hanging the fellow."
Amidst these preparations for the capture of the robber, the person
"wanted" had quietly entered the house, where old Liptaka stowed him
away behind some casks, which lay in the room. Vilma trembled.
"Fear not, Missie," said the Liptaka; "they dare not enter this house.
Of course, if it were a poor man's case, they'd ransack every corner,
and turn the whole house out of the window. But it's a different thing
with a nobleman's curia."
The Liptaka was mistaken, and she had soon ample opportunity of
convincing herself of the fact that the keeping of the law is one thing,
and the law itself another. For Mr. Paul Skinner, after surrounding the
garden on all sides, and after summoning Viola to come forward and be
hanged, found it necessary to proceed to a close investigation of the
premises. He opened the garden door and entered with his _posse_ of
Pandurs and peasants. Vilma's flowers and Mrs. Ershebet's broccolis were
alike trodden down by the intruders, and great exertions were made to
start the game. But their search was fruitless. So were their curses.
Mr. Skinner protested that the robber must be hid in the house, and
Kenihazy instantly suggested the propriety of searching the suspected
habitation. The justice consented, and walked up to the door which
communicated between the house and the garden, when the door was opened
from the inside, and Mrs. Ershebet appeared on the threshold.
"What is the meaning of this?" cried the notary's wife, with a voice
which, on the present occasion, was more remarkable for its energy than
for its sweetness. "Who is it that dares, at this hour of the night, to
break into an honest man's house? Are you robbers, thieves, or
murderers? Be off, instantly, every one of you! This is a nobleman's
curia, and no one has a right to be here, unless it be with my consent!"
Mr. Skinner, not a little abashed, tried to stammer some excuses; but
Mrs. Ershebet, knowing that she had the law on her side, refused to
listen to his explanations. Her abuse of the justice kept pace with the
hate she bore him, and she eagerly seized the opportunity to give him
what we poetically call "a bit of her mind." She did this so effectually
that the justice was at length compelled to muster all his courage to
make a reply.
"Mrs. Tengelyi," said the worthy functionary, his voice trembling with
suppressed rage, "Mrs. Tengelyi, moderate yourself; consider that you
stand in the presence of a superior officer."
"Superior officer, indeed!" screamed Mrs. Ershebet. "You are the master
of robbers and thieves, but not mine. What care I for the county! What
care I for the justice? I am a nobleman's wife, and I'd like to see the
man who dares to enter my house without my permission!"
"You shall have that pleasure!" roared the justice. "Forward, my men!
enter the house! search it, and capture the robber. Knock them down and
bind them, if they offer you resistance! I'll teach you to know who is
master here!"
"A stick! a stick! give me a stick!" cried Mrs. Ershebet. Her maid
handed her Tengelyi's cane. She raised it, and exclaimed triumphantly,
"I protest!"
Mr. Skinner stepped back; but, after a few moments, he rallied his
forces, resolved, in open contempt of the Hungarian law and its formal
protest[9], to force an entry into the notary's house. There can be no
doubt that he would have accomplished his purpose, but for the opportune
arrival of Akosh and Mr. Catspaw, who restrained his violence; for the
attorney, to whom the justice stated the case, and who had his reasons
for supposing that Viola was not in the house, did his utmost to prevent
the premises from being searched. He did this not from any love he bore
Tengelyi, but because he knew that the affair might at a later time
serve to cast a suspicion on the notary's character. His dispute with
Mr. Skinner was suddenly interrupted by a new and unforeseen event.
[Footnote 9: See Note VII.]
"Fire!" cried a voice in the street; and the crowd in the garden roared
"Fire! fire, at the Castle!" The tocsin sounded, and the peasants
hastened in the direction of the fire. The Pandurs alone were kept back
by Mr. Skinner's express commands, for he still hoped to find Viola.
But when one of the servants from the House came down to tell them that
the conflagration was in the sheriff's barns, and that his whole store
of hay was in flames, it was thought necessary to dispatch the power of
the law to the threshing-floors to save the sheriff's hay. Not one of
the intruders remained on the spot.
"For God's sake, save him!" whispered Vilma, addressing the Liptaka. "Be
quick, and save him before they come back."
"Never fear, Missie. Give him but a fair start, and he is not the man to
be caught. But keep your counsel; your father would never pardon you!"
The Liptaka turned to Viola's hiding-place behind the casks. "Now get
thee gone," said she. "There is a fire at the sheriff's. Get out at the
other side of the village, where nobody will stop your way. I can't help
thinking the fire is on your account."
"Listen to me!" said Viola. "You know I owe the notary a debt of
gratitude. His family have taken my wife to his house: may God bless
them for it! They have saved my life, too; and I mean to show my sense
of it. Tell them I know that the notary keeps some papers in an iron
safe. Those papers are of great value to him and to the parson. Tell him
to find another place for them, and to keep a good look out. He has
powerful enemies; I know of some people who would do any thing to get
those papers. Tell this the notary, and may God be with you!"
The robber was in the act of leaving the garden, when a hand held him by
his bunda. "Who is it?" said he, raising his axe.
"It is I, Peti! What do you think of my illumination?"
"That it saved me for once. I knew it was your doing. Thanks! may God
bless you!"
"Now let us be off to St. Vilmosh," said Peti, crawling through the
opening of the hedge. "Look there," he added, pointing to the next
house; "I'll lose my head if that fellow Catspaw does not stand there!"
"And if he were an incarnate devil I _will_ go on!" muttered Viola, as
they turned the corner of the street. Mr. Catspaw, for it was he, had
recognised the robber. He shook his head and walked leisurely up to the
Manor-house.
CHAP. V.
The day which followed this eventful night was a Sunday. Already had the
church-bells of Tissaret called the parishioners to prayers; and the
lower classes, obedient to the summons, crowded the little church, there
to forget the disturbance of the night and the whole of their worldly
cares. At the House, or Castle, as the family seat of the Retys was
sometimes styled, preparations on a large scale were on foot for the
reception of the guests who were expected to arrive that day. Akosh and
his sister Etelka walked in the garden. Neither of them spoke, as they
trod the paths which were already covered with the leaves of autumn;
while Tünder, their favorite greyhound, bounded to and fro, now starting
a bird, now hunting a falling leaf. The dog had its own way of enjoying
the beauty of that bright day.
"What is the matter with you, Etelka?" said Akosh, at length. "You are
out of spirits to-day."
"Am I?" replied Etelka, smiling, and with a slight stare. "I dare say
you are like Mr. Catspaw, who in his annual fits of jaundice flatters
himself that the whole world is yellow."
"Very true," rejoined Akosh; "I am a dreadful bore to-day."
"Of course you are. To be a bore is one of the privileges of a Hungarian
nobleman. But do not put yourself under any restraint on _my_
account!"--saying which the young lady turned away, and busied herself
in smoothing the shrivelled leaves of a half-faded flower. Thus pursuing
their walk, they reached a hill in the plantation, from the summit of
which they looked down on the village, the river, and the boundless
plain.
"They are coming!" said Etelka, turning her eyes in the direction of St.
Vilmosh.
"I wish to God I were a hundred miles off!" sighed Akosh.
"Would not a lesser distance do? Shall we say the village, or the
notary's house?"
"Don't mention it. It makes me weep to think of it. You know what has
happened?"
"I should think so."
"Well, I have no hope."
"Do not say so! Vilma loves you. You are not likely to change your mind,
and our father----"
"Our father,--oh, if there were no obstacle but his denial!" exclaimed
Akosh. "I venerate our father; but there are limits to my
veneration,--and if he compels me to choose between Vilma's love and
his, I am prepared to sacrifice the man who prefers his prejudices to
his son's happiness. But is Vilma prepared to follow my example? And,
believe me, old Tengelyi is far more inexorable than my father!"
"But he idolises his daughter----"
"You do not know him as I know him. Yes, he idolises his daughter! He
would sacrifice any thing to her, except his honour. On that point he is
inexorable. After that cursed conversation with my step-mother, in which
she hinted that she would be well pleased to see his daughter less
frequently at our house, Tengelyi came to me. He told me all that had
happened, and asked me to discontinue my visits to his family, for--such
was his bitter expression--it was not well for young gentlemen of rank
to hold intercourse with poor girls. Ever since that day, when I meet
him in the street and accompany him to his house, he bows me off at the
door, and sends me about my business. I have spoken to his wife, but she
tells me that she cannot do any thing to soften him. I have spoken to
Vandory, but he, too, has no comfort for me. Now consider that Tengelyi
is sure to lay the blame of that disgraceful scene of last night at our
door, and that our party at the next election will do all to oppose his.
No! I tell you there is no hope left for me!"
"And yet I hope!" said Etelka, taking her brother's hand: "I know but
too well on which side the victory is likely to be, in a contest between
a woman's head and her heart."
"Do you really think so?" exclaimed Akosh, kissing her hand. "Oh if I
could but know,--if I could but feel sure that my enemies will not
succeed in estranging her heart from me!"
"You are mad, my respected brother," interposed Etelka; "pray who are
your enemies? Old Tengelyi loves you as a son, though he does not say
so; but suppose he _did_ hate you, believe me, though father, and
mother, and the whole country were to sit down for a twelvemonth abusing
you, Vilma's feelings would remain as they are."
"Oh if I could but see her! if I could but see her, though it were only
for a moment!"
"Be patient. Who knows what may happen when Tengelyi goes to the
election? But we must turn back now; the Cortes[10] are about to make
their appearance. I would not for the world lose the spectacle of their
arrival."
[Footnote 10: Constituents.]
They turned and walked to the house, whence arose the sound of many
voices, like the roll of a distant thunder-storm. The Hungarians are
wont to commence their affairs, no matter whether they be great or
small, not with light--but with noise. I leave my readers to imagine the
fearful din with which the halls of the Retys resounded. Servants and
haiduks ran in all directions, fetching and carrying all sorts of
things. The cook and his boys,--the bailiff and the butler, the
housekeeper and the maids, were shouting at, ordering about, and abusing
one another; and Lady Rety, who every moment expected the arrival of her
guests, had just sent her third maid with most peremptory instructions
to cause the people to be silent,--without, however, obtaining any other
result from the mission than a still greater confusion of tongues and
voices. Great was her rage, and violently did she struggle to preserve
that gracious smile which the Cortes were wont to admire in her at fixed
periods every three years, viz., at the time of the general election.
The Sheriff Rety, Valentin Kishlaki, Mr. Paul Skinner, the justice, and
sundry "_spectabiles_" of his party, were smoking their pipes in the
hall, and a couple of poor relations, who were always invited on such
occasions, filled and lighted their pipes for them, and made themselves
generally useful, to show their deep sense of the honour which was done
to them. Mr. Catspaw stood leaning against the wall. He looked the very
picture of watchful humility.
This company, the like of which may be found in Hungary every where,
especially at the time of the election, but which it were next to
impossible to discover anywhere else, consisted but of a limited number
of individuals. They were the grandees of the county of Takshony.
The man who first attracts our attention is Valentin Kishlaki, the
father of Kalman Kishlaki, whom my readers had already the pleasure of
meeting on the Turk's Hill. The good old man offers much to love, but
little to describe. He is a short man, and withal a stout one; his hair
is white, his cheeks red. He has a good-natured smile, and a pair of
honest blue eyes. He is fond of telling a story without an end, but this
weakness is his greatest crime.
Among the other persons in the sheriff's hall, the most remarkable are,
doubtless, Augustin Karvay, the bold keeper of the county house, and
Thomas Shaskay, the receiver of the taxes. The former was a Hungarian
nobleman of the true stamp: bred on the heath, fagged at school, and
plucked at college. The insurrection of 1809 afforded the noble youth a
brilliant opportunity of displaying his talents for homicide, which were
supposed to be astounding. But the speedy termination of the war nipped
Mr. Karvay's martial honours in the bud; nor does history record any of
his deeds of bravery and devotion, except the fact that he left his
regiment at the commencement of the first and only battle in which that
gallant body took part, and in which it was routed; and that, regardless
of the fatigue and toils of the way, he hastened home to defend his
household gods and the female members of his family. But so modest was
Mr. Karvay, that the slightest allusion to this act of unparalleled
devotion was observed to cause him pain, and even to spoil his temper.
This modesty we take to be a proof of true merit.
Mr. Karvay's gallantry, or, perhaps, his touching modesty, did
afterwards so much execution upon the heart of Lady Katshflatty, a young
widow of fifty, that she consented to bless the youthful hero with all
the charms and gifts of fortune which her years and her late husband's
prodigality had left her. The blessing, in either respect, was by no
means very great, and Mr. Karvay was reduced to the extremity of living
upon his wits, which in his case would have been tantamount to the
lowest degree of destitution, but for the good fortune he had of making
some enemies by his marriage with Lady Katshflatty. His enemies belonged
to the opposition in the county; that is to say, they were members of
the minority;--reason enough for the party in power to take him up; and
under the sheriff's protection Mr. Karvay was successively appointed to
the posts of Keeper of the County House, Captain of the Haiduks, and
Honorary Juror, and promoted to all the honours, bustle, and emoluments
of these respective dignities.
Such was the person to whom Mr. Thomas Shaskay was bound by the ties of
a cordial and mutual dislike. The two men seemed to be created for the
express purpose of hating one another. Shaskay was a small and spare
man; his face reminded one of an old crumpled-up letter, his hair was
scant, his nose sharp and long, and his narrow forehead covered with a
thousand wrinkles. Karvay's huge bulk, mottled face, and curly black
hair, were in bodily opposition to this frail piece of humanity. Candour
was Mr. Karvay's characteristic feature; indeed, there were people in
the county of Takshony who protested that the gallant captain would be
more amiable if he were less candid. Now Shaskay was the closest man
breathing. He answered reluctantly even to the simplest questions. Some
of his friends protested that his closeness and secrecy were quite out
of place, for that Nature, when she framed him, had treated him as
druggists do their goods, and that "Poison" was as distinctly written on
his face as it ever was on an arsenic bottle.
Shaskay had met with many misfortunes in the course of his life; but so
great was his strength of mind that he was never known to allude to
them, and least of all to his greatest misfortune, which, however, was
mentioned in the records of the county. While he held the office of
receiver-general of the district, sundry monies which were entrusted to
his care disappeared; and though Mr. Shaskay protested that the money
was stolen, and though the whole county believed him; nay, though no one
had the least doubt that Shaskay (who said it) had _seen_ the thief as
he left the room, still the government, grossly violating the laws both
of nature and of the country, dismissed the unfortunate receiver-general
from his office. The county of Takshony made no less than thirteen
petitions in his favour, but the worthy man could never succeed in
regaining the office, of which he had discharged the duties to the
unqualified satisfaction of the nobility, and from which he had not only
derived no gains, but also sacrificed his own private property at cards.
But so great is the virtue of a truly good man, that Mr. Shaskay,
instead of joining (as might have been supposed) the opposition,
remained faithful to his politics and his party, exerting the whole of
his influence in behalf of the government, which had treated him so
unjustly.
Mr. Rety, the sheriff, stands in the centre of his own hall. He is
dressed in a blue attila with silver buttons, his boots are armed with
silver spurs, and his Meerschaum pipe is embossed with silver. His
thoughts were of the approaching election, and of the speech which he
intended to address to the Cortes; but the brilliant phrase upon which
he had just stumbled, was interrupted by a distant howling and
bellowing, which became gradually more distinct.
"Eljen Rety! Eljen Skinner! Eljen the liberty of Hungary! Hujh rá!" and
similar exclamations, with now and then a curse, and the report of a
pistol, resounded through the village. And besides there was the
wonderful burden of the song:--
"May the tulip flowers bloom for aye,
And Rety be our sheriff this day!"
which will do for any election, and which is remarkable for the ease
with which it may be adapted to the case or the name of any candidate.
And there was a van with a gipsy band performing the Rakotzi, and all
the dogs of the village stood by and barked their welcome.
"This is indeed enthusiasm! this is indeed popularity!" said Karvay,
stroking his moustache, and looking pleased; "by my soul it is a fine
thing to be so much beloved! I am not rich, but I would give fifty
florins any day to hear myself extolled in this manner."
"Ah! but I trust to goodness they won't burn any thing!" said one of the
poor relations, whose reminiscences of the last election were not of an
agreeable kind.
"Burn any thing! Terrem tette! of whom dost dare to speak?" roared
Karvay. "Dost not know that thou speakest of noblemen? that St. Vilmosh
has three hundred votes? The sheriff's house is insured, and if the
worst were to come to the worst, and if all the village were burnt down,
we ought to bless our stars that they have come to us instead of siding
with the other party!"
"Karvay is right," said Rety to his trembling cousin; "How dare you
speak disrespectfully of my guests? I know the gentlemen of St.
Vilmosh."
"So do I!" roared Karvay, "every tenth man of my prisoners is from St.
Vilmosh. Capital fellows they are! Your thief and murderer is a capital
fellow in war, _or_ at an election."
"There are some exceptions to that rule," interposed Shaskay. "In the
insurrection of 1809, I understand the men of St. Vilmosh----"
It was lucky for Shaskay that the Cortes had by this time come to the
gate, for Mr. Karvay was preparing to pay the ex-receiver-general in
kind, by an allusion to sundry monies. His biting jokes on that tender
topic were, however, cut short by the arrival of the whole noble mob in
not less than thirty large vans. The vans in front and in the rear were
ornamented with large yellow flags with suitable mottoes, such as
"Rety for ever!"
"No nobleman will condescend to build streets and dykes!"
and mongrel rhymes in the following fashion:--
"To pay no taxes, to pay no toll;
To be exempt from the muster-roll;
To make the laws, and to live at we can,
Abusing the salt-prices:
This befits a nobleman."
Every nobleman had a green and yellow feather stuck in his hat or
kalpac; these colours being emblematical of the hopes of their own
party, and the envy of their adversaries, while they served the
practical purpose of a badge of recognition.
The sheriff advanced, amidst violent cheering, to the front steps of the
hall; the mob of noblemen shouting Halljuk[11]! formed a circle, and the
notary of St. Vilmosh, stepping forward, addressed the patron in a
speech of extraordinary pathos; in the course of which the words--Most
revered,--Greece,--Rome,--Cicero,--patriotism,--singleness of
purpose,--load star,--fragrant flowers,--forked tongues, pyramids, and
steeple--were neither few nor far between, and which concluded with an
assurance of the unbounded attachment of the constituency to the
illustrious patriot he (the orator) had the supreme honour of
addressing, and the quotation of "Si fractus illabetur orbis, impavidum
ferient ruinæ," or to adopt the translation of the whipper-in of the
Cortes:--
[Footnote 11: Hear! hear!]
"May the tulip-flowers bloom for aye,
And Rety be our sheriff this day!"
This speech, but especially its conclusion, called forth a torrent of
applause; and the enthusiasm reached its culminating point, when Mr.
Rety, as usual, assured them that he was overwhelmed with
confusion--that he was unprepared--that this was the happiest day of his
life--that he had no ambition, but that it appeared his friends of St.
Vilmosh commanded his services, and that he was always the man who----
The assurance that Mr. Rety was "always the man who" excited cheers of
the most deafening magnitude from his audience; and after the whipper-in
had informed the sheriff that but one thing was wanting to the happiness
of the noble mob, and that this one thing was the permission to kiss
Lady Rety's hand, the crowd uttered another frantic shout of Eljen! and
rushed into the house.
A sumptuous repast awaited them in the sheriff's dining-room and in the
barn. The former apartment was occupied by the _élite_ of the company,
while the lower precincts of the barn sheltered a less select, though by
no means a less noble party. The _élite_ feasted on four-and-twenty
different kinds of sweetmeats, with Hungarian Champagne, Tokay, and
ices; and the great mass of the Cortes filled their noble stomachs with
Gulyash and Pörkölt, Tarhonya, cream-cakes, dumplings, roast meats, wine
and brandy.
Etelka left the company immediately after dinner, while the Lady Rety
conversed with some of the rising assessors and clergymen of the
district. The gentlemen smoked their pipes in the hall, and in front of
the house; and if the notary of St. Vilmosh was not among their number,
his absence may perhaps be accounted for by the fact that Etelka's maid,
Rosi, lived in another part of the house.
Akosh and Kalman were walking in the garden. They were equals in age and
station, and of course they were sworn friends. Nevertheless, the two
young men were utterly different in their characters and tempers. Kalman
was, by his education and constitution, a Betyar, that is to say, a
root-and-branch Magyar of the old school; but it was his great ambition
to be mistaken for a man of high European breeding and refinement.
Akosh, on the other hand, who had the advantage of the best education
which Paris and London can afford, had taken it into his head to act the
Magyar, _par excellence_. Neither of them succeeded in maintaining his
artificial character; and especially on that day they had both signally
failed in their endeavours to falsify the old proverb: "Naturam expellas
furcâ; tamen usque recurret."
Akosh was indeed a Betyar when the dinner commenced; but he grew less
talkative and noisy as the talking and the noise around him increased,
until at length he found himself fairly silenced. Kalman, who sat by
Etelka, and who was greatly cheered by the kind manner in which she
treated him (for poor Kalman was desperately in love with Miss Rety),
took but little wine, and for a time his conduct and conversation were
all that he or Etelka could wish. But by degrees he fell back into his
Betyarism, until the displeased looks and curt replies of the lady made
him aware of his error. At the end of the dinner he was as silent as his
friend. He scarcely ventured to look at Miss Rety; and when dinner was
over he hurried Akosh to the garden, there to bewail his sad and cruel
fate.
"I am the most wretched of mortals!" cried he. "Did you observe the
manner in which your sister treated me? She does not love me--nay, she
detests and despises me!"
"Are you mad?" replied Akosh.
"No! I am not mad. Etelka does not love me; nor will she ever love me,
and she is right. She is too good for the like of me."
"You ought never to take any wine, Kalman; it makes you sad."
"So you _did_ see it? And she, too, is disgusted with me! I will leave
the country! I will go to a place where nobody knows me! where your
sister will not be annoyed by my presence!"
Kalman's lamentations were here cut short by Akosh, who, on being
informed of the reason of this extraordinary distress, pledged his word
that he would reconcile his sister to his friend; and Kalman's grief
having given way to the hope of fresh favour, the two young men turned
back to the house to find Etelka, and to solicit and obtain her pardon
for any offence which her lover might have committed. But fate had
willed it otherwise.
Old Kishlaki, misled by the excitement of the day, had taken rather more
wine than he ought to have done; his ideas were consequently less steady
than they might have been. A match between Miss Rety and his son had
always been among his pet projects. Urged on by the conviviality of the
day, he had undertaken to address the Retys, and to solicit their
daughter's hand for Mr. Kalman Kishlaki, his son and heir. Rety's answer
to this unexpected offer was that he could not presume to judge of his
daughter's inclinations; and the Lady Rety, in her turn, gave Mr.
Kishlaki to understand that it would be more wise to reserve matters of
such moment for the period after the election. The good man was too much
excited to understand the real meaning of these answers. He fancied
that everything was arranged; and, walking from group to group, he told
the great secret to every one whom he met.
The Cortes were meanwhile actively employed in rehearsing their votes
for the election. They had already disposed of some of the lower places,
and they now proceeded to elect Kalman Kishlaki a justice of the
district. They strained every nerve of their lungs in shouting "Eljen
Kalman Kishlaki!" Old Kishlaki was transported with joy, but he was
grieved that his son's glorification should be lost within the walls of
the barn. He called his servant, and informing him of the great secret,
he hinted at the pleasure Miss Rety was sure to feel if the Cortes were
to seize Kalman and to carry him in triumph to her room. The servant
was, of course, quite of his master's opinion. He made his way to the
barn, shouted "Halljuk!" and spoke so much to the purpose that the whole
crowd of electors consented to accompany him to the garden. We ought to
observe that Kishlaki's messenger gained his point chiefly by informing
the Cortes of the proposed alliance between Etelka and Kalman.
The three hundred noblemen of St. Vilmosh set up a deafening shout of
"Eljen!" and directed their steps to the garden, while old Kishlaki wept
with joy, and muttered: "Hej! it is a fine thing to be so popular!"
Akosh and Kalman were close to the house when they met Kishlaki with all
the Cortes at his heels. The old man had just time to embrace his son,
and to cry out, "Do you hear it, Kalman? This is meant for you, my boy!"
The very next moment they were surrounded by the men of St. Vilmosh.
Their shout of "Eljen Kalman Kishlaki! Etelka Rety!" put a stop to all
further conversation. The two young men were astonished. They did not
know what to do or to say. But when old Kishlaki's servant proposed that
the young man should be taken to "Miss Etelka, his betrothed bride;" and
when a score of arms were stretched out to seize the fortunate lover,
then it was that Kalman began to see how matters stood. He resisted, he
prayed, he imprecated; and his father, too, who had no idea of
proclaiming the affair in _this_ way, did his utmost to prevail upon
them to leave Miss Rety's name unmentioned. His endeavours were in vain.
Kalman's resistance was of no avail. There was a sudden rush--a
scuffle--and he found himself hoisted on the shoulders of a couple of
stout fellows. His hair was dishevelled and his coat torn. He had lost
his cravat and his hat. But the crowd, unmindful of these drawbacks to
the personal graces of their favourite, bore him onward to the
apartments of his mistress. Great was the uproar, and violent were their
cheers of "Eljen Kalman and Etelka!"
The guests in the house rushed to the door, and, hearing the names of
Kalman and Etelka, they turned to the sheriff and wished him joy. Mr.
Rety received their congratulations with a sickly smile. Lady Rety,
though mindful of Kishlaki's influence, protested with some warmth that
there must be some mistake. But Karvay raised his powerful voice in
honour of the young couple, whose St. Vilmosh friends had by this time
arrived at the threshold of Etelka's room.
Kalman was more dead than alive. He was about to appear before the lady
of his love with his coat torn and his hair out of curl, and borne on
the arms of three hundred Cortes! Entreaties, tears, imprecations--all
were in vain; and they certainly would have introduced him to Miss Rety
in the most disgraceful plight that ever lover faced his mistress in, if
that lady had been in the room. But, when the door opened, they
discovered in her stead Rosi, Miss Rety's maid, and at her side no less
a personage than the hopeful notary of St. Vilmosh. This event brought
matters to a favourable crisis. Akosh interfered, and pointing out to
the assembly that a justice must needs have a juror, and that nobody was
better qualified to fill that office than his friend, the notary of St.
Vilmosh, he caused that gifted individual to be raised on the arms of
the Cortes, who carried him after the justice that was to be, and at
length presented both justice and juror to the sheriff.
It need scarcely be said that Rosi was greatly shocked, but she became
comforted on beholding her beloved notary on the shoulders of the
Cortes, and when she understood that the public voice designated her
chosen husband to fill the office of juror. She busied herself with
arranging the things in the room, which had been put in disorder by the
tumultuous entry of the Cortes. While she was thus occupied she heard
Mr. Catspaw's voice in the next room (which was his own). He was, it
appears, in the act of dismissing some individual, for he said:--
"Well, then, at seven o'clock precisely, near the notary's garden."
"Yes, your lordship! I mean to be punctual, your lordship," said another
voice, which, though Oriental, did not seem to belong to a Hungarian.
"You know your reward," rejoined Mr. Catspaw, as his interlocutor left
the room.
"Confusion!" exclaimed the frightened maid. "Mr. Catspaw was in his
room! He knows all now, for he is wondrous sharp of hearing. What if he
were to peach to my lady?" And uttering maledictions on the head of the
attorney and his Jew, Rosi locked the door of her mistress's room and
made the best of her way to the kitchen.
The sheriff had meanwhile informed the most influential of his guests
that he wished them to meet him for the purpose of a consultation. The
Dons of the county assembled in the dining-room, which had been arranged
for the sittings of a committee. In a corner of this room, which was
ornamented with Rety's family portraits, and which still retained a
faint smell of the dinner, there were three men of note standing
together. They were Mr. Slatzanek, the agent and plenipotentiary of the
Count Kovary; Baron Shoskuty; and Mr. Kriver, the recorder. Their
conversation ran in the most natural course, that is to say, it turned
on the chances of the election.
"Are you sure," said Mr. Slatzanek, addressing the recorder, "of that
wretched Vetshösy having joined Bantornyi's party?"
"I grieve to say that there can be no doubt about it."
"Did I not always tell you," cried the Baron--"did I not tell you a
thousand times that I suspected Vetshösy? Three years ago, just a
fortnight before the election, on a Friday afternoon, unless I am
mistaken, I met you, Mr. Kriver, at the coffee-house. There were some of
us, and some officers likewise, and I lighted my pipe and sat by you,
and I said: 'That fellow Vetshösy----'"
"You were quite right, sir; but----"
"That fellow Vetshösy, said I, is a liberal, and, what is worse, he
talks of his principles; he has some property, and----"
"Just so!" interposed Slatzanek. "Vetshösy is an influential man; the
more fools we for making him justice of a district in which there are so
many votes; but----"
"I know what you are about to say!" cried the Baron. "He might be gained
over. Now, I'll tell you, I live in his district. Very well then, what
do you say to a hunt--a legal hunt--a wolf hunt? We will have the
peasants to drive the game. You will all come, and he, as justice of the
district, must be one of us. Of course our wolf hunt is but a legal
fiction, but he, as district judge, must be one of us, and we'll snare
him, that we will."
"Alas!" sighed the recorder, "this is well and good; but the great
obstacle is your son, the young Baron. He has more influence in the
county than you have, and he is against us."
"Devil of a boy! devil of a boy!" cried the Baron, "and yet how often
did I not say: My son Valentine----"
"Suppose you were to exert your paternal authority?"
"Just so! You are right. My paternal authority authorises me to force my
boy to any thing I like. And we are always of the same opinion, that boy
and I; and he obeys me in all things, that boy does; and I think he had
better, so he had! but on that one subject he is most unreasonable, I
tell you."
"But it is on that very subject that he ought to yield to your superior
wisdom."
"You are right! indeed you are. I'll disinherit that boy, confound me if
I do not!"
Slatzanek, who was aware that the old Baron had very little to leave,
and whose sagacity taught him to expect little or no effect from so
vague a threat of a remote contingency, inquired whether there was no
other means of compelling the young man; to which the Baron replied that
there was no lack of means, especially if the lad could but be induced
to marry.
"You have no idea, sir, how strongly marriage tells upon a man," said
he, "especially in our family. When I was a bachelor, I was the most
liberal man you could meet with in three counties any summer's day; and
at present----. But the boy won't marry!"
"How do we stand in this district?" said Slatzanek, addressing Mr.
Kriver.
"As bad as can be. Tengelyi is against us."
"Tengelyi!" cried the Baron. "Tengelyi indeed! A mere village notary!
Bless my soul! Tengelyi! How many Tengelyis does it take, do you think,
to face _me_ at the election?"
"Alas!" said Slatzanek, "votes are counted in this country, and not
weighed; I know few men that are more powerful than this notary."
"And Akosh Rety," suggested Mr. Kriver, "does not indeed oppose us, but
that is all."
"Ah!" cried the Baron; "just like my own son! I said just now----"
"However, if the Kishlakis stand but by us, we are pretty certain of
this district."
"But we cannot rely on the Kishlakis," said Kriver. "Kalman is out of
temper; he is jealous of the Count Harashy."
"You don't say so! Miss Rety was proclaimed as his future wife."
"Ay, but the Cortes did it," whispered the recorder, "and it struck me
that Lady Rety was not at all pleased."
"You are right," said the Baron. "It struck me too. I sat by Lady Rety,
talking of the weather, when the Cortes bore Kalman about, and when I
heard them shouting,--'Dear lady,' said I----"
"We must be careful," said Slatzanek; "I fear ours is a bad position."
"As for me," said Mr. Kriver, "you are aware of my zeal; and I assure
you that I will keep our party _au courant_ of all the enemy's
manoeuvres."
"And to know your adversary's plans is half the battle!" cried the
Baron, clapping his hands.
"Oh! if the noblemen in the county were all like my own tenants!" cried
Slatzanek. "They vote with me; if they do not, they lose their farms.
They are the men for an election!"
Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the sheriff, and
the labours of the committee commenced in due form with a provisional
election of functionaries: Rety came in for the shrievalty; Mr. Kriver,
the recorder, was appointed his Vice; and almost every one of the
persons present obtained the promise of a place, either for himself or
a friend. This done, the committee directed their attention to the means
of fighting the battle of the real election; and, after a lengthened
conversation on the usual electioneering tactics,--the favouring of a
class, the kidnapping of electors, and the devising of plans for the
especial annoyance of the hostile party, it was finally resolved to
arrange the reception of the Lord-Lieutenant, who was to conduct the
election, in such a manner as to impress that great functionary with a
favourable opinion of the Rety party. But the most arduous duty of the
committee was the "finding the ways and means" for the confirmation of
their political friends, and the conciliation of such among the enemy's
troops as had some scruples about the justice of the cause which they
had espoused. But Slatzanek's talents of persuasion, and the Lady Rety's
sarcastic remarks, prevailed against the prudential considerations of
certain timid assessors and justices; and the subscription having
terminated to the general satisfaction of Rety and his friends, the
meeting dispersed.
CHAP. VI.
While the committee were carrying on their deliberations in the castle
of Tissaret, the house of the notary stood in peaceful tranquillity, and
only the lights, which shone through the windows, gave evidence of the
presence of its inhabitants. The house had two rooms fronting the
street; one of these apartments, which had a back door communicating
with the court-yard, was devoted to the use of Tengelyi, who kept his
papers in it. The other room, which opened into the former apartment and
the kitchen, was occupied by Mrs. Ershebet and her daughter. The kitchen
had two doors, one leading to the garden, and the other to the yard.
Next the kitchen was the store-room in which Viola had been hidden. At
the further end of the house was the servants' room, and a small chamber
in which lay Viola's wife. Tengelyi had spent the day at Tsherepesh, at
Mr. Bantornyi's house; for the Bantornyi party, too, had their meetings
and committees. Mrs. Ershebet, and Vandory who had dined at the
notary's, were in the sick chamber, and Etelka and Vilma sat chatting in
the second front room.
"Then you did not see him after all!" said Etelka. "'Tis a pity. I would
give any thing to meet Viola, for I take a great interest in him."
"How _can_ you talk in that way! God knows I pity the poor man; but I
certainly do not wish to make his acquaintance. You are bold and
courageous! but as for me, I am sure it would kill me to see him. They
say he is a murderer."
"Nonsense! a man who is so fond of his wife as Viola cannot be so wicked
as they say he is. I do not know of any man--except your father--who
would brave so great a danger to see his wife under such circumstances:
I can admire that love, even in a robber; and thus I too wish to be
beloved, no matter by whom!"
"If that can satisfy you," said Vilma, "I am sure there is nothing but
what Kalman will do for you."
"Always excepting the being sober, and eschewing swearing, and all the
clumsy affectation of a cavalier. Kalman would do any thing for me, but
the one thing I ask him to do."
"Now you are unjust. I am sure he would leap into the fire for your
sake."
"Of course he would, especially if some of his friends were present to
extol his bravery. Kalman is very brave; it is his nature to be so; he
cannot help it. He has many good qualities, I grant, but pray do not
tell me that he loves me."
"I see you are again at odds with him. What is his crime?"
"He--but never mind! I will not talk about it. I cannot respect him, nor
can I believe that he loves me."
"Akosh has a far different opinion of him."
"So he has!" rejoined Etelka; "but may I not question the justness of
his views? Men are wont to prize their friends for those qualities which
are of the greatest use to them. A good sportsman, a man that sticks to
his word, and who will fight a duel for his friend at a moment's
warning--such a man is their idol; they are half astonished, and more
than half disgusted that we should ask for more. But I do!"
Vilma was silent. She saw that Etelka was hurt, and Etelka too wished to
change the topic of their conversation. Addressing Vilma again, she
said:--
"I can fancy your father's disgust last night, when he came home and
learned what had happened."
"I never saw him in such a state. But Vandory came with him; he
succeeded in quieting my father. I tremble when I think of it. He says
he will have his right in this business."
"Never fear," said Etelka.
"But do you know whom he suspects of being the cause? He lays it all at
the door of your father and mother?"
"Of my _step_mother; and I am afraid he is right in his suspicions."
"Yes; but my father is again angry with all your family, except
yourself. He is most violent against Akosh, who saved us from ruin. Only
think if they had searched the house and found Viola! My father----"
"He will never know it."
"But if my father were to bring an action against Mr. Skinner? He
protests he will do it."
"He will never do it. He was angry at the time, and I am sure he will
reconsider the subject. But do not speak to him about it. If he knew it,
he would not keep quiet, and there are many people who would be glad of
any opportunity of showing their enmity against him."
"That's what old Mother Liptaka said. But you cannot think how
distressing my situation is. I, who never kept any thing secret from my
father, must now face him with an untruth. Every noise alarms me; for
with my secret I lose my father's love. Oh! I cannot bear it!"
"And yet you must bear it," replied Etelka, embracing the weeping girl.
"The peace of mind and the welfare of your father demand this
sacrifice."
"I think so too," said Vilma; "but then you have no idea how kind my
father is, and how I long to kneel down and confess my fault to him!"
"My poor Vilma," sighed Miss Rety, "I am at a loss whether I am to pity
you, or to envy you. I am not in a position to confide in my parent. But
be comforted: trust me, things will be altered. I understand my father
is to resign after the election, and Mr. Tengelyi's anger will subside.
Vandory will perhaps provide for Viola's wife. In a few weeks you will
be able to tell your father all your sorrows."
"But what am I to do in the meantime? Viola came, though he knew that
the whole village was in arms against him. The Liptaka tells me that he
loves his wife more than I can think or understand. May he not come
to-morrow, or to-night, or any time?--Jesus Maria!" shrieked Vilma,
turning her pale face to the garden--"there he is!"
"Who?" asked Etelka, looking in the same direction.
"He! he is gone now,--but trust me, there he stood! I saw his face quite
plainly!"
"Do you speak of Viola? Believe me you will not see him here, so long as
Mr. Skinner, with half the county at his back, keeps infesting the
place. How foolish and how pale you are! Come. I will fetch you a glass
of water; it will do you good."
Just as Etelka got up to leave the room, some one outside knocked softly
at the door.
"Oh, pray do not go!" cried Vilma. "Who can it be that knocks. It is so
late! I fear----"
"Some one for your father; but we'll see. Come in!" said Etelka.
The door opened, and a Jew entered with many low bows and entreaties to
excuse the liberty he was taking in saying good evening to the high and
gracious ladies.
Vilma's fear, and the Jew's humility, formed so strange a contrast, that
Etelka could not repress a smile, especially when she saw that Vilma
remained still in bodily fear of the stranger, who stood quietly by the
door, turning his brimless hat in his hands. His appearance was not
that of a robber; on the contrary, he was a sickly and unarmed man;
still his aspect was of a kind to make even a bold man feel
uncomfortable in his presence. Jantshi, or John, the glazier (such at
least was his name in _this_ county) was the ugliest man in the whole
kingdom of Hungary. His diminutive body seemed as if bowed down by the
weight of his gigantic head; his face was marked with the small-pox, and
more than one-half of it was covered with a forest of red hair, and a
wiry, dirty beard of the same colour. He had lost one of his eyes--its
place was covered with a black patch; the searching and roving look of
his other eye, his shuffling gait, and his cringing politeness, made him
an object of suspicion and dislike to every one that chanced to meet
him. Even Etelka felt disagreeably touched by the man's looks, and she
became positively alarmed when Vilma whispered to her, that that was the
face which she had seen at the window.
"Mr. Tengelyi is out, I tell you," said Etelka. "You may come to-morrow
morning."
"Most gracious lady," said the Jew, still turning his hat and looking
round, "this is indeed a misfortune! I have some pressing business with
the high-born Mr. Tengelyi."
"Well then, come back in half-an-hour; perhaps he'll be home to supper."
"If so, may I wait outside?" asked the Jew, without, however, moving
from the place where he stood. "Has his worship any dogs?"
"Dogs?" said Vilma.
"Yes, if there are no dogs in the yard I can wait; but if there are any
I cannot wait. I am afraid of them."
"You may wait!" said Etelka, angrily; "there are no dogs in the house."
"Yes: but there may be some in the next house. I am a stranger, and it
was but last year, in the third village from here, that the dogs nearly
tore me to pieces. Since that time I fear them." And the stranger told
them a long story, how he was walking through the village, how the dogs
attacked him, and how he was saved by a shepherd who happened to hear
his cries. "Bless me!" added the Jew, "if that man had not come they
would have torn my cloak, and it was a very good cloak; it was not new,
but it was a good cloak, for I bought it at Pesth for five florins and
thirty kreutzers."
The Jew was so cunning, and withal so awkward, that Etelka could not
help laughing at him; but Vilma felt uncomfortable, and asked him to go
and come back in half an hour. Whereupon the Jew said that he would
wait in the servants' room.
"No!" said Vilma; "there is a sick woman lying close by the servants'
room; besides, we have told you over and over again that you must come
back in half an hour, and that you shall not stay."
The Jew bowed very humbly, and walking to the door which led into the
kitchen, he opened it.
"Stop!" said Vilma; "where are you going to?"
"I throw myself at your feet! I ask a thousand pardons! I am so
confused. May I go through that door into the yard?"
"That door is locked. Get out by the door through which you came in."
The Jew made another low bow, and walked across Tengelyi's room to the
door by which he had entered; not, however, without looking to the
adjoining room, dropping his hat on the floor, and turning the handle of
the door in every direction but the right one, w
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