Kitabı oku: «The Village Notary: A Romance of Hungarian Life», sayfa 6
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 protest9, 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.
"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 Cortes10 are about to make their appearance. I would not for the world lose the spectacle of their arrival."
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 Halljuk11! 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: —
"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!"
