The Village Notary: A Romance of Hungarian Life

"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.

NOTES TO VOL. I

Note I.

COURTS-MARTIAL

The Statarium of the old Hungarian law is not exactly what is known in other European countries under the name of court-martial, though it has some affinity with that institution. Whenever housebreaking, highway robberies, and arson were rife in any of the Hungarian counties, the Palatine was empowered to give them the right of statarium for any term of months not exceeding one year, for the more efficient prevention of crime, and for the apprehension and punishment of the malefactors.

The Statarium, as an exceptional court, was composed of seven judges, who were appointed for the year, and empowered to take cognizance of and give judgment in any cases of robbery and arson that were committed in the county, provided always that the culprit was taken "in flagranti delicto," or "in continuâ persecutione," either in the act or immediately after, he being incessantly pursued all the while. In these cases the court gave summary judgment without appeal, and the only verdict they were empowered to pronounce was a capital sentence. The culprit, if convicted, was hanged on the spot.

To make out a conviction, it was necessary that all the judges should agree. A single dissentient voice was enough to overthrow the verdict and to bring the culprit within the jurisdiction of the ordinary courts.

The minutes of the proceedings of the courts-martial, and the depositions of the witnesses, were sent to the Palatine, and examined by a commissioner; and the judges of the Statarium were responsible for each case.

It was moreover an old popular prejudice, that a prisoner ought not to be "roofed," that is to say, that he ought not to be confined in a gaol or house, if he was to be judged by a Statarium. In compliance with this prejudice, which, however, had no foundation in the laws of Hungary, the culprits were usually chained to a post in the open air.

Note II.

JAROMIR AND ANGYALBANDI

The name of Jaromir, the Bohemian brigand, is probably known to the readers of German romances of the last thirty years. The story of his noble descent, guilty love, and wretched end, no matter whether a mere fiction or founded on facts, has been handed down through successive generations. The adventures of Jaromir obtained their acmé of popularity by Grillparzer's drama, "Die Ahnfrau," and by the lines, —

"Ja, ich bin's den du genannt!Bin's den jene Häscher suchen,Bin's dem alle Lippen fluchen!Der in des Bauers Nachtgebet,Hart, nahe an dem Teufel steht.* * * * *Ich bin der Räuber, Jaromir!"

Angyalbandi is a much more real personage than Jaromir. The facts of his case are of less dramatic interest, though certainly of greater truth, than the adventures of the Bohemian robber and his bride.

The name of Angyalbandi, for many years the terror of all the landed proprietors in Upper Hungary, was a nomme de guerre, which covered the aristocratic and truly respectable name of the Onodys. A member of that family, the Baron Onody, was so strongly gifted with those roving and robbing propensities which distinguished his Scythian ancestors, that he would leave his country seat near Mishkolz for days and weeks together, for the purpose of cattle-stealing. His talents in that line, his strength, activity, and boldness, filled the whole country with fear; and no nobleman or peasant thought his flocks safe from Angyalbandi's depredations, for the robber foiled all watchfulness and outran all pursuit. It so happened, in one of his expeditions, that he fell in with some fine horses near Debrezin; but his attempt to carry them off was discovered, the tocsin was sounded, and the chase commenced. Angyalbandi fled, and with the same horse he swam through the Theiss and the Danube – a feat which his pursuers did not care to imitate. After a long and successful career, Baron Onody was at length suspected, and his identity with Angyalbandi was established on the occasion of some business which he transacted at Kashau. His privilege of nobility saved him from incarceration, for as he had not been discovered "in flagranti," he was admitted to bail. While his process was under the consideration of the High Court, Mr. Atzel, the judge advocate, had an accident on the road near Mishkolz. His carriage was overturned, and the axletree broken.

Mr. Atzel and his servants called for help, and, seeing a gentleman approaching in the distance, they walked up to him, and asked him to assist them in finding a wheelwright. He informed them that no wheelwright was to be found in that part of the country; "but," added he, "never mind; I will give my orders, and see your carriage taken to Mishkolz, where they will put it to rights. Come to my house, and stay with me."

"Indeed," said Mr. Atzel, "I'm very much obliged to you. I would not pass a night in one of your wretched village inns on any consideration; but to stay at a gentleman's seat is a different thing altogether. Are your servants well armed?"

"We have got some rifles, though there is little chance of using them. I am afraid you are a nervous subject, sir. Perhaps you are not accustomed to this part of the country?"

"Indeed I am not! I know it only from its bad reputation. And, of all men, I am in the greatest danger in this county, for I understand it is somewhere hereabout that Baron Onody lives. His case is in my hands, and I hope to get a verdict against him, and see him hanged."

"Indeed? Do you know Baron Onody?"

"By no means," replied Mr. Atzel; "nor do I wish for his acquaintance."

"'Tis a pity, for you might make it with the greatest ease. He lives close by. Do you see that house on the hill? It's one of his farms."

"For God's sake, sir!" cried the lawyer, "let us make haste to your house and to your rifles. If Onody knew I was so near him, he would spare me as little as I intend to spare him!"

Thus urged, the stranger led Mr. Atzel to his house; supper was served, and the two men talked of Onody, his robberies, and the politics of the county, till a late hour, when the stranger rose, and, addressing his guest, "Mr. Atzel," said he, "from all you have told me, I see that you have a worse opinion of that poor fellow Onody than I have. He – "

"He's a vagabond, sir! a disgrace to his station – "

"Pray don't be personal, sir! I am the Baron Onody!"

Nothing can equal the dismay of the poor judge advocate. His host continued:

"I am not half so bad as you believe me to be. You've told me I can expect no mercy at your hands. You've sworn to my face that you will not rest until you see me hanged. Now I would not hurt you, though I could. You've had your supper. You will have a good bed to sleep in, and a breakfast in the morning. I will send you to Mishkolz with my own horses. That's what I, Onody or Angyalbandi the robber, do to you. Now consider what are your intentions towards me, and tell me which is the worse man?"

Mr. Atzel was silent. We need not say that he passed a sleepless night, and that he congratulated himself on his good fortune when he was safe in Kashau. But so great was the impression which Onody's generosity had made upon him, that he exerted himself to the utmost to influence the Court in the culprit's favour; and the result was, that Baron Onody, instead of receiving a capital sentence, was condemned to twelve months' confinement in the county gaol of Kashau. His term of imprisonment over, he returned to his seat near Mishkolz, where he lived quietly and honestly, without ever stirring from his own estates; "lest," as he used to say, "the sight of some fine oxen or horses might again tempt him to a robber's life."

Note III.

ACTIO

The Hungarian law has certain provisions for the purpose of limiting and regulating the liberty of speech of political and judicial assemblies. A speaker who oversteps the limits of decency, or who indulges in personal abuse, is punished by the infliction of a fine of twenty-five florins. If he is not able to pay the amount of the fine on the spot, he is at liberty to leave his ring or his sword as a pledge, and to redeem them by the payment of eighty florins. The person who decides on a breach of order is the Recorder of the county; but when a speaker is very offensive, the person or persons aggrieved signify their wish for the Recorder's interference by loud cries of "Actio! Actio!"

Note IV.

NAGYIDAI NOTA

The song of Nagyida. Nagyida is a small fortress in Hungary which, during the insurrection of Rakotzi, was garrisoned by a troop of gipsies, who defended it against an Austrian corps, and whose patriotic devotion was proof against the bribes and the attacks of the Austrian besieging army. Reduced at length to great distress, and without victuals and ammunition, the gipsies made so violent and bold a sortie from their fortress, that they broke through and routed the ranks of the Imperialists.