The Village Notary: A Romance of Hungarian Life

"Don't make a fool of me, sir! I won't suffer it!" cried the justice, whose pipe had gone out with the excess of his rage. "Paul Skinner is not the man whom you can fool, I can tell you! But never mind; who knows what that fellow Peti has done all his life besides brick-making? and I apprehend that if he set out with being a hangman, he'll end with being a hanged man."

This said, the justice lighted his pipe, muttering his imprecations against untimely jokes and bad tinder.

Poor Peti had meanwhile proceeded to a distance of five hundred yards from the Turk's Hill; and so great was the good man's natural politeness, that even at that distance he bowed to the party on the hill. Little did he know the intensity of Paul Skinner's rage; but the first words of the worthy magistrate showed him that it was an evil hour, indeed, in which he had come before his judge.

"Hast at last gone into the snare, thou precious bird?" thundered Skinner. "Never mind, you old rascal! never mind! I'll pay you, and with a vengeance, too!"

"Most sublime – " sighed the wretched musician; but the justice, unmindful of this appeal to his better feelings, continued: —

"Hold your tongue! I know all! all, I tell you. And if you will not confess, I'll freshen your memory!"

"Most sublime Lord!" sighed Peti; "I am an innocent, poor, old man. I – "

"Dog!" retorted Mr. Skinner. "If you dare to bark, I'll pull your ears, that you shall not forget it to the day of judgment. Is it not horrible? the profligate fellow would give me the lie!"

"No, sweet, gracious Lord!" cried Peti, weeping; "I do not deny any thing, but – "

"It's better for you; at all events, we need not ask you any questions. The judge knows every thing." Turning to the Pandurs, Mr. Skinner added: "Now Janosh, tell me, what did you bring that culprit for?"

"Only because we have been told to arrest all suspicious characters."

"Ah!" cried Akosh, "and the old musician is a suspicious character! You are fine fellows, and ought to be promoted!"

"We'll see that by and by!" snarled Mr. Skinner. "Now tell us, Janosh, what is the old rascal's crime?"

"Why," said the Pandur, "the long and the short of it is, that it was about three o'clock, – was it not, Pishta? – after having had our dinner and rest at the Murder-Tsharda, we rode up to St. Vilmosh forest. We had been on our legs from an early hour this morning, and were apprehensive that we should not be able to obey his worship's orders about arresting at least one suspicious character, when Pishta spied a horseman near St. Vilmosh forest, and a man to whom he was talking. 'Suppose this is Viola,' said Pishta, who was just lighting his pipe. 'Ah, indeed! suppose this is Viola!' said I; and when I looked at the horseman, I thought it was – "

"Viola?" said Mr. Skinner, with a voice which left no doubt about the answer which he expected.

"I'm sure it was he, your worship," replied Janosh; "I'll bet any thing it was he."

"Now this fellow is short-sighted," interrupted Akosh; "I wonder how many robbers Pishta saw."

"We'll see that by and by!" said Mr. Skinner, angrily. "The devil may be a judge when robbers and vagabonds find such protection. Go on. What happened next? Did you see any thing more of the criminal?"

"How was it possible? We spurred our horses on, but the poor beasts were so tired they would not run; and when we came to the place, we found no one but the old gipsy, walking to St. Vilmosh."

"Well?" said the judge impatiently.

"Of course they handcuffed him, for who knows what outrage he might have committed if he had come to St. Vilmosh," cried Akosh. "They are the very fellows to be sent after robbers. They will soon starve all robbers, by preventing honest men from leaving their houses."

Old Peti saw that he had found a protector. Growing bolder, he asked to be freed from his handcuffs, and though the justice opposed, he yielded at length to the entreaties of Kalman, Akosh, and Vandory, though not without muttering something about "patibulandus" and "fautores criminum."

"And what happened when you came up with the gipsy?" said Mr. Skinner, again addressing the Pandurs. "Was there any thing very suspicious about the old hang-dog scoundrel?"

"There was indeed!" said Janosh, twirling his moustache. "When we came up with the gipsy, – which was rather late, for the old Moor ran very fast, – Pishta called out to him, at which he appeared frightened."

"Frightened?" said Mr. Skinner. "Frightened, indeed; I'd be glad to know the reason;" and the Clerk, shaking his head, added, "This is indeed suspicious!"

"Begging your lordship's pardon," cried the gipsy, "the gentlemen swore at me, and cocked their pistols, which made me believe that they were robbers."

"Hold your tongue, you cursed black dog! If you say another word, you shall have beating enough to last you a twelvemonth." Having thus mildly admonished the prisoner, Mr. Skinner proceeded with the "benevolum." "Go on, Janosh," said he.

And Janosh went on: "Upon this Pishta asked him, 'Where is Viola?' and he answered, 'I never saw him.'"

"But we saw him in conversation with Viola!" cried the second Pandur. "I said, 'Peti, you are a liar; we have seen you talking to Viola! and unless you confess it, we'll make you dance to a queer kind of music."

"What did the gipsy say to that?" asked the Clerk.

"He said he did not know who the horseman was, which made me angry; for your worship is aware that Peti knows every body. When he saw me angry, he wanted to run away."

"Oh, Goodness gracious!" cried the gipsy; "why should I not run away, when they fell to beating me, and offered to handcuff me?"

"An honest man," said Kenihazy sententiously, "cares not for handcuffs."

"I thought so too," quoth Janosh; "therefore, when we saw that he was indeed a criminal, we hunted him down, bound his hands, and took him to his worship."

"You did your duty," said Mr. Skinner. "Now take the old fox to my house. To-morrow we'll commit him to gaol."

"But," cried Peti, "I assure your worship I am as innocent as the babe unborn!"

"I dare say you are!" said the justice with a bitter sneer. "You don't know Viola, – of course you don't. Who shod Viola's horse? eh?"

"Yes, I do know him," sighed the gipsy; "but is it my fault that I lived in the same village with him Heaven knows how long! for Viola was the best man in the world before he fell into the hands of the County Court. I confess that I did shoe his horse; but what is an old man to do against robbers armed with sticks and pistols?"

"But why do the robbers come to you? Why don't they employ honest smiths?"

"I think," said Peti, quietly, "the robbers prefer coming to my house because I do not live in the village."

"And why do you not live in the village? you scarecrow!"

"Because, my lord, the sheriff will not allow the gipsies to live in the village since Barna Jantzi's house was burned. This is hard enough for an old man like myself."

Every one of these answers was, in Mr. Skinner's eyes, a violation of the judicial dignity. The best of us dislike being mistaken in our opinion as to the merit of our fellow men. We would rather pardon their weaknesses, than be brought to shame by their good qualities. No wonder then that Paul Skinner, whose knowledge of self had given him a very bad idea of his species, would never believe a man to be innocent, whom he once suspected of any crime. It is but natural that, in the present instance, he did all in his power to make the gipsy's guilt manifest.

"Never mind," said he, "I wonder whether you'll give yourself such airs when you are in my house; Viola too will be caught by to-morrow morning. Take him to my house, and don't let him escape, – else – "

Upon this the Pandurs prepared the handcuffs, when Akosh interfered, offering to be bail for the gipsy's appearance. Mr. Skinner, however, was but too happy to have his revenge for the jokes which the young man had made at his expense in the course of the interrogatory.

"You know I am always happy to oblige you," said he, "but in the present instance it is impossible. By to-morrow Viola will be caught, and it will be then found that this gipsy is one of his accomplices."

"If you keep Peti until Viola is caught," said Kalman Kishlaky, "you'll keep the poor fellow to the end of time."

"We'll see that!" sneered the justice. "All I say is, I am informed that he is to be at the Tsharda of Tissaret this very night. He'll find us prepared. We take the landlord and his family, bind them, and lock them up in the cellar, while the Pandurs, disguised as peasants, wait for him at the door. It is all arranged, I tell you."

"Of course always supposing Viola will come," said Akosh.

"This time he will come," replied Mr. Skinner with great dignity. "I have trusty spies."

Old Peti seemed greatly, and even painfully, struck with this intelligence. His brown face exhibited the lively interest he felt in Viola's danger; and his features were all but convulsed when he heard of the preparations for the capture of the robber. It was fortunate for him that his excitement was not remarked by any but Tengelyi; and when Mr. Skinner at length turned his searching eye upon his captive, he saw no trace of old Peti's emotions in his imploring attitude. The Pandurs were in the act of removing their prisoner, when the latter, turning to Akosh, said: —

"I most humbly intreat you, since I must go to prison, to tell my Lord, your father, that old Peti is in gaol, and that it is not my fault if the letters do not come to hand."

"What letters?" said Akosh.

"My Lord's letters, which he gave me," answered the gipsy, producing a packet from beneath the lining of his waistcoat, and handing it to Akosh. "I am my Lord's messenger; and I should not have been too late, for my lady promised me a present for taking these letters to St. Vilmosh before sunset, but for these – gentlemen, who caught me when I entered the forest."

Akosh took the letters, opened them, and, having perused their contents, he handed them to Mr. Skinner, who appeared not a little distressed after reading them.

"You've spoiled it," said Akosh in a low voice. "If you lose your election you have at least one comfort, namely, that you have defeated your own plans. With the three hundred votes from St. Vilmosh against you, you have not even a chance."

"I trust not," murmured Mr. Skinner; "I trust not. The men of St. Vilmosh – "

"Are by no means fond of you; and if they elect you, they do it to please their notary, who is, indeed, on my father's side; but Heaven knows how long! This morning we learned that Bantornyi's party were negotiating with him, but that they could not agree. My father writes these letters, promises to comply with all the notary's demands, and invites the St. Vilmosh gentry to come to him and pledge their votes. So far all is right. But you interfere with your Pandurs, you stop our messenger, and assist our enemies, who will by this time have repented of their stinginess."

"But who could have foreseen that your father would send an important message by a man like Peti?"

"Did not I tell you," said Akosh, evidently amused by the judge's perplexity, "that old Peti is our servant and messenger. Who would ever have thought of the sheriff's quick-footed gipsy being taken up and handcuffed?"

"It is true," said Mr. Skinner, despondingly. "But why didn't he speak? – why not mention the letters? Come here, you d – old rascal!" thundered the judge, who was one of those amiable men whose rage reaches the boiling point at a minute's notice, and whose words are most offensive when they ought to be most conciliating. "You dog! why did you not say that you were sent by the sheriff? I have a mind to give you two dozen – I have!"

The gipsy was aware of the favourable change in his prospects, and he replied, with considerable coolness, that the cruel treatment of the Pandurs had caused him to forget all about it; "besides," added he, "my lady told me not to show the letters to any one; and, moreover, I was sure my innocence would come to light."

"Your innocence! it is shocking," cried the justice, holding up his hands; "the fellow has a letter from the sheriff in his pocket, and the blockhead relies on his innocence! Here are your letters; – go! – run! – and woe to you if the letters come too late to St. Vilmosh!"

The gipsy nodded his head, and hastened in the direction of St. Vilmosh! He was scarcely gone, when Mr. Skinner vented his passion upon the Pandurs. He expressed his astonishment, intermixed with curses, at the impertinence of these worthy men for having caught the sheriff's gipsy; and when they appealed to Mr. Kenihazy, all the comfort they received was a gentle hint of certain misgivings that gentleman entertained respecting their being suffered to go at large. Akosh and the rest of the company were amused with Mr. Skinner's violence and the agility of the gipsy, who every now and then looked back, and ran the quicker afterwards. The notary and the clergyman remained serious: and when the party had left, and neither the merry laugh of Akosh nor Skinner's ever-ready curses fell upon their ear, Tengelyi turned to his friend, saying, "Do you still think that hare-hunting is the cruellest pastime of these gentlemen?"

"No, indeed!" sighed Vandory; "and to think that these men are public functionaries, and that the weal and woe of thousands is in their hands!"

"Ha!" cried Tengelyi, turning round, and directing the attention of his friend to a dark point which moved over the vast expanse of the heath, "is not that our gipsy?"

"Yes; but he runs rather in a line with us, instead of to St. Vilmosh."

"So it seems," said Tengelyi, "and for once the sheriff's orders will not be obeyed. Perhaps he is bribed by the other party; but who knows? Skinner may be right, and Peti is leagued with Viola. In that case he is now on his way to inform the outlaw of what the judge most wisely communicated to him, for I am sure that gipsy does not run so fast without good cause. But what does it matter to us?"

And the two friends returned to the village.

CHAP. II

On a ridge of the Carpathian mountains, where, gradually lessening, they descend to the green Hungarian plain, lies the village of Bard, amidst meadow land, forests, and vineyards. Its situation is most pleasant, though lonely; and, removed as it is from the busy high road and the means of traffic and communication, the village is both unknown and poor. About fifty years ago, there lived in this village Esaias Tengelyi, the curate of Bard, and father to Jonas Tengelyi, whom we mentioned as notary of Tissaret. The life of Esaias Tengelyi passed peaceably and unnoticed, like the place in which he exercised his sacred calling, or the valley and the mountain side which sheltered his humble cottage. The condition of the Reformed Church in Hungary does not by any means deserve the epithet of "brilliant," even in our own days; but the present village pastors are most enviably situated in comparison to their brethren of fifty years ago. Still the life of the Reverend Esaias Tengelyi, though full of privations, was rich in enjoyment. He loved his cottage, its straw-covered roof, and the brown rafters of its ceiling. Sometimes, indeed, he wished to have the windows of his room a little larger, – and he went even so far as to take the resolution of administering, at his own expense, to this drawback to the comforts of his home. The huge stove, too, which served also the purpose of an oven, made his room preposterously small, and on baking days it threw out a greater quantity of heat than was consistent with comfort. The neighbouring curates, whenever they came to pay their respects to the Reverend Esaias, were violent in their strictures upon the parish of Bard, for neglecting to provide their pastor's study with a decent flooring: nay, more, the good man was seriously reproved, and earnestly adjured to follow the example of his brethren in office, who had successfully petitioned the Synod respecting the gross indecency of pastoral clay floors. But Tengelyi could not be moved to stir in behalf of his house: perhaps he liked it better as it was. Its windows were indeed small; but then he had often sat by them reading the Scriptures; and they had seen the roses on his wife's cheek. The stove was large, – of course it was, – but in winter it offered a convenient and warm seat; and the clay floor of his study was the same on which his father's feet had trod, when he was meditating his sermons, while the son made his first attempt to stand on a pair of trembling little legs. After all, there was nothing like the window, the stove, and the floor, for a countless number of sweet and tender emotions were connected with them. Esaias Tengelyi was happy; he felt that the largest window, that the smallest stove, and the most splendid floor of old oak, could not add to his happiness.

But that happiness could be lessened. The pastor's wife died, and the heart which had harboured so much bliss was henceforth the home of bitter sorrow. Tengelyi gave no words to his anguish, nor did he strive to add to or lessen his grief; but his friends felt that time was as nothing to the sorrow of his heart, and that his hopes and wishes were not on this side of the grave. His little son, Jonas, was the only tie which bound the old pastor to the world. The boy was but four years of age when his mother died; what would become of him, if he were also bereft of his father? People have scarcely a heart for their own children; how then is an orphan to fare for love? And the boy was most beautiful, when he cast his deep blue eyes upwards to the father's sad face! His voice had the tones of that dear voice which taught him his first words; his yellow locks were smooth and orderly, as if fresh from his mother's hands; – what was to become of the child on this wide earth, and with no kindred, but his parents in the grave? Tengelyi would not be comforted, but a sense of his duty kept him alive.

Little Jonas throve under his father's care. He knew not what it was to be motherless in this world, where the heart finds that trusty, faithful love it yearns for, only at a mother's breast. A child's heart is a little treasury of joy, and there is no room in it for great griefs. In the first days after the event, little Jonas called for his mother, and receiving no answer from that mild, loving voice, he sat down and wept his fill; in the night he dreamed of her, and lisped her name. But as time wore on, his mother's name was rarely mentioned, and when spring came, with its flowers, her memory passed away like the distant notes of a song. All this was natural. Children are most enviable, because they are most forgetful. A thousand flowers are blooming round a child: why should it ponder on the sorrows of the past? A thousand melodies flit around it, and the young heart leaps to them: it has no ear for the sad accents of distant love.

Thus did the first years pass away. When Jonas had completed his eighth year, his father commenced his education. The old pastor's plan was extremely simple. He made the child ask questions, and answered them in a manner which was at once explicit and adapted to the boy's capacities. He had no idea of making his son a phenomenon; on the contrary, he did all in his power to limit his mental activity to a narrow circle, to prevent his being confused by a variety of subjects. The classical languages, as far as Jonas could understand them, and the rudiments of natural and political history, were all that old Esaias taught his son; they were all he thought necessary for that son's future vocation.

For old Tengelyi, like the majority of fathers, had already chosen a profession for his son, and though, on consideration, he would have shrunk from the idea of forcing anybody, and much less his own boy, into a career which might be repugnant to his tastes, still, when he thought of his child's future life, he could not possibly fancy that his son should wish for any thing besides the curacy of Bard. Old Tengelyi had himself followed his father in that sacred office. It was so natural to think that he in his turn would be followed by his son. But while the father was thus tracing out his future career, and planting in the garden, besides improving the house, as he thought, for the child of his heart, the boy Jonas Tengelyi anticipated other scenes and a different sphere of action. The poor curate's library contained but few books, but among them was a great treasure; namely, a copy of Plutarch – a relic of college life, with a portrait of the hero to each biography. This illustrated copy of Plutarch was the only book of its kind in the vicarage, and indeed in the village of Bard. Jonas passed many hours in looking at the solemn faces of the classic heroes, nor was it long before he knew all their names and actions; and though the old pastor regretted that the book was not an illustrated Bible, by which means he might impress upon his boy's mind the history and the deeds of the heroes of our faith, still his heart grew big with joy when the child expatiated on the virtues of Aristides, or (his little cheeks glowing all the while) told of the death of Leonidas and Socrates. And old Esaias blessed the pagan author who wrote the book, and the college-chum who made him a present of it, and even the very printer who had produced it. The whole future life of Jonas was influenced by these early lessons; and though the milder doctrines of Christianity made a deep impression on his heart, yet his mind would always return to the models of classic excellence. His sympathies were all with the heroes of Plutarch.

At times, when old Tengelyi was from home, Jonas would follow his fancies through the dark shades of the woods. He would sit on the ruins of Bard Castle, looking at the forest-clad mountains and the wide distant plain, and there he sat and pondered until the sun went down and the evening breeze woke him from his dreams. There he was happy; for there is no greater happiness than the delight which a pure heart feels when thinking of great deeds and generous men. The childhood of nations and individuals idolises all heroes, and thus did Jonas.

A child's perceptions of distance are very weak: it is the same in the moral world. Children try to grasp any shining bauble which strikes their eyes, no matter whether far or near. Life has not yet taught them to wait, to plod, and perhaps to be disappointed. The boy is equally ignorant of the bitter truth, that there is usually but one road which leads to the high places of this world, and that the ascent, though easy to some, is impossible to others, for from where they stand there is no path which leads to the top. And yet how closely is our boyish admiration of a great man allied to the idea that he is our example and our hope! Children, when isolated, – that is to say, when they are deprived of the society of other children, – are apt to become dreamers: and this was young Tengelyi's case. His dreams were of a dangerous kind, and his conversation was such that his hearers became convinced of fate having destined that boy to be either very great or very wretched.

Old Esaias did not indeed suffer from these apprehensions. His son's enthusiasm, his hatred of tyranny, his love of his kind, proved nothing to old Tengelyi but that Jonas would turn out a first-rate village pastor. He never dreamt of this enthusiasm being applied to other purposes than those of the pulpit; and he did all in his power to develop the talents of so hopeful a preacher. He enlarged on the sufferings of the poor and the cruelty of the rich; on the equality of mankind before God, and the duties we owe to our fellow men.

In the course of time Jonas was sent to school at Debrezin. Though he was only thirteen, his character was already formed. His was a boundless enthusiasm for all things noble and generous; his was an equally boundless hate against all that is mean; his was the daring which is ever ready to oppose injustice with words and with deeds; and his was that austerity of principle which is apt to make a man unjust. In short, poor Jonas would have proved a model man in Utopia. In our own civilised society, the excess of his good qualities was likely to cause him to be shunned, if not hated. Nevertheless he was popular with the masters and the boys; and the happiest years of his life were spent in the dull routine of a public school. The masters admired his ambition, and the rapid progress it caused him to make; and though he seldom condescended to join in the plays and athletic exercises of his comrades, they paid a free tribute of admiration to his love of justice and his courage. His studies delighted him, for his soul yearned for knowledge. Jonas was indeed happy!