The Village Notary: A Romance of Hungarian Life

We do not mean to plead in defence of the cynical views which we have just expressed. Bitter thoughts will press to the surface of our heart when we ponder on the pride, pomp, and circumstance of life, and the utter oblivion to which we fall a prey after our surviving friends have paid us what they significantly call "the last honours." But still, as there is an exception to every rule, we must admit that the people of Dustbury were neither unmindful of Lady Rety's death, nor forgetful of it; at least not in the first fortnight after the event. The most noble the Lady Rety was a person of great importance. Her decease would have attracted attention under any circumstances. That a lady of rank and property, the head of an excellent table, and the owner of a splendid wardrobe, should depart this life, is shocking, even if she takes that step with all due formality, and with the assistance and advice of half-a-dozen physicians. But Lady Rety's case was far worse. Dr. Letemdy had indeed been called in, but at a time when his help and co-operation was quite out of the question; and his professional learning was of no avail, except in enabling him to protest that the most noble lady might have been saved, if greater despatch had been employed in soliciting his presence. Mr. Sherer, who was likewise on the spot, asserted his conviction that the draught of which Lady Rety died must have been any thing but sugar water, and that almond milk might have saved her life, if she had not died before he could offer that miraculous medicine. But the fact remained unaltered. Lady Rety had taken poison. The medical men in the county of Takshony had a just title to complain of this encroachment upon their legal sphere of action, and the people of Dustbury were equally justified in their laudable and charitable endeavours to discover the secret causes of this shocking occurrence.

Rety's family and friends would have it that the accident was occasioned by a mistake. Lady Rety, they said, was in the habit of taking magnesia, which she kept in a drawer where she had some time previously placed a bottle of arsenic for the purpose of killing rats. In the twilight of evening she had taken the poison instead of the drug; and this – the Retys protested – was the cause of the terrible catastrophe. But explanations of this kind are by no means palatable to the understanding of the crowd. The Dustbury gentry would not, and could not, credit any thing like a simple story. They all and each launched into the boundless realms of surmise and speculation, and in their praiseworthy endeavours to make out a substantial and shocking account of Lady Rety's death, they were eagerly assisted by Julia, who had been all but an eye-witness of the decease of her mistress. Julia gave so interesting an account of the sadness and despondency to which her lady had of late been a victim, and of her extraordinary behaviour on the last day of her life, that all her hearers relinquished any doubts which they might have entertained, for the firm and (under the circumstances) comfortable conviction of Lady Rety's suicide. But as for the cause of that step, it remained a secret and a mystery to the gossips of the town of Dustbury.

The sheriff made no allusion to the cause of his wife's death. The most watchful sympathy or curiosity could not trace home to him any word or action that could have strengthened or confirmed any of the various surmises and rumours which were afloat on the subject. The cause of Lady Rety's suicide remained an open question. Perhaps it was attributable to temporary insanity; perhaps she had been urged to that desperate step by the conviction of her inability to prevent her son's union with Vilma Tengelyi, and she preferred death to certain shame; or perhaps the sheriff had driven his wife to despair (the ladies of Dustbury were very eloquent on this last hypothesis) by a concentration of matrimonial brutalities; for what woman is a stranger to martyrdom? Certain it is that none of Mr. Rety's words or looks could be adduced as an authority for all or any of the above surmises. Still, those who knew him became aware of the deep impression which the death of his wife had made on his mind.

His sorrow was not indeed caused by a return to the old love of days long gone by. The flowers of love have indeed been known to luxuriate in the soil of a churchyard, especially in the case of couples whose matrimonial doings did not present that edifying spectacle of love, honour, and obedience, which is inculcated by, and which is so rarely to be met with out of, the catechism. Mr. Rety had had too deep an insight into his wife's character to lament his loss. His grief was the growth, not of affection, but of remorse. He accused himself for being the cause of the misfortunes he saw around him. A letter was found on her table, which the miserable woman had addressed to him; and in which she reproached him as the cause of her unfortunate life and wretched end. And was not this accusation well-founded? Could Rety look back upon the past without feeling that the events to which his wife fell a victim, were brought about by his own culpable weakness. If he had candidly told her of his relationship to Vandory, she would perhaps have refused to marry him; or if she had, she would have been resigned to the idea that the curate was her husband's brother, but she never would have thought of committing the crime to which her evil spirit had urged her. Rety's weakness and indulgence had made her the woman she was; his dislike and aversion drove her to that desperate step which she would never have taken, if she could have hoped for the sympathy and protection of her husband. Thoughts like these filled Rety's mind with bitter grief, which not even Vandory's gentle words could assuage.

The Jew's confession, which was the cause of Lady Rety's death, remained without any of those favourable results which it was expected to have. It had no influence on Tengelyi's fate. Even before the Jew made his confession, there were few who doubted of Mr. Catspaw's having been implicated in the robbery of the documents; but this very fact, when once established, strengthened the suspicions which were entertained against Tengelyi. If the documents were in Mr. Catspaw's possession (and Jantshi's evidence proved that they were), that fact alone was reason enough to induce Tengelyi to commit the crime of murder. The Jew's assertion, that it was Viola who killed Mr. Catspaw, was unsupported by the second witness, and inadmissible as evidence against the numerous and grave circumstantial evidence which was adduced against the notary. His only hope of safety lay in the contingency of Viola's capture and confession of the murder. That hope was a vague one. It was now more than a fortnight since Janosh and Gatzi the Vagabond had left Dustbury in quest of Viola, and no news of their whereabouts and their chances of success had reached Vandory. It was scarcely reasonable to suppose that the old hussar should succeed in an undertaking, which had hitherto foiled the endeavours of Akosh, Kalman, and Völgyeshy, and, indeed, of all those who took an interest in Tengelyi's fate.

Peti, the gipsy, was indeed strongly suspected of being privy to the secret of Viola's retreat; but neither entreaties nor promises could induce him to answer young Rety's questions. As for the Gulyash of Kishlak, who was known to have received Viola's family, after the flight of the latter, into his tanya, and who had afterwards taken them away in his cart, he, too, gave none but unsatisfactory intelligence. He protested that he had taken Susi and her children to a Tsharda, at the distance of about three miles from Kishlak, where he had left her. He had not the least idea what could have become of her. Curses and entreaties, threats and promises, were alike in vain; it was evident that even the rack could not induce him to say more. The old woman, Liptaka, though devoted to the Tengelyi family, and especially to Vilma, was inexhaustible in excuses of her ignorance of Viola's whereabouts; until at last, wearied and perplexed by young Rety's questions, she protested that she would not betray Viola's confidence, even if she could; and when Akosh attempted to move her by his entreaties, she exclaimed: —

"No! no! Master Akosh! You know I'm as fond of you as ever a nurse was of her own child; but do not – do not compel me to hate you! I'd lay down my life for Mr. Tengelyi; but I won't be a Judas, no! not even for his sake! He has no end of friends; they'll liberate him, sooner or later; and even if he were to remain in prison, I know they keep him decently and comfortably, and his family is well provided for. But Viola can expect no mercy at the hands of the magistrates! To give him up to his enemies is to murder him and his family; and even if Susi were not my near relative, I'd rather tear my tongue out than betray her husband!"

What could Akosh do? Viola's friends were resolved to keep the secret; and, after a search of two weeks, old Janosh was still as much as ever in the dark as to the direction which the fugitive had taken.

Both Janosh and Gatzi the Vagabond were convinced that Viola was not hidden in any of the neighbouring counties. It was not indeed likely that he had left the kingdom of Hungary, as Gatzi was fond of asserting; but even this reflection was but cold comfort to the two adventurers. In which of the fifty-two counties of Hungary were they to seek him? was indeed a question which sadly puzzled the tactics and the military experience of old Janosh.

"Viola is a devil of a fellow!" said he to his comrade. "He has retreated, and so cunningly too, that Satan's self would be at a loss to find him. Ej! what a general he would have been!"

"What does 'to retreat' mean?" asked Gatzi, who listened to the tales of his companion with the greatest interest.

"Did I ever!" cried the hussar. "Do you mean to say you don't know what it is to retreat? But, after all, it's but natural," added he, after a few moments' consideration. "You have not been in the wars, where they would have taught you. Now, mark me! to retreat is when they order you to fall back."

"Ah! I understand! It's when the enemy drives you."

"You're a fool!" said Janosh, angrily. "A good soldier won't run away, nor will he be driven. I have never been in a battle in which we did not beat the enemy, and yet we retreated!"

The old hussar, like many soldiers in the Austrian army, was firmly convinced that the Emperor's troops had never been defeated.

"To retreat," added he, "means to fall back, after you've given your enemy a drubbing. Do you understand me?"

"Oh yes! I understand!" replied Gatzi; "but I can't make out why you should fall back after a victory."

"Donkey!" said Janosh, with a compassionate smile; "you retreat because you're ordered to fall back; and a soldier who doesn't obey orders is shot. That's all!"

"But why do they order you back?"

"Why, indeed? That's not our business!" replied the old trooper, angrily; for it was the very question which had puzzled him all his life. "Why, indeed? A good soldier obeys his officers, and the rest doesn't concern him. Why they order you back? A stupid question that! Perhaps it is to make you advance, for if you fall back you've got room to go forward. Perhaps they do it to give the enemy time to rally their men, and to prepare for another battle. I say, Gatzi, if you were a soldier, and if you were to ask such questions, they'd shoot you on the spot!"

Such conversations were instructive to the Vagabond Gatzi, and entertaining for Janosh, who gloried in the reminiscences of his campaigns; but they did not promote the ends of the two travellers. The Gulyash of Kishlak was as little communicative to Janosh as he was to his young master, nor was the hussar more lucky in his inquiries in other quarters.

"It strikes me they've agreed upon it!" murmured he. "They have but one answer to all my questions, and that answer is the worst they can give. Every one says, 'I don't know; you'd better inquire somewhere else!' and so we go from one tanya to another, without being any the wiser for it!"

They had, indeed, by this time, made the round of three counties; and though Gatzi became gradually accustomed to their roving life, and though Janosh, riding, as he did, through forests and over moors, felt almost happy to live again the life of a trooper, they came at length to be fairly tired of their fruitless search. The season, too, was by no means favourable. The month of April has a general reputation for changeableness; but in the year in which Janosh and Gatzi rode in search of Viola, that month was by no means changeable. On the contrary, it rained from the first day to the last. Janosh had seen a deal of hardship in the course of his long and eventful life; but still his temper was not proof against the provoking sameness of this extraordinary April weather. At length he fairly lost his patience.

They were just traversing the third county, at a distance of about eighty miles from Dustbury. They had been on horseback from an early hour in the morning, and now the sun was setting, when Gatzi confessed to his older comrade that he could not find the tanya to which he had promised to conduct him. The old man had hitherto borne all disappointments with great fortitude, still hoping to get news of Viola; for Gatzi had told him that the Gulyash to whom they were going knew all the herdsmen of the district. What was to be done? They were in the heart of the forest; they had lost their way; and, although Janosh swore that it was a shame for an old man to follow at the heels of a mere boy like Gatzi, he could not but wrap himself up in his bunda, and follow his companion, who was looking for marks on the trees, and for cross branches on the road, these being the signs by which men of doubtful honesty are in the habit of marking their track for the benefit of their comrades. It was quite dark when the two wanderers were at length attracted by the glare of a fire. They struck from the path which they had hitherto pursued, and reached the tanya which they sought. The pleasure which Janosh felt as he stretched his limbs by the fire could not be greater than the rapture of the Gulyash when he recognised Gatzi. The old herdsman, it seems, had been Gatzi's partner in more than one affair of which they did not care to inform the county magistrates.

When the old Gulyash had had his chat with his young companion, Janosh stepped in and asked for Viola. The first answer which he received was a profession of utter ignorance on the part of the Gulyash; when Gatzi too showed his desire for information, the herdsman told them to stay the night.

"To-morrow morning," said he, "I'll conduct you to somebody who is likely to answer your questions. There is a Gulyash in this neighbourhood who came last autumn from your part of the country. He is a good-for-nothing fellow, who does not associate with any one. He doesn't sell cattle, and there is no talking to him. But, after all, it is very likely that he can give you the information you require."

"Who can he be?" said Gatzi, astonished. "I don't know of any herdsman from our parts who has gone to this county."

"It's the brother of the Gulyash of Kishlak," replied the old man. "His brother is a trump of a fellow; but this chap is a blockhead. He won't speak to a body."

"It can't be the brother of the Gulyash of Kishlak. Old Ishtvan had but one brother, who died last autumn."

"Nonsense! I tell you, man, I have seen him. He is a handsome fellow, and darkish. He brought his wife and two children. Don't tell me he's dead."

"I say, the brother of the Gulyash of Kishlak is dead, though the man, whom you take to be his brother, may be alive, for all I know: but I am sure he is no relation to Ishtvan the herdsman!"

"But I tell you he is! Don't teach me to know Ishtvan the herdsman! It's true I haven't seen him for many years: but formerly we were much together; and last year, when he brought his brother's family to this place, they all slept in my hut. One of the children is not at all likely to live; but the other boy is a fine fellow. I am sure he'll be a better sort of a man than his father. There! now don't you believe that I am going to take you to the brother of the Gulyash of Kishlak?"

In the course of this conversation, Gatzi cast significant looks at the old hussar; and when their host had retired for the night, he said, "I'll lose my head if the fellow he speaks of isn't Viola!"

"I am sure it's he," whispered Janosh. "Let us keep our own counsel, lest he refuse to show us to the place."

"How he'll stare, when he hears that his neighbour, of whom he thinks so little, is no other than Viola, the great robber! What a treat!" said Gatzi, as he lay down by the fire. "But I'm as sleepy as a dog! Good night!"

"Good night!" responded Janosh, turning round, and arranging his bunda for the night. The day had been one of extraordinary fatigue. His lair in the hut was comfortable, and the fire burnt bright and cheerful at his side; but still the old hussar could not sleep. He turned and tossed about, a prey to restlessness and harassing thought. Now that Viola was all but found, Janosh began to doubt whether he was justified in disturbing the poor man's quiet life, and whether it was not better to leave him where he was.

"He's come to be an honest man," thought he; "why should I remind him of his former misfortune? I dare say they won't hang Mr. Tengelyi; but as for Viola, I'm not at all sure whether they'll stick to their word when they have him in their power. His wife will despair, and his children come to be little vagabonds; and who will be the cause of all this misery but I, who am now trying to entrap him, for all the world like one of those d – d spies whom we used to hang in France!"

Old Janosh had but one comfort amidst these distressing reflections. He might indeed find Viola; but there was no necessity which forced him to give him up to the county magistrates: and, after all, was it not possible, in conversing with Viola, that they might find out a means of liberating the notary without any prejudice to the late robber's life and liberty?

"For," said Janosh, "God knows he has suffered enough! and his children, bless them! they are such fine creatures, and so loving. I wouldn't harm them; no, not for the world!"

As for the object of old Janosh's search, it was he who, under the assumed name of a brother to Ishtvan, the herdsman of Kishlak, inhabited the tanya to which Gatzi's friend had promised to conduct the two adventurers. The outlaw's place of refuge was not quite so large and commodious as his farm-house at Tissaret; but it was as favourable a specimen of a tanya as a man of Viola's character and habits might wish to see. The roof was made of reeds, and afforded a shelter against the rain; the walls were newly washed, and shone hospitably over the dun and desolate heath. The tanya was built on a slope of the mountains, which, forest-crowned, extended in the rear; and in front lay the immense plain, dotted with flocks and herds of cattle and horses, with here and there a steeple rising on the far horizon. Near the house was a stable and some haystacks; and close to the threshold lay a couple of large fierce wolf-hounds, basking in the rays of the sun.

Viola might have been happy. He had found a place of refuge: he was removed from all social intercourse; and this is, in itself, a blessing for the persecuted and maligned. He might have been happy, if our happiness or misery were not at least quite as much depending on the past as it is on the present. Viola's recollections were most gloomy. His mind was saddened by the thought that he was compelled to leave the scenes of his former life. An exile from the place of his birth, he languished and grieved quite as much as men of better education do, when fate compels them to fly from their own country. The lower classes cling, not only to their country, but also to the place of their birth. Their lives lie within a narrower circle; and, however great his patriotism, a peasant's love for his home is still greater. With some it is a predominant feeling; with others it is a madness. His real country, his real fatherland, is the village in which he saw the light, – the narrow spot of earth on which he passed his earliest years. If you remove him from that place, he finds little consolation in the thought that his new abode is still on Hungarian soil, that his country's language is still spoken around him. He sighs for his birth-place, for the humble roof of his parents, for the fields in which he used to work, for the trees in the shade of which he took his rest. His reminiscences are not national, but local; his sphere of interest and action is limited to the confines of his parish. And even if this were not the case, is not our life a totality? Can we separate the past from the present, or the present from the future? Are not our joys bound up in remembrance and hope? And what was there in Viola's past, what was there in his future, to cheer him up, and to nerve him amidst the sorrows of life?

Could he ever forget the injustice and cruelty of mankind? Could he forget that they had hunted him like a beast of the forest? And, worse than all, could he forget his own deeds? the blood he had shed, – the blood which still clung to his trembling hands? How could he hope for happiness? The future lowered over him like a pall. His name was, indeed, unknown in that part of the country. His master, and the people with whom he had dealings, took him for a brother of the Gulyash of Kishlak; but what guarantee had he for his safety? The arrival of any of his former associates, the discovery of his having come to the county with a false passport, was sure to divulge his real name, and deliver him into the hands of justice. Every stranger who approached the tanya made him tremble. He trembled to think that his own boy might betray the secret of his father's guilt. But still, he could have borne all this. He might have inured his heart to sorrow and anxiety if his wife had been happy, if the love of his children had withdrawn his mind from the remorse and fear in which it lay shrouded.

Fate willed it otherwise!

Susi wanted but little for happiness. To love, was her vocation. She had no wish but to live with her husband and her children, to devote herself to them, to care, labour, and pray for them. Her heart was made to resist the blows of fate, if they failed to strike at that one tender point. When she knew of her husband's liberation, – when she took her children to their new home, she felt as if there was nothing to wish for, or to hope; and all her past sufferings were lost in the feeling of happiness which pervaded her mind. To live far away from mankind, removed from the scene of her former sufferings, – to live a new life, lonely and unknown, – had been her wish for many years; and that wish was now realised. She knelt down at the threshold of her new tanya, and wept and prayed with a grateful heart. She had nothing to ask for, nothing to desire!

But her happiness was of short duration. Her younger child was weak and sickly. Its little face had that expression of sadness which, in children, is a sure sign of suffering and disease.

"How could it be otherwise?" said Susi; "sorrow was its first food. My tears have effaced its smiles, and ever since it opened its soft blue eyes it has seen nothing but grief and sorrow. The poor child cannot help being sad!"

The unsettled life which Susi had latterly been compelled to lead, and which the infant had shared with her; the cold autumnal air to which it was exposed; and last, not least, the fatigue and exposure of the journey to their place of refuge, had a fatal effect upon the tender health of the child. So long as the excitement continued, and while she had to tremble for the safety of her husband, Susi took no heed of its altered appearance; but a few days after their meeting in the tanya, she became alive to the danger which threatened the infant's life. To see and despair of all hope was one and the same thing. After some days of maddening anxiety, the child died, and a little grave near the tanya was all that remained of so much sorrow and so much love.

The child's death struck a deeper blow to Susi's heart, from the circumstance of its occurring in the very first week of her new-found repose; but when she remarked her husband's sadness, who, still depressed by the late events, considered the death of his youngest born as a harbinger of the approach of avenging fate, she felt that Viola wanted to be cheered and comforted, and her love for him conquered the grief of her mother's heart.