Kitabı oku: «The Village Notary: A Romance of Hungarian Life», sayfa 12

Ershebet wept.

"Weep, wretched woman, weep!" continued Tengelyi, "though your tears cannot atone for your offence. Was there ever a better child, or one more loving? and see what you have made of her! She was my pride; my heart became young when I saw her. I forgot the past. I might almost have loved mankind, because she was of their kind, and because they praised her. But now I must blush when her name is mentioned. I dare not raise my eyes, and am a criminal for no crime of my own!"

"For God's sake, pity me!" cried Mrs. Ershebet; "if you love me, – if you ever did love me, pity me!"

"If I ever did love you? God knows that I did! Did I ever speak an unkind word to you? did I not listen to your wishes? did I not tell you all my thoughts? and how did you requite me for all this love? I entreated you not to receive young Rety in my house, and you promised it, and, at that very moment, you thought of deceiving me. Akosh knew the day on which my command was to be infringed! You taught your daughter to deceive me. You waited for your guest in my absence. You trembled at the thought of my approach! This is what you did for all my love!"

"God sees my heart, Jonas. He knows that I do not deserve this!"

"Silence! don't speak to me unless you wish me to curse the day on which I led you to the altar and brought you to this house!"

His violent speech was interrupted by Vilma, who, rushing into the room, threw herself at his feet.

"Father!" cried she.

He stood still. He looked at his daughter, and felt that his heart was indeed broken. All his passion was softened into grief. The hand which he had raised for a curse dropped, and rested on the head of his child.

"Can you pardon your own Vilma?" said the girl.

"Come to my heart!" cried Tengelyi, clasping her in his arms. He wept.

CHAP. XII

Young Rety's wound, as we have already stated, was by no means dangerous, the bullet having passed through his left arm without touching the bone. Indeed the young man was more than half ashamed of having fainted, though but for a moment, in consequence of so slight a wound. But the surgeon, who had been sent for from St. Vilmosh, and Vandory, insisted on his going to bed, on account of the fever which they expected to follow. We find Akosh Rety laid up and out of temper. Kalman was smoking his cigar by the bed; and Janosh, the old servant, was busy with sundry wet towels, which were being placed on the injured limb. Young Rety's rooms were large and comfortable. Papers and books lay on the tables, and the walls were hung with portraits of famous Englishmen, and of still more famous English horses; guns, swords, foils, and whips were heaped up in a corner, and a few foxes' brushes and ears showed that the former objects were not only ornamental, but also useful. Of course there was no lack of pipes, tobacco, and cigars; in short, the room was a perfect bachelor's snuggery, even without the sofas and lounging chairs, which form so necessary, and, let us say, comfortable a feature in the entourage of a young Hungarian. But in spite of all these comforts, which were materially heightened by the bright fire in the grate, the two young men were sadly out of spirits. So much had happened since Akosh left Dustbury! Misfortune had sought him in the midst of his happiness; and Kalman, though far from regretting his defence of Tengelyi, felt that he had given fresh cause of offence to the Retys, and thus created another barrier between himself and Etelka. Janosh alone seemed to be in good spirits. He made his spurs jingle as he walked about the room in the discharge of his domestic duties; nor did his young master's moodiness affect him.

"I say, sir," said he at length, as he removed the bandages from Rety's arm.

"Take care! mind my arm!" cried Akosh.

"I am an old donkey!" said Janosh. "I always hurt you!"

"Never mind. I am sure it does not hurt me now. Don't fret, Janosh; and tell me what you were going to say."

"Oh, I was going to tell you, sir, that the weather is very bad."

"Indeed!" said Akosh.

"Yes, sir; and the potatoes which they are lifting to-day are done for. They won't be good enough for the pigs to eat."

"Indeed!"

"Ay! and I hope none of the gentlemen will hunt on our fields. It will spoil the crops. But," said Janosh, brightening up as if a sudden thought had struck him, "I do beg and entreat you, sir, don't grieve at it."

"At what?" said Akosh, astonished.

"Don't be sulky at the wound. It's a mere trifle. I can't say it does one good; no, indeed, I myself had a taste of it in the battle of Leipzig, and afterwards in France. But it doesn't do harm noways. You see there are no bones broken."

"Why, you old fool! you don't think, surely, I fret about my wound?"

"What else have you to grieve for?" said the hussar. "I know that you gentlemen feel every thing worse than we do. When we were on the march, our young gentlemen were as delicate as ladies. They lamented and cried out at the least hurt, and some of them were always a-going to the hospital. But they got used to it; ay, indeed they did, sir. We are all equal in war; and bullets and sabres have no respect for gentle flesh and blood. Officers and men must do with little food or none, as the case may be; and when they get something to eat, they share it like brethren. You'd never believe it, sir, what doings there are in war."

Akosh smiled; but his face regained the whole of its former gloom as he said, "Believe me, Janosh, were it but for this trifling wound, I should not be sad. There are other sorrows to – "

"Other sorrows – ay, so there are! How could I possibly forget it?" replied the old hussar, with a broad grin, for the purpose of making his master understand that his sorrows were known and appreciated – "isn't it about the notary's little Vilma? Oh! I know all about it. It's the same with love as with new tobacco, which makes your eyes run with tears from the mere looking at it. But do you know, sir, what I'd do if I were in your place?"

"What is that?"

"Why, to tell you the truth, I'd marry her."

"You big fool! So I would if I had the last word to say in the matter."

"But who else has?" said the old man, shaking his head. "You won't be a cripple, sir, from this here little wound; and I am sure Vilma wouldn't take a man with three hands to your one. I'll be a cat, if Vilma will ever be any other man's wife than yours!" Saying which, he left the room, shaking his head and muttering.

"The old fellow has hit the mark," said Kalman. "You are in no danger of losing Vilma's love. You have no cause for sorrow."

"Nor do I grieve on that account," replied Akosh, energetically; "Vilma's love is not so lightly lost as all that. But I am anxious in my mind because I'm uncertain about her future and mine."

"You're not accustomed to lie in bed. It makes you fanciful," said Kalman.

"No, I tell you, no! Never was man more inclined to look at the bright side of things than I am. I beat Vandory hollow; and in his own line too. But ever since that accident happened to me, I am altogether altered. My mind is filled with dark thoughts and bodings. I feel as if the hand of fate were upon me, and I would fain flee if I knew but whither."

"You've lost a precious deal of blood."

"No, it's not that!" said Akosh, shaking his head. "When I pressed Vilma to me, when I felt the beating of her heart, and when I was more happy than I ever thought it possible in my nature to be, it was then, Kalman, the thought struck me, whether this was not my last joy, as it was my greatest. Hitherto my thoughts of Vilma were all of hope; but since I was thus rudely waked from my dream of bliss, I have examined my position more narrowly. I cannot say that it gives me much comfort. A man cannot make his wife happy unless he places her in a proper position, in which she can respect herself and claim the respect of others. If he fails in that, the utmost he can do is to share her grief, and become a partner of her sorrows; but he will never come to make her happy. Now that's my case. Vilma's father is at daggers-drawn with my parents."

Kalman sighed.

"Can I hope for my parents' consent? I don't mean a mere formal consent, which people give because they cannot help it, but a real, ready, hearty blessing, for it is that which I want for Vilma's happiness. Love scorns sufferance; it asks for sympathy; and if that is denied it, and from one's nearest relations too, my heart is lonely in spite of all love; though it may cling to the beloved object, it is in sorrow, not in joy. Mutual love is enough for bliss; but for that quiet happiness which we look for in marriage, a great deal more is wanted than two mere loving hearts."

"I don't deny it," said Kalman; "but time works wonders, let me tell you. At present the old people have indeed a cordial, ay, a fraternal hate against each other. Only think; when the Jew told Tengelyi that his papers were gone, the notary was at once struck with the curious coincidence (for curious it was) of his noble descent being put in question at the very moment of the theft. He spoke of a deep laid plan, of a plot, the prime mover of which was – "

"Not my Father!" cried Akosh, anxiously.

"No, not exactly; besides, he is aware of my position in your family. But he talked of our friend Mr. Catspaw, whom, as I take it, he thinks but a tool in the hands of a third person."

"My father is incapable of such a thing!"

"Perhaps the notary does not suspect him so much as he does your step-mother. He had much to say about the other robbery which they attempted at the curate's, when the thieves, it appears, were likewise after papers, for they touched none of the things in the room, but opened the drawer in which Vandory kept his papers. Those papers have since been removed to Tengelyi's house; and the notary told me over and over again he was sure the two robberies were done by one and the same hand, and planned by the same head. By the bye," said Kalman after a pause, "do you happen to know any thing of Vandory's papers?"

"Who, I? Of course not. I've often wondered what important papers Vandory must have, since it seems there are people who wish to steal them."

"I understand," whispered young Kishlaki, "that his papers have something to do with your family."

"With my family?"

"Ay, you know your father had an elder brother by your grandfather's first wife. His second wife, your own grandmother, made the poor boy's life miserable."

"Yes, and he ran away!" said Akosh. "They told me all about it. It strikes me second wives don't do in the Rety family. But what connection is there between all this and Vandory's papers?"

"I understand that that poor fellow, your uncle, went to Germany, probably to some university; for he was seventeen when he ran away, and a good scholar, they say. Now I am told that Vandory knew your uncle, and that he still knows of his whereabouts; and, in short, that the papers refer to your lost uncle Rety."

"This is indeed strange!" said Akosh.

"You know how people will talk. Your father's friendship for Vandory, and the curate's power over him, which is even greater than his wife's influence, and a thousand other things, have made people believe that he must have some means of acting upon your father; yes, that he knows of something which it would not be convenient to tell to everybody; and since the attempted robbery, there is not a blockhead in the county but swears that there is something wrong somewhere."

"All I can say is, that this is a strange thing. Here we have two robberies in less than two months, evidently for the purpose of obtaining the papers; but then – "

Here the conversation was interrupted by Janosh, who entered with the surgeon of St. Vilmosh.

"There, sir! there's some ice to put on your arm, and here's the sawbones. Hell put things to right in no time."

The little man who was thus unceremoniously introduced as a "sawbones," cast an angry look at the hussar, walked up to his patient, examined the wound, and expressed his satisfaction with its appearance and condition; while Janosh, who always lost his temper when he saw anybody but himself administering to his master's comforts, gnashed his teeth, grumbling and discontented. He was wrong; for Mr. Sherer, a Magyar of German extraction, who had successively exercised and failed in the various callings of shoemaker and barber, and who had become a surgeon by dint of great boldness, and by the grace of a rich widow, who had lent him money to pay for his diploma, was deserving of any thing but indignation. On the contrary, he was a very amiable man, who, during the sixteen years he had lived at St. Vilmosh, had never given occasion for the slightest complaint to those who, like Janosh, had never been ill.

"A nice wound! very nice! Yes, on my honour, pretty indeed!" said Sherer. "On my word of honour, I never saw a prettier wound in my life."

"I wish you'd been in the wars," murmured Janosh, "you'd have seen something like wounds, I tell you!"

"What do you know about it?" replied Sherer, "you'd value a wound by its size. Now, on my word and honour, a large wound is not at all nice."

"No, indeed not. But a small wound is; one that heals without troubling the sawbones."

Doctor Sherer (for by that title he loved to be called) turned away and asked:

"How has it pleased you to sleep, sir?"

"Very well."

"And how do you feel?"

"Quite well."

"You don't feel excited?"

"Oh no! not by any means."

"Ay, perfect apirexy, which means want of fever?"

"I should say so."

"Perhaps you have some appetite?"

"Yes, I have."

"Did I not tell you so? Almond milk works wonders in such cases!"

Akosh smiled.

"Nobody can think what healing powers there are in almond milk. You are quite well, eh? quite comfortable?"

"Yes, I am."

"On my word and honour, I am sorry they did not call me sooner! I would have bled you."

"Why should you, since my master is well?"

"Hold your tongue! On my word and – I tell you that phlebotomy works wonders in such cases."

"The homœopathists never bleed people," said Akosh, with a degree of gravity which Kalman vainly attempted to imitate, when he saw the effect these words had upon the doctor.

"Homœopathists!" cried that learned person, with a grin of rage. "Well, and what do they do? do they give you emetics, tonics, and hot medicines? Did any of them ever give you jalappa, bark, antispasmodic, antiphlogistic, antirheumatic, and aromatic medicines? Cardus benedictus, Rhabarbara, Tartarus, Sal mirabile Glauberi?"

"Stop!" cried Kalman. "I am as sick as a dog!"

"Who ever heard of a homœopathist blistering or putting any other plaster on you? I'll not talk of poultices, issues, cupping, and hot baths. On my word and honour, what's a doctor good for if he can't even give you a paltry black draught, Elixirum Viennense?"

"True, doctor," said Akosh; "a patient, if treated homœopathically, must do without a multitude of enjoyments. The healing art ought, above all, – "

"To heal!" interrupted Sherer; "and it's the doctor's duty to try every drug at the chemist's, and to call other medical men to a consultation, until his patient's recovery – "

"Or death!" said Kalman.

"Bravo!" cried Janosh.

"Or death?" shrieked Doctor Sherer, highly disgusted. "On my word and honour, I tell you, gentlemen, a really good doctor saves nine patients out of ten; and if the tenth dies, why so much the worse, for I am sure he suffered from an old complaint, or he applied for advice when no doctor could do him good. But suppose the patient were to die, sir; can that circumstance, trifling I may call it, relieve the doctor from his duty to give him everything which the professors teach at the university? On my word and honour, sir! answer me that, sir, if you can!"

"Oh, I can't. But the homœopathists too have their medicines, and cure their patients."

"Of course they do," sneered the doctor; "but then Nature does it for them. Nature works wonders in many cases."

"But what does that signify if the patient recovers?"

"Yes, sir, it does matter. If you don't help Nature, it will over-exert itself, and do more harm than good."

"But when your patients get well, who knows whether Nature or you did it?"

"We, sir; we do; we who have been at the university for not less than five years, where our professors have told us that a patient will not recover unless we give him certain medicines. Those ignoramuses who know nothing of science, those homœopathists who know neither chemistry nor mineralogy, nor anthropophagy – anthropology I meant to say, they are always at their old tricks. Whenever we make a brilliant cure, they say that Nature has done it. But we know better! Why, on my word and honour, of what use would our studies at Pesth have been, if we did not know so much as that?"

"Certainly!" said Akosh. "What's the use of learning so many things if you know no more than anybody else?"

"True, sir; and catch a homœopathist with a bad case!" cried Sherer. "What does he do? He calls in an allopathist, as happened in the case of the old advocate at Dustbury."

"He died three days after he had fallen into the hands of the county physician," said Kalman. "I talked to the doctor who treated him first, and he told me that, seeing that the case was hopeless, and that the poor man's sufferings were great, he called in the county physician to finish him. The doctors of your class despatch people so quickly, you know."

This attack proved too strong for the surgeon's temper. He was convinced of the usefulness of his science, for that science gave him, as district surgeon, an annual income of three hundred florins, with the use of a house, not to mention fees, which were considerable. What Kalman said was to him worse than blasphemy; and unbounded were the disgust and scorn expressed in all his features, when he saw Janosh, radiant with joy, notifying his unqualified assent to, and approbation of, the jokes of young Kishlaki.

"Now is there a single grain of sense in all the doings of the homœopathists?" said he at length. "Suppose a man is ill. Suppose he has eaten a large quantity of Tarhonya, and he can't digest it. Now what does a homœopathist give him? On my honour and conscience, what else but the millionth part of a drop of camomile oil? Now all I want to know is, how you make it out? A large dish of Tarhonya and – "

"Of course," cried Kalman; "but I can't understand why bark should cure me when I have the fever from stuffing myself with cake or cabbage?"

"I don't see how you should understand it," said the surgeon, with a smile of conscious superiority. "You are ignorant of the science of medicine. But, on my word and honour, it's the simplest thing in nature! Bark has got a certain secret power against the fever; nothing more natural than this. God has made bark for us to cure the fever with."

"But why did not God, when he created sausages and cabbages in this country, which you know give us the fever, create bark likewise, since it's rather a long way from here to China?"

"All you can do is to talk!" said Mr. Sherer, shaking his head; "we cannot possibly converse with you on scientific subjects. But, now I'm sure, nobody will deny, that if a small dose can have any effect, the effect of a large dose must be still greater. If, therefore, the millionth part of a drop of camomile can do any good, I must do my patients more good still, because I give them three large cups of camomile tea; and this, after all, is the truth, for camomile tea, if you administer it in large quantities, works wonders."

"Why," said Kalman, "much depends on the quantity, I grant; but much depends likewise on the manner in which you administer the dose. Now Doctor, for instance, you may sit on a bundle of sticks, say for two hours and longer, without feeling greatly incommoded by the operation. But suppose a single stick be taken from the bundle, placed in the hand of – say of Janosh – and applied in a certain manner of his own, to a certain part of your own; I think, though the whole bundle did not cause any disagreeable sensations, yet the single stick – How do you think it would act, Janosh?" continued Kalman, turning to the hussar, who laughed immoderately.

"My opinion is, that it is all the same with the homœopathy and the – I forget how you call it; but faith, it matters very little! Our lives are in God's hands, and when a man's last day is not come, he won't die though you were to call in a hundred doctors."

There is no saying what Doctor Sherer would have said or done, (for he looked bistouris at the impertinent hussar,) had not Lady Rety entered the room and interrupted the conversation. No sooner did the man of science see her, than he hastened to kiss her hands, pouring forth a long speech about cold water and ice, almond milk, camomile tea, and the wonderful effects of each and all of these invaluable medicines.

Lady Rety was rather ill-tempered, and she showed it to the surgeon as well as to Kalman, who received her with a low bow. But Akosh had always great influence with his step-mother, and even now she treated him, if not kindly, at least with politeness. Sitting down by his bed-side, she asked him, with a great show of interest, how he felt.

Doctor Sherer and Janosh left the room. Kalman saw that his society was not wanted; he went to the other end of the room, opened the window, and looked down upon the garden. Lady Rety looked at Akosh. "Now you see," said she, with a low voice, "what comes of your running after women, instead of doing your duty at the election."

Akosh blushed, and said nothing.

"You need not blush. Vilma is pretty and – "

"My lady!"

But Lady Rety continued in the same tone.

"Vilma, I say, is a pretty woman; and as for you, young man, it would be too hard upon you if we would quarrel with you for taking what is freely offered. If the young woman does not care for her honour, why should you?"

"My lady!" said Akosh; "I entreat you, do not speak in this tone! Vilma – "

"Is a pretty woman," said the lady, with a sneer; "she is less correct than I thought she was, but that's her mother's affair, not mine. They over-educate these girls, and put strange fancies into their heads. Tengelyi ought to have known that such an education is not fit for a notary's daughter."

"Vilma is my betrothed," replied Akosh, who struggled manfully to keep his temper.

"Indeed?" said his step-mother, with a forced smile. "Pray how many fiancées has your sultanship got?"

"She is the first," said Akosh, calmly, "and, I swear it, she shall be my last."

Lady Rety cast her eyes down, and was silent.

"You talk wildly," said she at length, with her former gracious smile. "Only think, Vilma to be a Lady Rety, and after such a scene!"

"Vilma being, as I told you, my betrothed, there is nothing extraordinary in the whole occurrence."

"My father used to say to my brother, 'Whenever you marry, pray don't take a woman who prefers you to her honour; for such a woman is likely to prefer another man to her husband.'"

Akosh frowned. "I entreat you, don't rail at your own sex, by speaking in this manner of a virtuous girl."

"Of course she is a virtuous girl. Master Akosh says it, and he ought to know!"

"Do as you please! Why should you not be allowed to talk of your daughter-in-law in any terms you like best?"

"My daughter-in-law! Are you aware that Tengelyi's noble descent is a matter of doubt?"

"I know it; but when Vilma is my wife she does not want any proofs of nobility. To tell you the truth, that is another reason for me to marry her."

"Tengelyi protests that he has papers by which he can prove his descent – "

"He had the papers, but they are gone. The Tengelyis have no one to rely on but me!"

"But I understand," said Lady Rety, anxiously, "that the robbery did not take place, – that the robber did not get the papers."

"On the contrary," replied Akosh, watching her emotion; "they left the money, and took the papers."

Strive as she would, Lady Rety's face was radiant with joy.

"Who do you think is the thief?" said she.

Akosh, who had never once taken his eyes from her, said that everybody suspected Viola of the robbery. Lady Rety rose at once, saying she was called away by business of very great importance.

Kalman, who had listened to the last part of the conversation, looked greatly amazed. Akosh sat up and pondered for a few moments. At length he said: —

"Did you not tell me that Tengelyi suspects my mother of having hired the thief?"

"He said as much."

"And do you think that it was Viola who committed the robbery?"

"It was either Viola or the Jew. But no papers have been found upon the latter."

"Heaven knows I cannot bring myself to believe it," said Akosh, shaking his head. "But if Viola has the papers, I am sure he will return them."

"So he will, unless he has used them for wadding."

"Was it not you that told me of Viola's being seen with a certain Gulyash? Go to him at once, and promise any thing you like, to get the papers. This cursed wound of mine prevents my going to him, and yet it must be done. Make haste!"

Kalman had already seized his hat. "What a big fool I was, not to think of it!" cried he. "The Gulyash is sure to get us the papers."

Akosh remained in a gloomy and nervous state, which was at length interrupted by the appearance of Janosh, who told him that Lady Rety was closeted with Mr. Catspaw. Shortly afterwards the tramp of Kalman's horse was heard, as he left the Castle in a gallop, doing which he passed a carriage which the attorney was just about to enter.