The people of my country do not like to travel. The high, blue mountains
that surround them, shut out the world. Besides, what could there be
that is different on the other side of the mountains? And the rich
people and the influential are of just the same opinion.
There is only one man in this part of the country--Franz Nagy--(and he
lived a century or more ago!)--who has traveled. Once he went _almost_
to Prague. After that all the people of his name went by the title of
“the Prague Nagys.”
If there was one who had been _almost_ to Prague, there were hundreds
who had not been as far away as the next village, and among the latter
is Paul Rediki. Once, because of an important law suit, upon the result
of which all his property depended, he was called to Vienna. But he
declared: “Rather would I lose all I have than travel to Vienna.” And
he did just as he said and he became a sort of popular hero.
This affair in some way or other came to the knowledge of the
Administration. Just what he did do or did not do I have forgotten, but
the fact remains that King Ferdinand V invited him by letter to Vienna
_ad audiendum verbum regium_.
When Paul Rediki received this invitation he seated himself at the table
and penned a dignified refusal. He explained that he had just taken an
oath never to go to Vienna, and he hoped that His Majesty would be
gracious and pardon him, that he was very sorry that he could not
possibly come. How very different was he from men of today.
However, it happened after many, many years that old Vienna bestirred
herself and moved nearer. The wing-swift railroad had been built. Our
great blue mountains were pierced through and through, and the
velvet-soft, green meadows were covered with iron ribbons, upon which
wheels were to roll.
Paul Rediki was in favor of the railroad, and worked lustily for it. “It
will bring money and prosperity to our community,” he declared, “and it
will make our harvests of value.”
Too bad that he was not at home when the first flower-decked coaches
rolled in; but he lay ill in an hospital where he had been sent by order
of the doctor.
Upon the important day the entire country-side assembled. “We shall see
now,” argued the peasants “whether it is true or not.” “It’s all just
foolish talk,” declared Martin Saki, the cobbler of Tiszle. “Nothing
will come of it. I’ll bet you, brothers--it can’t move ten paces.”
“How could it go without horses?” questioned Mathias Kozka, laughing.
Gabor Kovacz, who took care of the church, said he was willing to lie
right down on the track in front of the engine, but the village watchman
would not let him.
“Well, if it doesn’t do any good, it won’t do any harm!” he consoled
himself by saying.
The railway officials were the butt of jests and scorn.
“Take a halter along any way, because you bet you’ll have to pull that
Polish village.” The long coaches with their rows of little windows,
fastened together in a long line, looked to them like a village of small
and diminutive houses.
In the meantime the invited gentry had assembled. They climbed on to the
coaches and the huge, foolish machine began to puff and snort and blow
like a wild horse, while the smoke poured forth and spread out across
the pleasant fields. A whistle, and the long line of little Polish
houses moved with a noise like thunder, and the more they moved, the
faster, until it was just like an arrow shot from the bow.
Gabor Kovacz crossed himself piously again and again, and stuttered in
confusion: “That’s not the work of God, men! The devil is behind it.”
“Let the fool think so,” contradicted Istvan Tot.
“I tell you that there are horses inside of it.”
“But where? We ought to see them.”
“I’ll bet my soul they are hidden there! Probably in every second little
house, there are two parade horses from the circus, and they pull along
the houses which are behind them.”
That was the most reasonable explanation, and found ready belief. Only
the most zealous and religious kept insisting that it was tempting God’s
mercy, and it was the work of the devil.
These seemed to have hit upon the truth; because when the train came
back from its trial trip at noon, the heavens began to bear witness to
the anger of God.
At the great banquet just as all were lifting their wine glasses to
drink the health of the absent Paul Rediki, and the voices rang out:
“Here’s to--!” a telegram came saying that Paul Rediki was dead. He died
at exactly nine o’clock, the very moment when the train entered his
village. So his soul went journeying away with it.
Outside a storm began to rage. It uprooted trees, unroofed houses, the
lightning struck apart, like a sword of God, the great bell in the tower
and destroyed one of the small station houses. The reapers of Paul
Rediki saw bloody rain drops falling upon the grass. That’s what always
happens when man tempts the mercy of God.
On the third day at three o’clock the burial was to take place. At half
past two the coffin was to come on the train, and the services were to
be conducted with pomp such as had never been seen before in
Gernyefalva. Printed invitations had been sent to the gentry of the
neighborhood. Nine reverend gentlemen of neighboring villages were
there. The country roads as far as one could see were black with
crawling wagons. Even the pupils from the Selmezlanya had been invited
and were approaching in numbers.
The dead man deserved this honor because he was a reliable man, a man
who kept his word even unto death. But they were obliged to get along
with only the little bell because the big bell had been ruined in the
thunder shower.
There were numberless mourners dressed in black. The black, draped
catafalk was placed under the linden tree; here seats were brought out,
the tapers lighted, the singer cleared his throat, and the mourners took
their places.
Now nothing was lacking but the dead man. The master of ceremonies,
clothed in full dignity, looked impatiently at his watch. “He must be
here very soon.”
Carl Petroczig, who had arranged everything properly for the ceremony,
hastened to quiet him.
“He must be here soon. The wagon has already been sent on to the
station.” After a brief period of waiting, rattle of wheels was heard,
the crowd began to sway to and fro, each one stretched up and tried to
look over the one in front. While curiosity whispered, there were heard
cries of astonishment and displeasure, and the members of the family
began to separate.
“What is the matter? What has happened?” inquired the people, and
stepped about lively upon each other’s corns, in their effort to reach
the catafalk where the relatives were assembled.
Petroczig, as paralyzed as if he had been turned suddenly into a statue,
gave the explanation, in a tone that resembled despair.
“My brother-in-law has not come; he has been delayed.”
It was really true; the dead man had delayed his own funeral. They
sought him on the train, but he was nowhere to be found, although a
telegram had come which said that he had been sent on it. There was
nothing for it now but for the assembly of mourners to depart, and to
beg the pardon of the others, that they had come in vain.
“How people do change when they are dead!” observed the reverend Pastor
Mukuczek, angrily. “The blessed man was always so punctual, too, when he
was alive.”
The crowd dispersed, while the family hastened to demand again the body
by telegram. But it did not come the next day, nor the third, nor the
fourth. They could not get any trace of it.
At length after elapse of a week they found it in Vienna. So Fate willed
it that he should visit the city, which he declared he would not enter
for any price.
The wagon with the body, by some accident, was driven to the station for
Vienna, and placed in a car attached to that train. So poor Paul Rediki,
after his death, traveled the length and breadth of Austria for an
entire week.
That is the reason that I insist that it is better to die at home, but
it is a good deal better still, not to die at all.