The Village Notary: A Romance of Hungarian Life

"Poor, poor woman!" said Mrs. Ershebet, drying her tears.

"A proud woman I was then!" cried Susi, "ay! a proud woman indeed, and a happy one! The whole world seemed to me one large marriage feast; my happiness took away my breath, and I could have wept at any moment. But that was nothing to my happiness in my husband's house, and when our first child was born, and we had to take care of our little Pishta. Oh! and God blessed our house and our fields; and our cattle were healthy, and our wheat was the finest in the county. There's many a bride enters her husband's house with a happy heart; but I, proud woman, thought each day more blessed than the last, nor did I ever think of my wedding-day, I was so happy!"

Her heart was oppressed with the reminiscences of the past. For some moments she did not speak; and when she continued, it was with a hoarse and low voice, as though that breast of hers had not breath enough to tell the tale of her woe.

"And then, you see," said she, "it breaks my heart to think that all is lost now. We were not overbearing in our happiness. We never offended anybody. My husband paid his taxes and rates, and served his fifty-two robot-days; he was kind to the poor – ay, very good and kind, for God had blessed us. He was wealthy; but then he was but a peasant, and among the gentry there were those that hated him. The attorney – may the Lord find him!" said Susi, shaking her fist, "he hated my husband, for he was the speaker of the other peasants when they had a complaint to make. And the justice too swore he'd have his revenge, for he wanted to go after me; but I, as an honest woman, told him to leave my house, as it was my duty to do. I was always anxious lest something might come of it, though my husband told me we had no reason to fear either the attorney or the justice, so long as he did his duty. But the gentry plot together, and a poor man's innocence cannot protect him from their revenge. It's now two years since I was brought to bed with a little daughter. Early that morning I was in a bad way: – my husband was with me, and so were you, Liptaka, when the attorney sent to us – I think the midwife had told him about the way I was in – to order Viola to take four horses to the Castle, and drive my lady to Dustbury. My husband spoke to the haiduk; he said he could not go that day, and that his horses had done more service that year than those of any of the other peasants; but that he would be glad to go any other day. And we thought all was well; but the haiduk came back, saying that my husband must do his duty, and that he must come, for that he had the best horses in the village. Viola was angry, but I entreated him to send the servant with the horses, which he did, though reluctantly, because he did not like to trust them with a stranger. But my travail had just begun, when the haiduk came back with the servant, saying that Viola must come, for my lady was afraid of anybody else driving. And Viola saw my sufferings, and knew that I wanted him to be near me; he said they might do as they pleased, it was enough that he had sent the horses, and he wouldn't stir from the spot – no! not for the king's own son. But the haiduk said, he'd do the same if it was his own case; yet, for all that, he would advise my husband to go, considering that the justice was at the Castle, who had sworn an oath that he'd have him brought up per force; so he'd better look to the end of it. Now my husband is violent, and at times obstinate; he sent word to the justice that he had done his robot for that year, and he wouldn't go to save his soul from perdition. The haiduk went away, and after that I know not what happened, for I got so faint I could neither hear nor see; but the neighbours and the Liptaka tell me that the justice came with his men, cursing and abusing Viola, whom they bound, while I lay bereft of my senses, and dragged him to the Castle!"

"It's quite true!" cried the Liptaka; "yes! it's quite true. I followed them as they led Viola away. It was a fearful sight, I tell you; he refused to walk, and cast himself on the ground; he was so angry! and Mr. Skinner dragged him away as you would a pig. Every body was horrified, and all the people from the village wept and followed them, though none dared to help him. But we wept in our minds, and murmured when they beat him, poor innocent fellow! because he would not walk – for beat him they did with sticks and fokosh, while the judge walked along with many fearful oaths and threats. And when we came to the house, the justice examined the haiduk before us, asking him whether he had been at Viola's, and told him that he was summoned to service, and what Viola had said, and Lord knows what besides! and at last he said, 'I'll tie you up for it, my fine fellow!' and sent for the deresh17; for he said, 'I'll serve you out for contempt of the county.' And he said, 'Lash him to the deresh.' Now Viola stood among the Pandurs; and though I were to live a hundred years, I'd never forget what a sight it was when he stood in the yard, with his head and face covered with blood, and his lips blue with biting them! They had untied his hands to lash him down; and when he was in the yard, he tore away from the haiduks and made a leap like a lion, shouting, 'Stand back, every man of you!' And they stood back; but that incarnate devil, Skinner, cursed them, and swore he'd kill them if they did not tie him down. They made a rush to seize him. But Viola caught up an axe which had been used for woodcutting, and which the devil put in his way. He seized the axe and spun it round, and two of the fellows fell weltering in their blood. Oh! and he raised the bloody axe, and rushing through them, he ran home, got a horse, and rode off to the St. Vilmosh forest. One of the men he had struck died of his wounds, and Viola has been an outlaw ever since."

"And a robber ever since that day!" cried Susi, wringing her hands. "May God bless you, Mrs. Tengelyi, for what you did for me and my poor children! I'll go now and try to find my husband. If he knows aught of the stolen things, or if he can trace them, you need not fear: Mr. Tengelyi shall not lose his property."

"What are you about?" said Mrs. Ershebet; "do you think I will let you go in this way?"

"Don't be afraid!" cried Susi, with a bitter smile. "I'm sure to come back! I leave you my children; and though I am a robber's wife, trust me, I'll never leave my children."

"I did not mean that, Susi," replied Mrs. Ershebet, holding out her hand; "but you are still in bad health, and to walk about in this cold weather cannot be good for you."

"Thank you, but I'm pretty well now. The air of the heath will do me good. But stay here I cannot. You suspect Viola; I know you do. The Jew accuses him, and so do others. He was in the village – there's no denying that! His bunda has been found in this room. Everything is against him, and people cannot know that it was quite impossible for him to do that of which they accuse him. It's a dark matter, but I will have it cleared up. I'd die if I were to remain here and listen to all the horrid things they are sure to speak of my husband." And Susi turned to leave the room.

"Poor woman!" sighed Mrs. Ershebet. "She, at least, deserves a better fate!"

Susi had reached the door, but when she heard these words she turned round and cried. "A better fate? Trust me, if I were to be born again, and if I were to know all that has happened to Viola, still I would not have another husband. If they hang him, I'll sit down under the gallows, thanking God that I was his wife. There is not such another heart on the earth as his. But, adieu! and may God bless you!"

"I am sure," said Vandory, looking after her, "that Viola had no hand in this matter. A man who goes on for eight years loving his wife in this manner cannot act meanly and disgracefully!"

He had scarcely said these words when Tengelyi entered the room, exclaiming, "Is it true that there has been a robbery committed here?"

"Only the safe was forced open," replied Mrs. Ershebet, trembling; "the other parts of – "

"The safe? Give me the keys! Where are the keys?"

"I dare say they are in your desk. But the safe is open."

Tengelyi hastened up to the place, and throwing open the lid, he bent down and turned the papers about, while his wife and Vandory stood by silent and anxious. The fearful contraction of his features showed them the extent of his loss. At length he rose, and throwing himself back in his chair, he covered his face with his hands. "I am lost!" muttered he. "My papers are gone – I am a ruined man!"

Mrs. Ershebet and Vandory did all in their power to take off the first sharp edge of his sorrow; but what they said was unheeded by him.

"Right? It's all right," said Tengelyi; "the papers only are lost, are they? Oh! I know it. You found the money all safe – it lay here close to the door – did it not? But do you know, woman, that we are no longer noble! We and our children are not noble! We are peasants! – things to be despised, to be kicked, to be trodden under foot, things that have no property, and that can have no merits, things like those which inhabit the hovels around us. They are not aliens, because they were born here; but still they have no rights, no property, and no country!" And, turning to Vandory, the notary told him all that had happened at Dustbury; adding, "Now you know it all. They ask for proofs of my noble descent. I came from another county; my father, in his position as a curate, had little cause to care for his nobility; nobody ever doubted my rights, and I thought it was quite superfluous to have my title proclaimed in this county; and now my papers and patents are lost! Alas! my poor son!"

"Jonas," said Vandory, "you know that I too have had a loss. You know the extent of that loss, and how likely it is to affect those things which I care most about in this world. You understand me! But let us place our trust in God."

"You have no children! Is there any son of yours the worse off for what you have lost?"

"I understand you, and believe me I feel for you. My sympathy would certainly be greater, if you were indeed deprived of your rights as a nobleman. But is there no hope? Those papers are of no use to him who stole them. He will send and ask a certain price for them. But suppose he did not, cannot you prove that your papers were stolen, and that you and your father enjoyed all the privileges of nobility? Besides, you can make an appeal to the king's grace."

"The king's grace for me, a poor village notary?"

"Why not? If we do not find your papers, I myself will go to Vienna. I will kneel before the king's majesty, and state the case to him. The county is sure to send a petition, and I'll tell the king that you have a family, and that you are wretched for their sake. God has made the king so rich and so powerful – he has surely given him a feeling heart, and a sense of pity and compassion for those that suffer."

"Friend," said Tengelyi, impatiently, "you are as mad as any optimist I ever met with. The county, you say, is sure to petition in my favour? Don't you see that there is a purpose in this robbery? – that it is part of a plot to ruin me? and of a plot, too, which those very gentlemen have made who, you fondly believe, are sure to petition in my favour? Or do you think it's chance that my noble descent, which no one ever doubted, is publicly denied at the very time that my papers are stolen? Or was the composition of the commission accidental? Or was it an accident that no one told me I should be called upon to prove my nobility? Is all this mere chance and accident? Oh! you would not say so, if you had seen that fellow Catspaw as he stood by the table sneering at me! I am a victim to their diabolical plots! Viola is but their tool. I'm down, never to rise again!"

"For God's sake, Jonas!" cried Mrs. Ershebet, seizing her husband's hand; "my heart is ready to break when I see you thus desponding. Think of the past! – think of all our sorrows and troubles! – did we not often all but despair, when – "

Tengelyi's face bore the impress of the deepest agony. He pressed his wife's hand, and asked with a low and tremulous voice, – "What is it that has happened to Vilma?"

Her cheek grew pale, and her voice failed her.

"Ershebet!" gasped the notary; "what has become of my daughter?"

But Ershebet, scared by the expression of his face, was silent. Vandory searched vainly for words to inform his friend of what had happened.

"I see!" said Tengelyi, pushing back her hand, which trembled in his. "They told me the truth – nothing but the truth! My daughter's honour is lost!"

Ershebet wept. Vandory said all he could say. He talked of young Rety's honourable intentions, – of the love of young people, – and that it was quite ridiculous to think of any violation of honour. Tengelyi stood pale and stern. His lips moved, but they had not a word of comfort for Mrs. Ershebet.

"Of course," murmured he, with a bitter smile, – "of course it's all arranged – it's all for the best; – no doubt of it; – I am to have back my nobility, and my daughter her honour. You, Vandory, you go to Vienna, and his majesty gives us all we demand. The king indeed is a fountain of honour, but do you think he can patch up a woman's reputation?"

Again Vandory attempted to demonstrate that there was no reason why Akosh should not have met Vilma in her mother's presence, and that he had sought the house with truly honourable intentions.

"But did he come to the house as an honourable man would?" asked Tengelyi; "did he not leave Dustbury in secret and in the dead of the night? Did he not tie his horse to the garden gate and creep to my house just for all the world as if he were a thief? After this, who will be fool enough to believe in his honourable intentions?"

"The future will prove them," said Vandory, quietly. "Who will dare to speak against Vilma when she changes her name to Rety?"

"When she changes her name to Rety – that's it! isn't it, wife?" said Tengelyi, turning fiercely upon Ershebet; "and it is you who wish it, and it is you who I dare say are happy that things have happened as they did, and that Akosh is bound. But are you aware that you have worked your daughter's ruin? Are you aware that she will curse you for having sacrificed her happiness to your vanity? Is my daughter to be Lady Rety because she is dishonoured? because you have got Akosh in a corner. They'll scorn her in her husband's house! She will have no position, having lost the one which became her! She will be a slave! a wife by her husband's charity! To see her will remind him of his having been bound to marry her, but not of the love which made her his. I tell you, you have ruined your own child!"

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?"