PART V.--THE THIRD DEVIL.

I. MARIA CZOBOR'S ROSE, THE PRECIPICE, AND THE OLD PEAR-TREE, 235

II. THREE SPARKS, 256

III. LITTLE VERONICA IS TAKEN AWAY, 276

Illustrations

"JOINED HANDS UNDER THE SACRED UMBRELLA" Frontispiece

"THE CHILD WAS IN THE BASKET" Facing p. 26

INTRODUCTION

Kalman Mikszath, perhaps the most purely national, certainly, after

Jokai, the most popular of all the Magyar novelists, was born at

Szklabonya, in the county of Nograd, on January 16th, 1849. Educated at

Rimaszombath and Pest, he adopted the legal profession, and settled down

as a magistrate in his native county, where his family had for

generations lived the placid, patriarchal life of small country squires.

A shrewd observer, with a strong satirical bent and an ardent love of

letters, the young advocate made his _debut_ as an author, at the age of

twenty-five, with a volume of short stories, which failed, however, to

catch the public taste. Shortly afterward he flitted to Szeged, and

contributed to the leading periodical there a series of sketches, whose

piquant humor and perfection of style attracted so much notice as to

encourage a bookseller in the famous city on the Theiss to publish, in

1881, another volume of tales, the epoch-making "Tot Atyafiak," which

was followed, four months later, by a supplementary volume, entitled "A

jo paloczok." Critics of every school instantly hailed these two little

volumes as the finished masterpieces of a new and entirely original

_genre_, the like of which had hitherto been unknown in Hungary. The

short story had, indeed, been previously cultivated, with more or less

of success, by earlier Magyar writers; but these first attempts had, for

the most part, been imitations of foreign novelists, mere exotics which

struck no deep root in the national literature. Mikszath was the first

to study from the life the peculiarities and characteristics of the

peasantry among whom he dwelt, the first to produce real, vivid pictures

of Magyar folk-life in a series of humoresks, dramas, idylls--call them

what you will--of unsurpassable grace and delicacy, seasoned with a

pleasantly pungent humor, but never without a sub-flavor of that tender

melancholy which lies at the heart of the Hungarian peasantry. And these

exquisite miniatures were set in the frame of a lucid, pregnant, virile

style, not unworthy of Maupassant or Kjelland. Henceforth Mikszath was

sure of an audience. In 1883 he removed to Pest, and in the following

year a fresh series of sketches, "A tisztelt hazbol," appeared in the

columns of the leading Hungarian newspaper, the "Pesti Hirlap," which

established his reputation once for all. During the last twelve years

Mikszath has published at least a dozen volumes, and, so far, his

productivity shows no sign of exhaustion. The chief literary societies

of his native land, including the Hungarian Academy, have all opened

their doors to him, and since 1882 he has been twice, unanimously,

elected a member of the Hungarian Parliament, in the latter case, oddly

enough, representing a constituency vacated by his illustrious compeer

and fellow-humorist, Maurus Jokai. Fortunately for literature, he has

shown no very remarkable aptitude for politics. When I add that in 1873

Mikszath married Miss Ilona Mauks, and has two children living, who have

frequently figured in his tales, I have said all that need be said of

the life-story of this charming and interesting author.

As already implied, the _forte_ of Mikszath is the _conte_, and as a

_conteur_ he has few equals in modern literature. "A jo paloczok," in

particular, has won a world-wide celebrity, and been translated into

nearly every European language except English, the greater part of the

Swedish version being by the accomplished and versatile pen of King

Oscar. But Mikszath has also essayed the romance with eminent success,

and it is one of his best romances that is now presented to the reader.

"Szent Peter esernyoeje," to give it its Magyar title, is a quaintly

delightful narrative in a romantic environment of out-of-the-world

Slovak villages, with a ragged red Umbrella and a brand-new brass

Caldron as the good and evil geniuses of the piece respectively. The

Umbrella, which is worth a king's ransom, is sold for a couple of

florins to the "white Jew" of the district, becomes the tutelary

deity--or shall I say the fetish?--of half a dozen parishes, and is only

recovered, after the lapse of years, by its lawful owner, when, by a

singular irony of fate, it has become absolutely valueless--from a

pecuniary point of view. The Caldron, on the other hand, which is

erroneously supposed to contain countless treasures, and is the outcome

of a grimly practical joke, proves a regular box of Pandora, and

originates a famous lawsuit which lasts ten years and ruins three

families--who deserve no better fate. How the Umbrella and the Caldron

first come into the story the reader must be left to find out for

himself. Suffice it to say that grouped around them are very many

pleasant and--by way of piquant contrast--a sprinkling of unpleasant

personages, whose adventures and vicissitudes will, I am convinced,

supply excellent entertainment to all lovers of fine literature and

genuine humor.

R. NISBET BAIN.

The Legend

PART I

CHAPTER I.

LITTLE VERONICA IS TAKEN AWAY.

The schoolmaster's widow at the Halap was dead. When a schoolmaster dies

there is not much of a funeral, but when his widow follows him, there is

still less fuss made. And this one had left nothing but a goat, a goose

she had been fattening, and a tiny girl of two years. The goose ought to

have been fattened at least a week longer, but the poor woman had not

been able to hold out so long. As far as the goose was concerned she had

died too soon, for the child it was too late. In fact, she ought never

to have been born. It would have been better had the woman died when her

husband did. (Dear me, what a splendid voice that man had to be sure!)

The child was born some months after its father's death. The mother was

a good, honest woman, but after all it did not seem quite right, for

they already had a son, a priest, a very good son on the whole, only it

was a pity he could not help his mother a bit; but he was very poor

himself, and lived a long way off in Wallachia, as chaplain to an old

priest. But it was said that two weeks ago he had been presented with a

living in a small village called Glogova, somewhere in the mountains

between Selmeczbanya and Besztercebanya. There was a man in Halap, Janos

Kapiczany, who had passed there once when he was driving some oxen to a

fair, and he said it was a miserable little place.

And now the schoolmaster's widow must needs go and die, just when her

son might have been able to help her a little. But no amount of talking

would bring her back again, and I must say, for the honor of the

inhabitants of Halap, that they gave the poor soul a very decent

funeral.

There was not quite enough money collected to defray the expenses, so

they had to sell the goat to make up the sum; but the goose was left,

though there was nothing for it to feed on, so it gradually got thinner

and thinner, till it was its original size again; and instead of

waddling about in the awkward, ungainly way it had done on account of

its enormous size, it began to move in a more stately manner; in fact,

its life had been saved by the loss of another. God in His wisdom by

taking one life often saves another, for, believe me, senseless beings

are entered in His book as well as sensible ones, and He takes as much

care of them as of kings and princes.

The wisdom of God is great, but that of the judge of Halap was not

trifling either. He ordered that after the funeral the little girl

(Veronica was her name) was to spend one day at every house in the

village in turns, and was to be looked after as one of the family.

"And how long is that to last?" asked one of the villagers.

"Until I deign to give orders to the contrary," answered the judge

shortly. And so things went on for ten days, until Mate Billeghi decided

to take his wheat to Besztercebanya to sell, for he had heard that the

Jews down that way were not yet so sharp as in the neighborhood of

Halap. This was a good chance for the judge.

"Well," he said, "if you take your wheat there, you may as well take the

child to her brother. Glogova must be somewhere that way."

"Not a bit of it," was the answer, "it is in a totally different

direction."

"It _must_ be down that way if I wish it," thundered out the judge.

Billeghi tried to get out of it, saying it was awkward for him, and out

of his way. But it was of no use, when the judge ordered a thing, it had

to be done. So one Wednesday they put the sacks of wheat into

Billeghi's cart, and on the top of them a basket containing Veronica and

the goose, for the latter was, of course, part of the priest's

inheritance. The good folks of the village had made shortbread and

biscuits for the little orphan to take with her on her journey out into

the great world, and they also filled a basket with pears and plums; and

as the cart drove off, many of them shed tears for the poor little waif,

who had no idea where they were taking her to, but only saw that when

the horses began to move, she still kept her place in the basket, and

only the houses and trees seemed to move.

CHAPTER II.

GLOGOVA AS IT USED TO BE.

Not only the worthy Kapiczany had seen Glogova, the writer of these

pages has also been there. It is a miserable little place in a narrow

valley between bare mountains. There is not a decent road for miles

around, much less a railway. Nowadays they say there is some sort of an

old-fashioned engine, with a carriage or two attached, which plies

between Besztercebanya and Selmeczbanya, but even that does not pass

near to Glogova. It will take at least five hundred years to bring it up

to that pitch of civilization other villages have reached.

The soil is poor, a sort of clay, and very little will grow there except

oats and potatoes, and even these have to be coaxed from the ground. A

soil like that cannot be spoken of as "Mother Earth," it is more like

"Mother-in-law Earth." It is full of pebbles, and has broad cracks here

and there, on the borders of which a kind of whitish weed grows, called

by the peasants "orphans' hair." Is the soil too old? Why, it cannot be

older than any other soil, but its strength has been used up more

rapidly. Down below in the plain they have been growing nothing but

grass for about a thousand years, but up here enormous oak-trees used to

grow; so it is no wonder that the soil has lost its strength. Poverty

and misery are to be found here, and yet a certain feeling of romance

takes possession of one at the sight of it. The ugly peasant huts seem

only to heighten the beauty of the enormous rocks which rise above us.

It would be a sin to build castles there, which, with their ugly modern

towers, would hide those wild-looking rocks.

The perfume of the elder and juniper fills the air, but there are no

other flowers, except here and there in one of the tiny gardens, a

mallow, which a barefooted, fair-haired Slovak girl tends, and waters

from a broken jug. I see the little village before me, as it was in

1873, when I was there last; I see its small houses, the tiny gardens

sown partly with clover, partly with maize, with here and there a

plum-tree, its branches supported by props. For the fruit-trees at least

did their duty, as though they had decided to make up to the poor

Slovaks for the poverty of their harvest.

When I was there the priest had just died, and we had to take an

inventory of his possessions. There was nothing worth speaking of, a few

bits of furniture, old and well worn, and a few shabby cassocks. But

the villagers were sorry to lose the old priest.

"He was a good man," they said, "but he had no idea of economy, though,

after all, he had not very much to economize with."

"Why don't you pay your priest better?" we asked. And a big burly

peasant answered:

"The priest is not our servant, but the servant of God, and every master

must pay his own servant."

After making the inventory, and while the coachman was harnessing the

horses, we walked across the road to have a look at the school, for my

companion was very fond of posing as a patron of learning.

The schoolhouse was small and low, with a simple, thatched roof. Only

the church had a wooden roof, but even the House of God was very simply

built, and there was no tower to it, only a small belfry at one side.

The schoolmaster was waiting for us. If I remember rightly his name was

Gyoergy Majzik. He was a strong, robust-looking man, with an interesting,

intelligent face, and a plain, straightforward way of speaking which

immediately awoke a feeling of friendship in one. He took us in to see

the children; the girls sat on one side, the boys on the other, all as

tidy and clean as possible. They rose on our entrance, and in a singing

voice said:

"Vitajtye panyi, vitajtye!" (Good-morning, honored sirs!)

My companion put a few questions to the rosy, round-faced children, who

stared at us with their large brown eyes. They all had brown eyes. The

questions were, of course, not difficult, but they caused the children

an amount of serious thinking. However, my friend was indulgent, and he

only patted the schoolmaster on the back and said:

"I am quite contented with their answers, my friend."

The schoolmaster bowed, then, with his head held high, he accompanied us

out to the road.

CHAPTER III.

THE NEW PRIEST AT GLOGOVA.

The new priest had arrived in the only cart the villagers had at their

disposal. Two cows were harnessed to it, and on the way the sacristan

stopped to milk them, and then offered some of the milk to the young

priest.

"It's very good milk," he said, "especially Bimbo's."

His reverence's luggage was not bulky; it consisted of a plain wooden

box, a bundle of bed-clothes, two walking-sticks, and some pipes tied

together with string. As they passed through the various villages the

sacristan was often chaffed by the inhabitants.

"Well," they called out to him, "couldn't you find a better conveyance

than that for your new priest?"

Whereupon the sacristan tried to justify his fellow-villagers by saying

with a contemptuous look at the luggage in the cart:

"It's good enough, I'm sure. Why, a calf a month old could draw those

things."

But if he had not brought much with him in the way of worldly goods,

Janos Belyi did not find much either in his new parish, which appeared

to be going to wreck and ruin. The relations of the dead priest had

taken away every stick they could lay hands on, and had only left a dog,

his favorite. It was a dog such as one sees every day, as far as his

shape and coat were concerned, but he was now in a very unpleasant

position. After midday he began to wander from house to house in the

village, slinking into the kitchens; for his master had been in the

habit of dining every day with one or other of his parishioners, and

always took his dog with him.

The dog's name was Vistula, but his master need not have gone so far to

find the name of a river, when the Bjela Voda flowed right through the

meadows outside the village. (The Hungarian peasants generally give

their dogs the name of a river, thinking it prevents hydrophobia.) The

dog had already begun to feel that he and the priest together had been

better received than he alone, though, until now, he had always

imagined, with his canine philosophy, that his master had in reality

been eating more than his share of the food. But now he saw the

difference, for he was driven away from the houses where he had once

been an honored guest. So altogether he was in a very miserable, lean

condition when the new priest arrived. The sacristan had shown him his

new home, with its four bare walls, its garden overgrown with weeds, its

empty stable and fowl-house. The poor young man smiled.

"And is that all mine?" he asked.

"All of it, everything you see here," was the answer, "and this dog

too."

"Whose dog is it?"

"It belonged to the poor dead priest, God rest his soul. We wanted to

kill the poor beast, but no one dares to, for they say that the spirit

of his old master would come back and haunt us."

The dog was looking at the young priest in a melancholy, almost tearful

way; perhaps the sight of the cassock awoke sad memories in him.

"I will keep him," said the priest, and stooping down he patted the

dog's lean back. "At all events there will be some living thing near

me."

"That will be quite right," said the sacristan. "One must make a

beginning, though one generally gets something worth watching first, and

then looks out for a watch-dog. But it doesn't matter if it is the other

way about."

Janos Belyi smiled (he had a very winning smile, like a girl's), for he

saw that old Vistula would not have much to do, in fact would be quite

like a private gentleman in comparison to his companions.

All this time people had been arriving in the yard to have a look at the

new priest; the women kept at a distance, and said: "Dear me! so young

and already in holy orders!"

The men went up and shook hands with him, saying, "God bless you! May

you be happy with us!"

An old woman called out, "May you be with us till your death!"

The older women admired his looks, and remarked how proud his mother

must be of him.

In fact the new priest seemed to have taken every one's fancy, and he

spoke a few words with them all, and then said he was tired, and went

across to the schoolmaster's, for he was to live there for a time till

he could get his own place a bit straight, and until he saw some signs

of an income.

Only a few of the more important villagers accompanied him to talk over

the state of affairs: Peter Szlavik, the sacristan; Mihaly Gongoly, the

nabob of Glogova; and the miller, Gyoergy Klincsok. He began to question

them, and took out his note-book, in order to make notes as to what his

income was likely to be.

"How many inhabitants are there in the village?"

"Rather less than five hundred."

"And how much do they pay the priest?"

They began to reckon out how much wood they had to give, how much corn,

and how much wine. The young priest looked more and more serious as they

went on.

"That is very little," he said sadly. "And what are the fees?"

"Oh, they are large enough," answered Klincsok; "at a funeral it depends

on the dead person, at a wedding it depends on the people to be married;

but they are pretty generous on that occasion as a rule; and at a

christening one florin is paid. I'm sure that's enough, isn't it?"

"And how many weddings are there in a year?"

"Oh, that depends on the potato harvest. Plenty of potatoes, plenty of

weddings. The harvest decides it; but as a rule there are at least four

or five."

"That is not many. And how many deaths occur?"

"That depends on the quality of the potato harvest. If the potatoes are

bad, there are many deaths, if they are good, there are less deaths, for

we are not such fools as to die then. Of course now and then a falling

tree in the woods strikes one or the other dead; or an accident happens

to a cart, and the driver is killed. You may reckon a year with eight

deaths a good one as far as you are concerned."

"But they don't all belong to the priest," said the nabob of Glogova,

smoothing back his hair.

"Why, how is that?" asked the priest.

"Many of the inhabitants of Glogova are never buried in the cemetery at

all. The wolves eat them without ever announcing it in the parish."

"And some die in other parts of the country," went on Gyoergy Klincsok,

"so that only very few of them are buried here."

"It is a bad lookout," said the priest. "But the parish fields, what

about them?"

Now they all wanted to speak at once, but Klincsok pulled the sacristan

aside, and stood up in front of the priest.

"Fields?" he said. "Why you can have as much ground as you like. If you

want one hundred acres ..."

"One hundred acres!" shouted Szlavik, "five hundred if you like; we

shall not refuse our priest any amount of ground he likes to ask for."

The priest's countenance began to clear, but honest Szlavik did not long

leave him in doubt.

"The fact is," he began, "the boundaries of the pasture-lands of Glogova

are not well defined to this day. There are no proper title-deeds; there

was some arrangement made with regard to them, but in 1823 there was a

great fire here, and all our documents were burnt. So every one takes as

much of the land as he and his family can till. Each man ploughs his own

field, and when it is about used up he looks out a fresh bit of land. So

half the ground is always unused, of course the worst part, into which

it is not worth while putting any work."

"I see," sighed the priest, "and that half belongs to the church."

It was not a very grand lookout, but by degrees he got used to the idea

of it, and if unpleasant thoughts would come cropping up, he dispersed

them by a prayer. When praying, he was on his own ground, a field which

always brought forth fruit; he could reap there at any minute all he was

in need of--patience, hope, comfort, content. He set to work to get his

house in order, so that he could at least be alone. Luckily he had found

in the next village an old school friend, Tamas Urszinyi, a big,

broad-shouldered man, plain-spoken, but kind-hearted.

"Glogova is a wretched hole," he said, "but not every place can be the

Bishopric of Neutra. However, you will have to put up with it as it is.

Daniel was worse off in the lions' den, and after all these are only

sheep."

"Which have no wool," remarked his reverence, smiling.

"They have wool, but you have not the shears."

In a few days he had furnished his house with the money he had borrowed

of his friend, and one fine autumn afternoon he was able to take

possession of his own house. Oh, how delightful it was to arrange things

as he liked! What pleasant dreams he would have lying in his own bed, on

pillows made by his own mother! He thought over it all when he lay down

to sleep, and before going to sleep he counted the corners of the room

so as to be sure and remember his dreams. (The Hungarian peasants say,

that when you sleep in a room for the first time you must count the

corners, then you will remember your dream, which is sure to come true.)

He remembered his dream the next morning, and it was a very pleasant

one. He was chasing butterflies in the fields outside his native

village, looking for birds' nests, playing games with the boys and

girls, having a quarrel with Pali Szabo, and they were just coming to

blows when some one tapped at the window outside.

The priest awoke and rubbed his eyes. It was morning, the sun was

shining into the room.

"Who is it?" he called out.

"Open the door, Janko!"

Janko! Who was calling him Janko? It seemed to him as though it were one

of his old schoolfellows, from whom he had just parted in his dream.

He jumped out of bed and ran to the window.

"Who is it?" he repeated.

"It is I," was the answer, "Mate Billeghi from your old home. Come out,

Janko, no, I mean of course, please come out, your reverence. I've

brought something."

The priest dressed hastily. His heart was beating fast with a kind of

presentiment that he was to hear bad news. He opened the door and

stepped out.

"Here I am, Mr. Billeghi; what have you brought me?"

But Mr. Billeghi had left the window and gone back to the cart, where he

was unfastening the basket containing little Veronica and the goose. The

horses hung their heads, and one of them tried to lie down, but the

shaft was in the way, and when he tried the other side, he felt the

harness cutting into his side, which reminded him that he was not in the

stable, and a horse's honorable feeling will not allow of its lying

down, as long as it is harnessed to the cart. There must be something

serious the matter to induce it to lie down in harness, for a horse has

a high sense of duty.

Mate Billeghi now turned round and saw the priest standing near him.

"Hallo, Janko! Why, how you have grown! How surprised your mother would

be if she were alive! Bother this rope, I did make a firm knot in it!"

The priest took a step toward the cart, where Billeghi was still

struggling with the knot. The words, "if your mother were alive," had

struck him like a blow, his head began to swim, his legs to tremble.

"Are you speaking of my mother?" he stammered. "Is my mother dead?"

"Yes, poor woman, she has given up the ghost. But" (and here he took out

his knife and began to cut the rope) "here is your little sister, Janko,

that is, I mean, your reverence; my memory is as weak as a chicken's,

and I always forget whom I am talking to. I've brought your reverence's

little sister; where shall I put her down?"

And with that he lifted up the basket in which the child was sleeping

soundly with the goose beside her. The bird seemed to be acting the part

of nurse to her, driving off the flies which tried to settle on her

little red mouth.

The autumn sunlight fell on the basket and the sleeping child, and Mate

was standing with his watery blue eyes fixed on the priest's face,

waiting for a word or a sign from him.

"Dead!" he murmured after a time. "Impossible. I had no feeling of it."

He put his hand to his head, saying sadly, "No one told me, and I was

not there at the funeral."

"I was not there either," said Mate, as though that would console the

other for his absence; and then added, as an afterthought:

"God Almighty took her to Himself, He called her to His throne. He

doesn't leave one of us here. Bother those frogs, now I've trodden on

one!"

There were any amount of them in the weedy courtyard of the Presbytery;

they came out of the holes in the damp walls of the old church.

"Where shall I put the child?" repeated Mr. Billeghi, but as he received

no answer, he deposited her gently on the small veranda.

The priest stood with his eyes fixed on the ground; it seemed to him as

though the earth, with the houses and gardens, Mate Billeghi and the

basket, were all running away, and only he was standing there, unable to

move one way or the other. From the Ukrica woods in the distance there

came a rustling of leaves, seeming to bring with it a sound that spoke

to his heart, the sound of his mother's voice. He listened, trembling,

and trying to distinguish the words. Again they are repeated; what are

they?

"Janos, Janos, take care of my child!"

But while Janos was occupied in listening to voices from a better land,

Mate was getting tired of waiting, and muttering something to himself

about not getting even a "thank you" for his trouble, he prepared to

start.

"Well, if that's the way they do things in these parts, I'll be off," he

grumbled, and cracking his whip he added, "Good-by, your reverence.

Gee-up, Sarmany!"

Father Janos still gave no answer, did not even notice what was going on

around him, and the horses were moving on, Mate Billeghi walking beside

them, for they had to go uphill now, and the good man was muttering to

himself something about its being the way of the world, and only natural

that if a chicken grows into a peacock, of course the peacock does not

remember the time when it was a chicken. When he got up to the top of

the hill he turned round and saw the priest still standing in the same

place, and, making one last effort to attract his attention, he shouted:

"Well, I've given you what I was told to, so good-by."

The priest's senses at last returned from the paths in which they had

been wandering, far away, with his mother. In imagination he was

kneeling at her death-bed, and with her last breath she was bidding him

take care of his little sister.

There was no need for it to be written nor to be telegraphed to him;

there were higher forces which communicated the fact to him.

Janos's first impulse was to run after Mate, and ask him to stop and

tell him all about his mother, how she had lived during the last two

years, how she had died, how they had buried her, in fact, everything.

But the cart was a long way off by now, and, besides, his eyes at that

moment caught sight of the basket and its contents, and they took up his

whole attention.

His little sister was still asleep in the basket. The young priest had

never yet seen the child, for he had not been home since his father's

funeral, and she was not born then; so he had only heard of her

existence from his mother's letters, and they were always so short.

Janos went up to the basket and looked at the small rosy face. He found

it bore a strong resemblance to his mother's, and as he looked the face

seemed to grow bigger, and he saw the features of his mother before him;

but the vision only lasted a minute, and the child's face was there

again. If she would only open her eyes! But they were firmly closed, and

the long eyelashes lay like silken fringes on her cheeks.

"And I am to take care of this tiny creature?" thought Janos. "And I

will take care of her. But how am I to do it? I have nothing to live on

myself. What shall I do?"

He did as he always had done until now, when he had been in doubt, and

turned toward the church in order to say a prayer there. The church was

open, and two old women were inside, whitewashing the walls. So the

priest did not go quite in but knelt down before a crucifix at the

entrance.

CHAPTER IV.

THE UMBRELLA AND ST. PETER.

Father Janos remained kneeling a long time and did not notice that a

storm was coming up. When he came out of the church it was pouring in

torrents, and before long the small mountain streams were so swollen

that they came rushing down into the village street, and the cattle in

their fright ran lowing into their stables.

Janos's first thought was that he had left the child on the veranda, and

it must be wet through. He ran home as fast as he could, but paused with

surprise before the house. The basket was where he had left it, the

child was in the basket, and the goose was walking about in the yard.

The rain was still coming down in torrents, the veranda was drenched,

but on the child not a drop had fallen, for an immense red umbrella had

been spread over the basket. It was patched and darned to such an extent

that hardly any of the original stuff was left, and the border of

flowers round it was all but invisible.

[Illustration: "THE CHILD WAS IN THE BASKET"]

The young priest raised his eyes in gratitude to Heaven, and taking the

child into his arms, carried it, under the red umbrella, into his room.

The child's eyes were open now; they were a lovely blue, and gazed

wonderingly into the priest's face.

"It is really a blessing," he murmured, "that the child did not get wet

through; she might have caught her death of cold, and I could not even

have given her dry clothes."

But where had the umbrella come from? It was incomprehensible, for in

the whole of Glogova there was not a single umbrella.

In the next yard some peasants were digging holes for the water to run

into. His reverence asked them all in turn, had they seen no one with

the child? No, they had seen the child, but as far as they knew no one

had been near it. Old Widow Adamecz, who had run home from the fields

with a shawl over her head, had seen something red and round, which

seemed to fall from the clouds right over the child's head. Might she

turn to stone that minute if it were not true, and she was sure the

Virgin Mary had sent it down from Heaven herself to the poor orphan

child.

Widow Adamecz was a regular old gossip; she was fond of a drop of brandy

now and then, so it was no wonder she sometimes saw more than she

ought to have done. The summer before, on the eve of the feast of Sts.

Peter and Paul, she had seen the skies open, and Heaven was before her;

she had heard the angels sing, as they passed in procession before God,

sitting on a throne of precious stones. And among them she had seen her

grandson, Janos Plachta, in a pretty red waistcoat which she herself had

made him shortly before his death. And she had seen many of the

inhabitants of Glogova who had died within the last few years, and they

were all dressed in the clothes they had been buried in.

You can imagine that after that, when the news of her vision was spread

abroad, she was looked upon as a very holy person indeed. All the

villagers came to ask if she had seen their dead relations in the

procession; this one's daughter, that one's father, and the other one's

"poor husband!" They quite understood that such a miracle was more

likely to happen to her than to any one else, for a miracle had been

worked on her poor dead father Andras, even though he had been looked

upon in life as something of a thief. For when the high road had had to

be made broader eight years before, they were obliged to take a bit of

the cemetery in order to do it, and when they had opened Andras's grave,

so as to bury him again, they saw with astonishment that he had a long

beard, though five witnesses swore to the fact that at the time of his

death he was clean-shaven.

So they were all quite sure that old Andras was in Heaven, and having

been an old cheat all his life he would, of course, manage even up above

to leave the door open a bit now and then, so that his dear Agnes could

have a peep at what was going on.

But Pal Kvapka, the bell-ringer, had another tale to tell. He said that

when he had gone up the belfry to ring the clouds away, and had turned

round for a minute, he saw the form of an old Jew crossing the fields

beyond the village, and he had in his hands that immense red thing like

a plate, which his reverence had found spread over the basket. Kvapka

had thought nothing of it at the time, for he was sleepy, and the wind

blew the dust in his eyes, but he could take an oath that what he had

told them had really taken place. (And Pal Kvapka was a man who always

spoke the truth.) Others had also seen the Jew. He was old, tall,

gray-haired, his back was bent, and he had a crook in his hand, and when

the wind carried his hat away, they saw that he had a large bald place

at the back of his head.

"He was just like the picture of St. Peter in the church," said the

sacristan, who had seen him without his hat. "He was like it in every

respect," he repeated, "except that he had no keys in his hand." From

the meadow he had cut across Stropov's clover-field, where the Kratki's

cow, which had somehow got loose, made a rush at him; in order to defend

himself he struck at it with his stick (and from that time, you can ask

the Kratki family if it is not true, the cow gave fourteen pints of milk

a day, whereas they used to have the greatest difficulty in coaxing four

pints from it).

At the other end of the village the old man had asked the miller's

servant-girl which was the way to Lehota, and Erzsi had told him, upon

which he had started on the footpath up the mountains. Erzsi said she

was sure, now she came to think of it, that he had a glory round his

head.

Why, of course it must have been St. Peter! Why should it not have been?

There was a time when he walked about on earth, and there are many

stories told still as to all he had done then. And what had happened

once could happen again. The wonderful news spread from house to house,

that God had sent down from Heaven a sort of red-linen tent, to keep the

rain off the priest's little sister, and had chosen St. Peter himself

for the mission. Thereupon followed a good time for the child, she

became quite the fashion in the village. The old women began to make

cakes for her, also milk puddings, and various other delicacies. His

reverence had nothing to do but answer the door all day, and receive

from his visitors plates, dishes, or basins wrapped up in clean cloths.

The poor young priest could not make out what was going on in his new

parish.

"Oh, your reverence, please, I heard your little sister had come, so

I've brought her a trifle for her dinner; of course it might be better,

but it is the best such poor folks as we can give. Our hearts are good,

your reverence, but our flour might be better than it is, for that

good-for-nothing miller burned it a bit the last time--at least, that

part of it which he did not keep for his own use. May I look at the

little angel? They say she's a little beauty."

Of course his reverence allowed them all to look at her in turn, to pat

her and smooth her hair; some of them even kissed her tiny feet.

The priest was obliged to turn away now and then to hide the tears of

gratitude. He reproached himself, too, for his hard thoughts of the good

villagers. "How I have misjudged them!" he thought to himself. "There

are no better people in the world. And how they love the child!"

At tea-time Widow Adamecz appeared on the scene; until now she had not

troubled much about the new priest. She considered herself entitled to a

word in the management of the ecclesiastical affairs of the village, and

based her rights on the fact of her father having grown a beard in his

grave, which, of course, gave him a place among the saints at once.

"Your reverence," she began, "you will want some one to look after the

child."

"Yes, of course, I ought to have some one," he replied, "but the parish

is poor, and ..."

"Nobody is poor but the devil," burst out Widow Adamecz, "and he's poor

because he has no soul. But we have souls. And after all, your reverence

won't know how to dress and undress a child, nor how to wash it and

plait its hair. And then she will often be hungry, and you can't take

her across to the schoolmaster's each time. You must have some one to

cook at home, your reverence. The sacristan is all very well for

sweeping and tidying up a bit, but what does he know about children?"

"True, true; but where am I to ..."

"Where? And am _I_ not here? The Lord created me for a priest's cook,

I'm sure."

"Yes, I daresay. But how am I to pay your wages?"

Widow Adamecz put her hands on her hips, and planted herself in front of

Father Janos.

"Never mind about that, your honor. Leave it to God and to me. He will

pay me. I shall enter your service this evening, and shall bring all my

saucepans and things with me."

The priest was more and more surprised, but even more astonished was his

friend Urszinyi when he came over toward evening and the priest related

the events of the day, and told him of Widow Adamecz's offer.

"What!" he exclaimed, "Widow Adamecz? That old witch? And without

payment? Why, Janos, a greater miracle never yet happened. An inhabitant

of Glogova working for payment from Heaven! You seem to have bewitched

the people."

The priest only smiled, but his heart was full of gratitude. He also

felt that a miracle had taken place; it was all so strange, so

incomprehensible. But he guessed at the cause of the change. The prayer

he had said at the entrance to the church had been heard, and this was

the answer. Yes, it really was a miracle! He had not heard all the

stories that were spread abroad about the red umbrella, and he only

smiled at those that had come to his ears. It is true he did not

understand himself how the umbrella came to be where he had found it; he

was surprised at first, but had not thought any more about it, and had

hung it on a nail in his room, so that if the owner asked for it he

could have it at once, though it was not really worth sixpence.

But the day's events were not yet done. Toward evening the news spread

that the wife of the miller, the village nabob, had been drowned in the

Bjela Voda, which was very swollen from the amount of rain that had

fallen. The unfortunate woman had crossed the stepping-stones in order

to bring back her geese, which had strayed to the other side. She had

brought back two of them, one under each arm, but as she was re-crossing

to fetch the third, her foot slipped, and she fell into the stream. In

the morning there had been so little water there, that a goat could have

drank it all in half a minute, and by midday it was swollen to such an

extent that the poor woman was drowned in it. They looked for her the

whole afternoon in the cellar, in the loft, everywhere they could think

of, until in the evening her body was taken out of the water near

Lehota. There some people recognized her, and a man was sent over on

horseback to tell Mihaly Gongoly of the accident. All this caused great

excitement in the village, and the people stood about in groups, talking

of the event.

"Yes, God takes the rich ones too," they said.

Gyoergy Klincsok came running in to the priest.

"There will be a grand funeral the day after to-morrow," he exclaimed.

The sacristan appeared at the schoolmaster's in the hope of a glass of

brandy to celebrate the event.

"Collect your thoughts," he exclaimed, "there will be a grand funeral,

and they will expect some grand verses."

Two days later the funeral took place, and it was a long time since

anything so splendid had been seen in Glogova. Mr. Gongoly had sent for

the priest from Lehota too, for, as he said, why should not his wife

have two priests to read the burial service over her. He sent all the

way to Besztercebanya for the coffin, and they took the wooden cross

that was to be put at the head of the grave to Kopanyik to have it

painted black, with the name and the date of her death in white letters.

There were crowds of people at the funeral in spite of the bad weather,

and just as the priest was starting in full canonicals, with all the

little choir-boys in their clean surplices, it began to pour again; so

Father Janos turned to Kvapka, the sacristan, and said:

"Run back as fast as you can and fetch the umbrella out of my room."

Kvapka turned and stared; how was he to know what an umbrella was?

"Well," said Father Janos, "if you like it better, fetch the large,

round piece of red linen I found two days ago spread over my little

sister."

"Ah, now I understand!"

The priest took shelter in a cottage until the fleet-footed Kvapka

returned with the umbrella, which his reverence, to the great

admiration of the crowd, with one sweeping movement of his hand spread

out in such a fashion that it looked like a series of bats' wings

fastened together. Then, taking hold of the handle, he raised it so as

to cover his head, and walked on with stately step, without getting wet

a bit; for the drops fell angrily on the strange tent spread over him,

and, not being able to touch his reverence, fell splashing on to the

ground. The umbrella was the great attraction for all the peasants at

the funeral, and they exchanged many whispered remarks about the (to

them) strange thing.

"That's what St. Peter brought," they said.

Only the beautiful verses the schoolmaster had composed for the occasion

distracted their attention for a while, and sobs broke forth as the

various relations heard their names mentioned in the lines in which the

dead woman was supposed to be taking leave of them:

"Good-by, good-by, my dearest friends; Pal Lajko my brother, Gyoergy

Klincsok my cousin," etc.

The whole of Pal Lajko's household began to weep bitterly, and Mrs.

Klincsok exclaimed rapturously:

"How on earth does he manage to compose such beautiful lines!"

Which exclamation inspired the schoolmaster with fresh courage, and,

raising his voice, he continued haranguing the assembled friends in the

dead woman's name, not forgetting a single one, and there was not a dry

eye among them.

For some time after they had buried Mrs. Gongoly the grand doings at the

funeral were still the talk of the place, and even at the funeral the

old women had picked out pretty Anna Tyurek as the successor of Mrs.

Gongoly, and felt sure it would not be long before her noted "mentyek"

had an owner. (Every well-to-do Slovak peasant buys a long cloak of

sheepskin for his wife; it is embroidered outside in bright colors, and

inside is the long silky hair of the Hungarian sheep. It is only worn on

Sundays and holidays, and is passed on from one generation to another.)

The mourners had hardly recovered from the large quantities of brandy

they had imbibed in order to drown their sorrow, when they had to dig a

new grave; for Janos Sranko had followed Mrs. Gongoly. In olden times

they had been good friends, before Mrs. Gongoly was engaged; and now it

seemed as though they had arranged their departure from this world to

take place at the same time.

They found Sranko dead in his bed, the morning after the funeral; he had

died of an apoplectic fit. Sranko was a well-to-do man, in fact a

"magna." (The fifteen richest peasants in a Slovak village are called

"magnas" or "magnates.") He had three hundred sheep grazing in his

meadows and several acres of ploughed land, so he ought to have a grand

funeral too. And Mrs. Sranko was not idle, for she went herself to the

schoolmaster, and then to the priest, and said she wished everything to

be as it had been at Mrs. Gongoly's funeral. Let it cost what it might,

but the Srankos were not less than the Gongolys. She wished two priests

to read the funeral service, and four choir-boys to attend in their best

black cassocks, the bell was to toll all the time, and so on, and so on.

Father Janos nodded his head.

"Very well, all shall be as you wish," he said, and then proceeded to

reckon out what it would cost.

"That's all right," said Mrs. Sranko, "but please, your reverence, put

the red thing in too, and let us see how much more it will cost."

"What red thing?"

"Why, what you held over your head at Mrs. Gongoly's funeral. Oh, it

_was_ lovely!"

The young priest could not help smiling.

"But that is impossible," he said.

Mrs. Sranko jumped up, and planted herself before him, with her arms

crossed.

"And why is it impossible I should like to know? My money is as good as

the Gongolys', isn't it?"

"But, my dear Mrs. Sranko, it was raining then, and to-morrow we shall

in all probability have splendid weather."

But it was no use arguing with the good woman, for she spoke the dialect

of the country better than Father Janos did.

"Raining, was it?" she exclaimed. "Well, all the more reason you should

bring it with you to-morrow, your honor; at all events it won't get wet.

And, after all, my poor dear husband was worthy of it; he was no worse

than Mrs. Gongoly. Every one honored him, and he did a lot for the

Church; why, it was he who five years ago sent for those lovely colored

candles we have on the altar; they came all the way from Besztercebanya.

And the white altar-cloth my husband's sister embroidered. So you see we

have a right to the red thing."

"But I can't make myself ridiculous by burying some one with an umbrella

held over me when the sun is shining. You must give up the idea, Mrs.

Sranko."

Thereupon Mrs. Sranko burst into tears. What had she done to be put to

such shame, and to be refused the right to give her husband all the

honors due to the dead, and which were a comfort to the living too? What

would the villagers say of her? They would say, "Mrs. Sranko did not

even give her husband a decent funeral, they only threw him into the

grave like a beggar."

"Please do it, your reverence," she begged tearfully, and kept on wiping

her eyes with her handkerchief, until one of the corners which had been

tied in a knot came unfastened, and out fell a ten-florin note. Mrs.

Sranko picked it up, and put it carefully on the table.

"I'll give this over and above the other sum," she said, "only let us

have all the pomp possible, your honor."

At this moment Widow Adamecz rushed in from the kitchen, flourishing an

immense wooden spoon in the air.

"Yes, your reverence, Sranko was a good, pious man; not all the gossip

you hear about him is true. And even if it were, it would touch Mrs.

Gongoly as much as him, may God rest her soul. If the holy umbrella was

used at her funeral, it can be used at his too. If God is angry at its

having been used for her, He will only be a little more angry at its

being used for him; and if He was not angry then, He won't be angry now

either."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Widow Adamecz, talking such

nonsense. Don't bother me any more with your superstitions. The whole

thing is simply ridiculous."

But the two women were not to be put off.

"We know what we know," they said, nodding their heads sagely, "your

honor can't deceive us."

And they worried him to such an extent that he was obliged at last to

give way, and agreed to bring the red umbrella to Janos Sranko's

funeral, but he added as an afterthought, "That is, of course, if the

owner does not come for it before then. For it is certain that some one

left it here, and if they come for it, I shall be obliged to give it

them."

"Well," said Widow Adamecz, "as far as that goes we can sleep in peace,

for the one who brought it only walks on our planet once in a thousand

years."

Nobody appeared to claim the umbrella, and so the next day, though it

was a lovely afternoon, and not a cloud was to be seen on the horizon,

the young priest opened his umbrella, and followed the coffin to the

grave.

Four strong men carried the bier on which the coffin was placed, and as

chance willed it, when they passed the smithy, one of the bearers

stumbled and fell, which so startled the one walking behind him, that he

lost his presence of mind, the bier lurched to one side, and the coffin

fell to the ground.

It cracked, then the fastenings gave way, and it broke to pieces; first

the embroidered shirt was visible, and then the supposed dead man

himself, who awoke from the trance he had been in, moved slightly, and

whispered:

"Where am I?"

Of course every one was as surprised as they could be, and there was

plenty of running backward and forward to the smithy for blankets,

shawls, and pillows, of which they made a bed in a cart that was outside

waiting to be repaired. Into this they put the man on whom such a

miracle had been worked, and the funeral procession returned as a

triumphant one to Sranko's house. He had so far recovered on the way

home as to ask for something to eat immediately on his arrival.

They brought him a jug of milk, at which he shook his head. Lajko

offered him a flask of brandy he had taken with him to cheer his

drooping spirits. He smiled and accepted it.

This ridiculous incident was the beginning of the umbrella legend, which

spread and spread beyond the village, beyond the mountains, increasing

in detail as it went. If a mark or impression were found on a rock it

was said to be the print of St. Peter's foot. If a flower of

particularly lovely color were found growing on the meadow, St. Peter's

stick had touched the spot. Everything went to prove that St. Peter had

been in Glogova lately. After all it was no common case.

The only real mystery in the whole affair was how the umbrella had come

to be spread over little Veronica's basket; but that was enough to make

the umbrella noted. And its fame spread far and wide, as far as the

Bjela Voda flows; the Slovak peasants told the tale sitting round the

fire, with various additions, according to the liveliness of their

imagination. They imagined St. Peter opening the gates of Heaven, and

coming out with the umbrella in his hand, in order to bring it down to

the priest's little sister. The only question they could not settle was

how St. Peter had got down to the earth. But they thought he must have

stood on a cloud which let him gently down, and set him on the top of

one of the neighboring hills.

Then they discussed the power the umbrella possessed of raising the dead

to life, and so the legend was spread abroad. And whenever a rich

peasant died, even in the villages miles off, Father Janos was sent for,

with the red umbrella, to read the burial services. He was also sent for

to sick persons who wished the umbrella spread over them while they

confessed their sins. It must have a good effect, and either the sick

person would recover, or if he did not do that he was at least

sanctified.

If a newly married couple wished to do things very grandly (and they

generally do), they were not only married at home by their own priest,

but they made a pilgrimage to Glogova in order to join hands once more

under the sacred umbrella. And that, to them, was the real ceremony. The

bell-ringer held it over their heads, and in return many a piece of

silver found its way into his pocket. And as for the priest, money and

presents simply poured in upon him. At first he fought against all this

superstition, but after a while even he began to believe that the red

umbrella, which day by day got more faded and shabby, was something out

of the common. Had it not appeared on the scene as though in answer to

his prayer, and was it not the source of all his good fortune?

"Oh, Lord!" he had prayed, "unless Thou workest a miracle, how am I to

bring up the child?"

And lo and behold, the miracle had been worked! Money, food, all the

necessaries of life flowed from that ragged old umbrella. Its fame

spread to higher circles too. The Bishop of Besztercebanya heard of it

and sent for Father Janos and the umbrella; and after having examined it

and heard the whole story, he crossed his hands on his breast and

exclaimed: "Deus est omnipotens." Which was equivalent to saying he

believed in it.

A few weeks later he went still further, and sent orders for the

umbrella to be kept in the church, instead of in the priest's room. Upon

which Father Janos answered that in reality the umbrella belonged to his

little sister, who was still a minor, so that he had no right to it, nor

to give it away. But he was sure, as soon as Veronica was of age, she

would make a present of it to the church. But the umbrella not only

brought good fortune to the priest, who soon started a small farm, and

in a few years built himself a new house, and kept a horse and trap, but

it made a great difference in Glogova too. Every summer numbers of

ladies came from the small watering-places round about, very often

countesses too (mostly old countesses), in order to say a prayer under

the umbrella, and for these an inn was built opposite the priest's

house, called the "Miraculous Umbrella." In fact, Glogova increased in

size and importance from day to day.

In time the villagers began to feel ashamed of the simple wooden belfry,

and had a tower built to the church, and hung two bells in it from

Besztercebanya. Janos Sranko had a splendid statue of the Holy Family

erected in front of the church, to commemorate his resurrection from the

dead. The governess (for a time Father Janos had a governess for little

Veronica) filled the priest's garden with dahlias, fuchsias, and other

flowers which the inhabitants of Glogova had never yet seen.

Everything improved and was beautified (except Widow Adamecz, who got

uglier day by day), and the villagers even went so far as to discuss on

Sunday afternoons the advisability of building a chapel upon the

mountain St. Peter had been seen on, in order to make it a place of

pilgrimage and attract even more visitors.

The Gregorics Family

PART II

CHAPTER I.

THE TACTLESS MEMBER OF THE FAMILY.

Many years before our story begins, there lived in Besztercebanya a man

of the name of Pal Gregorics, who was always called a tactless man,

whereas all his life was spent in trying to please others. Pal Gregorics

was always chasing Popularity, and instead of finding it came face to

face with Criticism, a much less pleasing figure. He was born nine

months after his father's death, an act of tactlessness which gave rise

to plenty of gossip, and much unpleasantness to his mother, who was a

thoroughly good, honest woman. If he had only arrived a little earlier

... but after all _he_ could not help it. As far as the other Gregorics

were concerned, he had better not have been born at all, for of course

the estates were cut up more than they would otherwise have been.

The child was weak and sickly, and his grown-up brothers always hoped

for his death; however, he did not die, but grew up, and when of age

took possession of his fortune, most of which he had inherited from his

mother, who had died during his minority and left him her whole fortune;

whereas the children of the first wife only had their share of the

father's fortune, which, however, was not to be sneered at, for old

Gregorics had done well in the wine trade. In those days it was easier

to get on in that line than it is now, for, in the first place, there

was wine in the country, and in the second place there were no Jews. In

these days there is plenty of Danube water in the wine-cellars, but not

much juice of the grapes.

Nature had blessed Pal Gregorics with a freckly face and red hair, which

made people quote the old saying, "Red-haired people are never good."

So Pal Gregorics made up his mind to prove that it was untrue. All these

old sayings are like pots in which generations have been cooking for

ages, and Pal Gregorics intended to break one of them. He meant to be

"as good as a piece of bread, and as soft as butter, which allows itself

to be spread equally well on white bread or black." (This is a favorite

phrase among the peasants, when describing a very good man.)

And he was as good a man as you could wish to see, but what was the good

of it? Some evil spirit always seemed to accompany him and induce people

to misunderstand his intentions.

The day he came back from Pest, where he had been completing his

studies, he went into a tobacconist's shop and bought some fine Havanas,

which at once set all the tongues in Besztercebanya wagging.

"The good-for-nothing fellow smokes seven-penny cigars, does he? That is

a nice way to begin. He'll die in the workhouse. Oh, if his poor dead

father could rise from his grave and see him! Why, the old man used to

mix dry potato leaves with his tobacco to make it seem more, and poured

the dregs of the coffee on it to make it burn slower."

Pal Gregorics heard that he had displeased the good townsfolk by smoking

such dear cigars, and immediately took to short halfpenny ones. But this

did not suit them either, and they remarked:

"Really, Pal Gregorics is about the meanest man going, he'll be worse

than his father in time!"

Gregorics felt very vexed at being called mean, and decided to take the

very next opportunity to prove the contrary. The opportunity presented

itself in the form of a ball, given in aid of a hospital, and of which

the Mayoress of the town was patroness. The programme announced that

though the tickets were two florins each, any larger sum would be

gratefully accepted. So Pal Gregorics gave twenty florins for his

two-florin ticket, thinking to himself "They shan't say I am mean this

time."

Upon that the members of the committee put their heads together and

decided that Pal Gregorics was a tactless fellow. It was the greatest

impertinence on his part to outbid the Mayor, and a baron to boot! Baron

Radvanszky had given ten florins for his ticket, and Gregorics throws

down twenty. Why, it was an insult! The son of a wine merchant! What

things do happen in the nineteenth century, to be sure! Whatever Pal

Gregorics did was wrong; if he quarrelled with some one and would not

give in, they said he was a brawler; and if he gave in, he was a coward.

Though he had studied law, he did nothing particular at first, only

drove to his estate a mile or two out of the town and spent a few hours

shooting; or he went for a few days to Vienna, where he had a house

inherited from his mother; and the rest of his time he spent in

Besztercebanya.

"Pal Gregorics," they said, "is a lazy fellow; he does nothing useful

from one year's end to the other. Why are such useless creatures allowed

to live?"

Pal heard this too, and quite agreed with them that he ought to get some

work to do, and not waste his life as he was doing. Of course, every

one should earn the bread they eat. So he looked for some employment in

the town. That was enough to set all the tongues wagging again. What?

Gregorics wanted work in the town? Was he not ashamed of himself, trying

to take the bread out of poor men's mouths, when he had plenty of cake

for himself? Let him leave the small amount of employment there was in

the town to those who really needed it. Gregorics quite understood the

force of this argument, and gave up his idea. He now turned his thoughts

toward marriage, and determined to start a family; after all that was as

good an occupation as any other.

So he began to frequent various houses where there were pretty girls to

be met, and where he, being a good match, was well received; but his

step-brothers, who were always in hopes that the delicate little man

would not live long, did their best to upset his plans in this case too.

So Pal Gregorics got so many refusals one after the other, that he was

soon renowned in the whole neighborhood. Later on he could have found

many who would have been glad of an offer from him, but they were

ashamed to let him see it. After all, how could they marry a man whom so

many girls had refused?

On the eve of St. Andrew's any amount of lead was melted by the young

girls of the town, but not one of them saw in the hardened mass the

form of Gregorics. In fact, none of the young girls wanted to marry him.

What they looked for was romance, not money. Perhaps some old maid would

have jumped at his offer, but between the young maids and the old maids

there is a great difference--they belong to two different worlds. The

young girls were told that Pal Gregorics spat blood, and of course, the

moment they heard that, they would have nothing more to do with him, so

that at his next visit their hearts would beat loudly, but not in the

same way they had done last time he drove up in his coach and four. Poor

Gregorics! What a pity! The horses outside may paw the ground, and toss

their manes as much as they like, what difference does it make? Pal

Gregorics spits blood! Oh, you silly little Marys and Carolines. Of

course Pal Gregorics is an ugly, sickly man, but think how rich he is;

and after all, he only spits his own blood. So what can it matter to

you?

Believe me, Rosalia, who is ten years older than you, would not be such

a silly little goose, if she had your chances, for she is a philosopher,

and if she were to be told that Pal Gregorics spits blood she would only

think to herself, "What an interesting man!" And aloud she would say, "I

will nurse him." And deep down in her mind where she keeps the ideas

that cannot be put into words, which, in fact, are hardly even thoughts

as yet, she would find these words, "If Gregorics spits blood already,

he won't last so very long."

You silly little girls, you know nothing of life as yet; your mothers

have put you into long dresses, but your minds have not grown in

proportion. Don't be angry with me for speaking so plainly, but it is my

duty to show my readers why Pal Gregorics did not find a wife among you.

The reason is a simple one. The open rose is not perfectly pure; bees

have bathed in its chalice, insects have slept in it. But in the heart

of an opening bud, not a speck of dust is to be found.

That is why Pal Gregorics was refused by so many young girls, and by

degrees he began to see that they were right (for, as I said before, he

was a good, simple man), marriage was not for him, as he spat blood; for

after all, blood is one of the necessaries of life. When he had once

made up his mind not to marry, he troubled his head no more about the

girls, but turned his attention to the young married women. He had

beautiful bouquets sent from Vienna for Mrs. Vozary, and one fine

evening he let five hundred nightingales loose in Mrs. Muskulyi's

garden. He had the greatest difficulty in getting so many together, but

a bird-fancier in Transylvania had undertaken to send them to him. The

beautiful young woman, as she turned on her pillows, was surprised to

hear how delightfully the birds were singing in her garden that night.

He had no success with the young married women either, and was beginning

to get thoroughly sick of life, when the war broke out. They would not

take him for a soldier either, they said he was too small and thin, he

would not be able to stand the fatigues of war. But he wanted to do

something at any cost.

The recruiting sergeant, who was an old friend of his, gave him the

following advice:

"I don't mind taking you if you particularly wish to work with us, but

you must look out for some occupation with no danger attached to it. The

campaign is fatiguing; we'll give you something in the writing

business."

Gregorics was wounded in his pride.

"I intend accepting only the most dangerous employment," he said; "now

which do you consider the most dangerous?"

"Why, that of a spy," was the answer.

"Then I will be a spy."

And he kept his word. He dressed himself as one of those vagrants of

whom so many were seen at that time, and went from one camp to the

other, carrying information and letters. Old soldiers remember and still

talk of the little old man with the red umbrella, who always managed to

pass through the enemy's camp, his gaze as vacant as though he were

unable to count up to ten. With his thin, bird-like face, his ragged

trousers, his battered top-hat, and his red umbrella, he was seen

everywhere. If you once saw him it was not easy to forget him, and there

was no one who did not see him, though few guessed at his business. Some

one once wrote about him: "The little man with the red umbrella is the

devil himself, but he belongs to the better side of the family."

In the peaceful time that succeeded the war, he returned to

Besztercebanya, and became a misanthrope. He never moved out of his

ugly, old stone house, and thought no more of making a position for

himself, nor of marrying. And like most old bachelors he fell in love

with his cook. His theory now was to simplify matters. He needed a woman

to cook for him and to wait on him, and he needed a woman to love; that

means two women in the house. Why should he not simplify matters and

make those two women one? Anna Wibra was a big stout woman, somewhere

from the neighborhood of Detvar. She was a rather good-looking woman,

and used to sing very prettily when washing up the plates and dishes in

the evening. She had such a nice soft voice that her master once called

her into his sitting-room, and made her sit down on one of the

leather-covered chairs. She had never sat so comfortably in her life

before.

"I like your voice, Anna; sing me something here, so that I can hear you

better."

So Anna started a very melancholy sort of song, "The Recruit's Letter,"

in which he complains to the girl he loves of all the hardships of war.

Gregorics was quite softened by the music, and three times he exclaimed:

"What a wonderful voice!" And he kept moving nearer and nearer to Anna,

till all at once he began to stroke her cheek. At this she turned

scarlet, and jumped up from her chair, pushing him away from her.

"That's not in my contract, sir!" she exclaimed.

Gregorics blushed too.

"Don't be silly, Anna," he said.

But Anna tossed her head and walked to the door.

"Don't run away, you stupid, I shan't eat you."

But Anna would not listen, and took refuge in her kitchen, from which

she was not to be coaxed again that evening.

The next day she gave notice to leave, but her master pacified her by

the gift of a golden ring, and a promise never to lay a finger on her

again. He told her he could not let her go, for he would never get any

one to cook as well as she did. Anna was pleased with the praise and

with the ring, and stayed, on condition that he kept his promise. He did

keep it for a time, and then forgot it, and Anna was again on the point

of leaving. But Gregorics pacified her this time with a necklace of

corals with a golden clasp, like the Baronesses Radvanszky wore at

church. The necklace suited her so well, that she no longer thought of

forbidding her master to touch her. He was rich enough, let him buy her

a few pretty things.

In fact, the same afternoon she paid a visit to the old woman who kept a

grocer's shop next door, and asked whether it would hurt very much to

have her ears pierced. The old woman laughed.

"Oh, you silly creature," she said, "you surely don't want to wear

earrings? Anna, Anna, you have bad thoughts in your head."

Anna protested and then banged the door behind her, so that the bell

fastened to it went on ringing for some moments.

Of course she wanted some earrings, why should she not have some? God

had given her ears the same as to all those grand ladies she saw at

church. And before the day was over she had found out that it would

hardly hurt her at all to have her ears pierced.

Yes, she wanted to have some earrings, and now she did all she could to

bring Gregorics into temptation. She dressed herself neatly, wore a red

ribbon in her hair, in fact, made herself thoroughly irresistible.

Gregorics may have been wily enough to be a spy for a whole Russian and

Austrian army, but a woman, however simple, was far deeper than he.

Next Sunday she went to church with earrings in her ears, much to the

amusement of the lads and lasses of the town, who had long ago dubbed

her "the Grenadier." And in a few weeks' time the whole town was full of

gossip about Gregorics and his cook, and all sorts of tales were told,

some of them supremely ridiculous. His step-brothers would not believe

it.

"A Gregorics and a servant! Such a thing was never heard of before!"

The neighbors tried to pacify them by saying there was nothing strange

in the fact, on the contrary it was quite natural. Pal Gregorics had

never done things correctly all his life. How much was true and how much

false is not known, but the gossip died away by degrees, only to awaken

again some years later, when a small boy was seen playing about with a

pet lamb in Pal Gregorics's courtyard. Who was the child? Where did he

come from? Gregorics himself was often seen playing with him. And

people, who sometimes out of curiosity looked through the keyhole of the

great wooden gates, saw Gregorics, with red ribbons tied round his

waist for reins, playing at horses with the child, who with a whip in

his hand kept shouting, "Gee-up, Raro." And the silly old fellow would

kick and stamp and plunge, and even race round the courtyard. And now he

was rarely seen limping through the town in his shabby clothes, to which

he had become accustomed when he was a spy, and under his arm his red

umbrella; he always had it with him, in fine or wet weather, and never

left it in the hall when he paid a visit, but took it into the room with

him, and kept it constantly in his hand. Sometimes the lady of the house

asked if he would not put it down.

"No, no," he would answer, "I am so used to having it in my hand that I

feel quite lost without it. It is as though one of my ribs were missing,

upon my word it is!"

There was a good deal of talk about this umbrella. Why was he so

attached to it? It was incomprehensible. Supposing it contained

something important? Somebody once said (I think it was Istvan Pazar who

had served in the war), that the umbrella contained all sorts of notes,

telegrams, and papers written in his spying days, and that they were in

the handle of the umbrella, which was hollow. Well, perhaps it was true.

The other members of the Gregorics family looked with little favor on

the small boy in the Gregorics's household, and never rested till they

had looked through all the baptismal registers they could lay hands on.

At last they came upon the entry they wanted, "Gyoergy Wibra,

illegitimate; mother, Anna Wibra."

He was a pretty little fellow, so full of life and spirits that every

one took a fancy to him.

CHAPTER II.

DUBIOUS SIGNS.

Little Gyuri Wibra grew to be a fine lad, strong and broad chested. Pal

Gregorics was always saying, "Where on earth does he take that chest

from?"

He was so narrow-chested himself that he always gazed with admiration at

the boy's sturdy frame, and was so taken up in the contemplation of it,

that he hardly interested himself in the child's studies. And he was a

clever boy too. An old pensioned professor, Marton Kupeczky, gave him

lessons every day, and was full of his praises.

"There's plenty in him, sir," he used to say. "He'll be a great man,

sir. What will you bet, sir?"

Gregorics was always delighted, for he loved the boy, though he never

showed it. On these occasions he would smile and answer:

"I'll bet you a cigar, and we'll consider I've lost it."

And then he would offer the old professor, who was very fond of

betting, one of his choicest cigars.

"I never had such a clever pupil before," the old professor used to say.

"I have had to teach very ordinary minds all my life, and have wasted my

talents on them. A sad thing to say, sir. I feel like that nugget of

gold which was lost at the Mint. You know the tale, sir? What, you have

never heard it? Why, a large nugget of gold was once lost at the Mint.

It was searched for everywhere, but could not be found. Well, after a

long examination of all the clerks, it turned out that the gold had been

melted by accident with the copper for the kreutzers. You understand me,

sir? I have been pouring my soul into two or three generations of fools,

but, thank goodness, I have at last found a worthy recipient for my

knowledge. Of course, you understand me, sir?"

But Pal Gregorics needed no spurring on in this case; he had fixed

intentions as far as the boy was concerned, and folks were not far wrong

when they (mostly in order to vex the other Gregorics) prophesied the

end would be that Gregorics would marry Anna Wibra, and adopt her boy.

Kupeczky himself often said:

"Yes, that will be the end of it. Who will bet with me?"

It would have been the end, and the correct way too, for Gregorics was

fond enough of the boy to do a correct thing for once in a way. But two

things happened to prevent the carrying out of this plan. First of all

Anna fell from a ladder and broke her leg, so that she limped all her

life after, and who wants a lame wife?

The second thing was, that little Gyuri was taken ill very suddenly. He

turned blue in the face and was in convulsions; they thought he would

die. Gregorics fell on his knees by the side of the bed of the sick

child, kissed his face and cold little hands, and asked despairingly:

"What is the matter, my boy? Tell me what hurts you."

"I don't know, uncle," moaned the child.

At that moment Gregorics suffered every pain the child felt, and his

heart seemed breaking. He seized hold of the doctor's hand, and his

agony pressed these words from him:

"Doctor, save the child, and I'll give you a bag full of gold."

The doctor saved him, and got the bag of money too, as Gregorics had

promised in that hour of danger. (Of course the doctor did not choose

the bag, Gregorics had one made on purpose.)

The doctor cured the boy, but made Gregorics ill, for he instilled

suspicion into his mind by swearing that the boy's illness was the

result of poison. Nothing could have upset Gregorics as much as this

declaration. How could it have happened? Had he eaten any poisonous

mushrooms? Gyuri shook his head. Well, what could he have eaten?

The mother racked her brains to find out what could have been the cause.

Perhaps this, perhaps that, perhaps the vinegar was bad, or the copper

saucepans had not been quite clean? Gregorics shook his head

sorrowfully.

"Don't talk nonsense, Anna," he said.

Deep down in his heart was a thought which he was afraid to put into

words, but which entirely spoiled his life for him, and robbed him of

sleep and appetite. He had thought of his step-brothers; they had

something to do with it, he was sure. There was an end to all his plans

for adopting the boy, giving him his own name, and leaving him his

fortune. No, no, it would cost Gyuri his life; they would kill him if he

gave them the chance. But he did not intend to give them the chance. He

trembled for the child, and hardly dared to love him. He started a new

line of conduct, a very mad one too. He ordered the boy to address him

as "sir" for the future, and forbade him to love him.

"It was only a bit of fun, you know, my allowing you to call me 'uncle.'

Do you understand?"

Tears stood in the boy's eyes, and seeing them old Gregorics bent down

and kissed them away; and his voice was very sad as he said:

"Don't tell any one I kissed you, or you will be in great danger."

Precaution now became his mania. He took Kupeczky into his house, and

the old professor had to be with the boy day and night, and taste every

bit of food he was to eat. If Gyuri went outside the gates, he was first

stripped of his velvet suit and patent leather shoes, and dressed in a

ragged old suit kept on purpose, and allowed to run barefoot. Let people

ask in the streets, "Who is that little scarecrow?" And let those who

knew answer, "Oh, that is Gregorics's cook's child."

And, in order thoroughly to deceive his relations, he undertook to

educate one of his step-sister's boys; took him up to Vienna and put him

in the Terezianum, and kept him there in grand style with the sons of

counts and barons. To his other nephews and nieces he sent lots of

presents, so that the Gregorics family, who had never liked the younger

brother, came at last to the conclusion that he was not such a bad

fellow after all, only something of a fool.

Little Gyuri himself was sent away to school after a time; to Kolozsvar

and then to Szeged, as far away as possible, so as to be out of reach of

the family. At these times Kupeczky secretly disappeared from the town

too, though he might as well have been accompanied by a drum and fife

band, for not a soul would have asked where he was going.

Doubtless there was a lot of exaggeration in all this secrecy and

precaution, but exaggeration had a large share in Gregorics's character.

If he undertook something very difficult he was more adventurous than

the devil himself, and once his fear was overcome, he saw hope in every

corner. His love for the child and his fear were both exaggerated, but

he could not help it.

While the boy was pursuing his studies with success, the little man with

the red umbrella was placing his money in landed estate. He said he had

bought a large estate in Bohemia, and in order to pay for it had been

obliged to sell his house in Vienna. Not long after he had built a sugar

factory on the estate, upon which he began to look out for a purchaser

for his Privorec estates. He soon found one in the person of a rich

merchant from Kassa. There was something strange and mysterious in the

fact of the little man making so many changes in his old age. One day he

had his house in Besztercebanya transferred to Anna Wibra's name. And

the little man was livelier and more contented than he had ever been in

his life before. He began to pay visits again, interested himself in

things and events, chattered and made himself agreeable to every one,

dined with all his relations in turn, throwing out allusions and hints,

such as, "After all, I can't take my money with me into the next world,"

and so on. He visited all the ladies who had refused him years ago, and

very often went off by train, with his red umbrella under his arm, and

stayed away for months and weeks at a time. No one troubled about him,

every one said:

"I suppose the old fellow has gone to look after his property."

He never spoke much about his Bohemian estates, though his step-brothers

were much interested in them. They both offered in turns to go there

with him, for they had never been in Bohemia; but Gregorics always had

an answer ready, and to tell the truth he did not seem to trouble

himself much about the whole affair. Which was not to be wondered at,

for he had no more possessions in Bohemia than the dirt and dust he

brought home in his clothes from Carlsbad, where he spent a summer doing

the cure.

The whole story was only trumped up to put his relations off the scent,

whereas the truth was that he had turned all he had into money, and

deposited it in a bank in order to be able to give it to the boy.

Gyuri's inheritance would be a draft on a bank, a bit of paper which no

one would see, which he could keep in his waistcoat pocket, and yet be

a very rich man. It was well and carefully thought out. So he did not

really go to his estates, but simply to the town where Gyuri was

studying with his old professor.

Those were his happiest times, the only rays of light in his lonely

life; weeks in which he could pet the boy to his heart's content. Gyuri

was a favorite at school, always the first in his class, and a model of

good behavior.

The old man used to stay for weeks in Szeged and enjoy the boy's

society. They were often seen walking arm in arm on the banks of the

Tisza, and when they and Kupeczky talked Slovak together, every one

turned at the sound of the strange language, wondering which of the many

it was that had been invented at the Tower of Babel.

When the last lesson was over, Gregorics was waiting at the gate, and

the delighted boy would run and join him--though his comrades, who, one

would have thought, would have had enough to occupy their thoughts

elsewhere, teased him about the old man. They swore he was the devil in

_propria persona_, that he did Gyuri Wibra's exercises for him, and that

he had a talisman which caused him to know his lessons well. It was easy

to be the first in his class at that rate. There were even some silly

enough to declare the old gentleman had a cloven foot, if you could

only manage to see him with his boots off. The old red umbrella, too,

which he always had with him, they thought must be a talisman, something

after the style of Aladdin's lamp. Pista Paracsanyi, the best classical

verse writer, made up some lines on the red umbrella; which were soon

learnt by most of the boys, and spouted on every possible occasion, in

order to annoy the "head boy." But the poet had his reward in the form

of a black eye and a bleeding nose, bestowed upon him by Gyuri Wibra,

who, however, began to be vexed himself at the sight of the red

umbrella, which made his old friend seem ridiculous in the eyes of his

schoolfellows, and one day he broached the subject to the old gentleman.

"You might really buy a new umbrella, uncle."

The old gentleman smiled.

"What, you don't like my umbrella?"

"You only get laughed at, and the boys have even made verses about it."

"Well, my boy, tell your schoolfellows that 'all that glitters is not

gold,' as they may have heard; but tell them, too, that very often

things that do not glitter may be gold. You will understand that later

on when you are grown up."

He thought for a bit, idly making holes in the sand with the umbrella,

and then added:

"When the umbrella is yours."

Gyuri made a wry face.

"Thank you, uncle, but I hope you don't mean to give it me on my

birthday instead of the pony you promised me?"

And he laughed heartily, upon which the old gentleman began to laugh

too, contentedly stroking his mustache, consisting of half a dozen

hairs. There was something strange in his laugh, as though he had

laughed _inward_ to his own soul.

"No, no, you shall have your pony. But I assure you that the umbrella

will once belong to you, and you will find it very useful to protect you

from the wind and clouds."

Gyuri thought this great nonsense. Such old gentlemen always attached

themselves so to their belongings, and thought such a lot of them. Why,

one of his professors had a penholder he had used for forty years!

One episode in connection with the umbrella remained fixed in Gyuri's

memory ever after. One day they rowed out to the "Yellow," as they call

a small island situated just where the Maros and the Tisza met, and

where the fishermen of Szeged cook their far-famed "fish with paprika"

(a kind of cayenne grown in Hungary, and much used in the national

dishes). We read in Marton's famous cookery book that "fish with

paprika" must only be boiled in Tisza water, and the same book says that

a woman cannot prepare the dish properly.

Well, as I said before, the three of them rowed out to the "Yellow." As

they were landing they struck against a sand heap, and Gregorics, who

was in the act of rising from his seat, stumbled and lost his balance,

and in trying to save himself from falling dropped his umbrella into the

water, and the current carried it away with it.

"My umbrella, save it!" shouted Gregorics, who had turned as white as a

sheet, and in whose eyes they read despair. The two boatmen smiled, and

the elder one, slowly removing his pipe from his mouth, remarked

laconically:

"No great loss that, sir; it was only fit to put in the hands of a

scarecrow."

"One hundred florins to the one who brings it me back," groaned the old

gentleman.

The boatmen, astonished, gazed at one another, then the younger man

began to pull off his boots.

"Are you joking, sir, or do you mean it?"

"Here are the hundred florins," said Gregorics, taking a bank-note from

his pocket-book.

The young man, a fine specimen of a Szeged fisherman, turned to

Kupeczky.

"Is the old chap mad?" he asked in his lackadaisical way, while the

umbrella quietly floated down the stream.

"Oh dear no," answered Kupeczky, who, however, was himself surprised at

Gregorics's strange behavior.

"It's not worth it, domine spectabilis," he added, turning to the old

gentleman.

"Quick, quick!" gasped Gregorics.

Another doubt had arisen in the boatman's mind.

"Is the bank-note a real one, sir?" he asked.

"Of course it is. Make haste!"

The man, who had by this time taken off both his boots and his jacket,

now sprang into the water like a frog, and began to swim after the

umbrella, the old boatman shouting after him:

"You're a fool, Janko; come back, don't exert yourself for nothing."

Gregorics, afraid the warning would take effect, flew at the old man and

seized hold of his tie.

"Hold your tongue or I'll murder you. Do you want to ruin me?"

"Well, what would that matter? Do you want to throttle me? Leave go of

my neck-tie."

"Well, let the boy go after my umbrella."

"After all, what is the hen good for if not to look after the chickens?"

muttered the old boatman. "The current just here is very strong, and he

won't be able to reach the umbrella. And what's the good of it, when it

will come back of itself when the tide turns in half an hour's time, to

the other side of the 'Yellow.' In half an hour the fishermen will

spread their nets, and the gentleman's umbrella will be sure to be

caught in them; even if a big fish swallows it we can cut it open."

And as the old fisherman had said, so it came to pass; the umbrella was

caught in one of the fishing nets, and great was the joy of old

Gregorics when he once more held his treasure in his hand. He willingly

paid the young fisherman the promised one hundred florins, though it was

not really he who had brought the umbrella back; and in addition he

rewarded the fishermen handsomely, who, the next day, spread the tale

through the whole town of the old madman, who had given one hundred

florins for the recovery of an old torn red umbrella. They had never

before caught such a big fish in the Tisza.

"Perhaps the handle of the umbrella was of gold?"

"Not a bit of it; it was only of wood."

"Perhaps the linen was particularly fine?"

"Rubbish! Is there any linen in the world worth one hundred florins? It

was plain red linen, and even that was torn and ragged."

"Then you have not told us the tale properly."

"I've told you the whole truth."

Kupeczky remarked to Gyuri:

"I would not mind betting the old gentleman has a tile loose."

"A strange man, but a good one," answered Gyuri. "Who knows what

memories are attached to that umbrella!"

CHAPTER III.

PAL GREGORICS'S DEATH AND WILL.

No signification was attached to the above-mentioned incident till years

after, when every one had forgotten all about it, Gyuri included. As for

Kupeczky, he could not remember it, for as soon as the news came from

Besztercebanya that old Gregorics was dead, he took to his bed and never

rose from it again.

"I am dying, Gyuri," he said to his sobbing pupil, "I feel it. It was

only Gregorics kept me alive, or rather I kept myself alive for his

sake. But now I'm done for. I don't know if he has provided for your

future, my poor boy, but it's all over with me, I'm dying, I wouldn't

mind betting it."

And he would have won his bet too. Gyuri went home for Gregorics's

funeral, and a week later the landlady sent word that the old professor

was dead, and he was to send money for the funeral.

But what was Kupeczky's death to that of Gregorics? The poor old fellow

was quite right to take his departure, for no one wanted him, no one

took any notice of him. He slipped quietly into the next world, just as

one ought to do; even during his life he caused no disturbance; he was

here, he went, and there was an end of it. But Pal Gregorics went to

work in quite a different style. He was taken ill with cramp on the

Thursday in Holy Week, and went to bed in great pain. After a time the

cramp ceased, but left him very weak, and he fell asleep toward evening.

Some hours after he opened his eyes and said:

"Anna, bring me my umbrella, and put it here, near my bed. That's it!

Now I feel better!"

He turned over and went to sleep again, but soon woke up with a start.

"Anna," he said, "I have had a fearful dream. I thought I was a horse,

and was being taken to a fair to be sold. My step-brothers and nephews

appeared on the scene, and began to bid for me, and I stood trembling

there, wondering which of them I was to belong to. My brother Boldizsar

pulled open my mouth, examined my teeth, and then said, 'He is not worth

anything, we could only get five florins for his skin.' As he was

speaking, up came a man with a scythe. He poked me in the ribs (it hurts

me still), and exclaimed, 'The horse is mine, I'll buy it.' I turned and

looked at him, and was horrified to see it was Death himself. 'But I

will not give the halter with the horse,' said my owner. 'It does not

matter,' answered the man with the scythe, 'I can get one from the shop

round the corner; wait a minute, I'll be back directly.' And then I

awoke. Oh, it was dreadful!"

His red hair stood on end, and beads of perspiration rolled down his

face, which Anna wiped with a handkerchief.

"Nonsense," she said, "you must not believe in dreams; they do not come

from Heaven, but from indigestion."

"No, no," said the sick man, "I'm going, I feel it. My time will be up

when they bring the halter. Don't waste words trying to console me, but

bring me pen and paper, I want to send a telegram to the boy; he must

come home at once. I'll wait for his arrival, yes, I'll wait till then."

They brought a table to his bed, and he wrote the following words:

"Come at once, uncle is dying and wants to give you something.--Mother."

"Send the servant with this at once."

He was very restless while the man was away, and asked three times if he

had returned. At length he came back, but with bad news; the telegraph

office was closed for the night.

"Well, it does not matter," said Anna, "we will send it in the morning.

The master is not really so bad, it is half imagination; but he is so

nervous we must not excite him, so go in and tell him the telegram is

sent."

He was quieter after that, and began to reckon at what time the boy

would arrive, and decided he might be there by the afternoon of the

second day.

He slept quietly all night, and got up the next morning very pale and

weak, but went about putting things straight and turning out drawers.

"It is unnecessary to send the telegram," thought Anna to herself. "He

seems nearly himself again, and will be all right in a day or two."

The whole day he pottered about, and in the afternoon shut himself up in

his study and drank a small bottle of Tokay wine, and wrote a great

deal. Anna only went in once to see if he wanted anything. No, he wanted

nothing.

"Have you any pain?"

"My side hurts me, just where the man with the scythe touched me. There

is something wrong inside."

"Does it hurt very much?"

"Yes, very much!"

"Shall I send for a doctor?"

"No."

In the evening he sent for his lawyer, Janos Sztolarik. He was quite

lively when he came, made him sit down, and sent for another bottle of

Tokay.

"The February vintage, Anna," he called after her.

The wine had been left him by his father, and dated from the year when

there had been two vintages in Tokay in twelve months, one in February,

and one in October. Only kings can drink the like of it. On account of

the mildness of the winter the vines had been left uncovered, had

flowered and borne fruit, so that in February they were able to have a

vintage, and you can imagine what a flavor those grapes had. There was

never anything like it before nor after. Old Gregorics's father used to

call it the "Life-giver," and often said:

"If a man intending to commit suicide were to drink a thimbleful of it

beforehand, he would, if unmarried, go and look up a 'best man,' or, if

married, would go and sue for a divorce; but kill himself he would not."

The two friends drank to each other's health, and Gregorics smacked his

lips.

"It's devilish good," he said.

Then he gave the lawyer a sealed packet.

"In that you will find my will," he said. "I sent for you in order to

give it you."

He rubbed his hands and smiled.

"There will be some surprises in that."

"Why are you in such a hurry with it? There is plenty of time," said

Sztolarik, taking the packet.

Gregorics smiled.

"I know more about that than you, Sztolarik. But take a drop more, and

don't let us talk of death. And now I'll tell you how my father got this

wine. Well, he was a very sly customer, and if he couldn't get a thing

by fair means, he got it by foul, and I have inherited some of his

slyness from him. But mine is not the genuine article; however, that

does not matter. In Zemplin there lived a very, very rich man, a count,

and an ass into the bargain; at least he was a good-hearted man, and

liked to give pleasure to others, thus proving that he was an ass. My

father used to buy his wine of him, and if they had struck a good

bargain the count used to give him a glass of this nectar. Being an

assiduous wine merchant, of course my father was always worrying him to

sell him some of the wine, but the count would not hear of it, and said,

'The Emperor Ferdinand has not enough money to buy it!' Well, once when

they were drinking a small glass of the 'Life-giver,' my father began

sighing deeply: 'If my poor wife could only drink a thimbleful of this

every day for two months, I am sure she would get quite well again.'

Upon which the count's heart softened, and he called up his major-domo

and said: 'Fill Mr. Gregorics's cask with the "Life-giver."' A few days

later several visitors arrived at the castle, and the count ordered some

of the wine to be brought. 'There is none left, sir,' said the butler.

'Why, what has become of it?' asked the count. 'Mr. Gregorics took it

with him, there was not even enough to fill his cask!' It was true, for

my father had ordered an enormous cask of Mr. Pivak (old Pivak is still

alive and remembers the whole story), took the cask in a cart to

Zemplin, and, after filling it with the wine, brought it home. Not bad,

was it? Drink another glass before you go, Sztolarik."

When the lawyer had gone, Gregorics called his man-servant in.

"Go at once to the ironmonger's and buy a large caldron; then find me

two masons and bring them here; but don't speak to a soul about it."

Now that was Matyko's weak point, but if he had not been told to hold

his tongue he might have managed to do so later on, when the opportunity

for speaking came.

"Off you go, and mind you are back in double quick time!"

Before dark the masons had arrived, and the caldron too. Gregorics took

the two men into his room, and carefully shut the door.

"Can you keep silence?" he asked.

The masons looked at each other surprised, and the elder one answered.

"Why, of course we can keep silence, that is the first thing a man does

on his arrival in this world."

"Yes, until he has learnt to talk," answered Gregorics.

"And even afterward you can make the trial if it is worth your while,"

said the younger man slyly.

"It will be worth your while, for you shall have fifty florins each if

you will make a hole in a wall large enough to put this caldron in, and

then close it again so that no one can see where it was put."

"Is that all?"

"That is all. But besides that you will receive fifty florins each from

the owner of this house every year, as long as you keep silence."

The masons again exchanged glances, and the elder said:

"We will do it. Where is it to be done?"

"I will show you."

Gregorics took down a rusty key from a nail, and went out with the men

into the courtyard.

"Now follow me," he said, and led them through the garden to an orchard,

in which was a small house built of stone. The most delicious apples

grew here, and that had induced old Gregorics to buy the orchard and

house from the widow of the clergyman; he had made a present of both to

little Gyuri, and it was entered in his name. When the boy was at home

he used to study there with Kupeczky, but since he left it had been

quite deserted.

Gregorics led the masons to this little house, and showed them the wall

in which he wished an opening made large enough to receive the caldron,

and told them when they were ready to come and tell him, as he wished to

be present when they walled it in. By midnight the hole was ready, and

the masons came and tapped at the window. Gregorics let them in, and

they saw the caldron in the middle of the room. The top was covered with

sawdust, so that they could not see what was in it, but it was so heavy

the two masons could hardly carry it. Gregorics followed them step for

step, and did not move until they had built up the wall again.

"If you have it whitewashed to-morrow, sir, no one will find the place."

"I am quite satisfied with the work," said Gregorics. "Here is the

promised reward, and now you may go."

The elder of the two masons was surprised at being let off so easily.

"I've heard and read of this sort of thing," he said, "but they did

things differently then. They used to put the masons' eyes out, so that

even they could not find the place again, but of course they got a

hundred times as much as we do."

"Ah, that was in the good old times," sighed the other.

Gregorics troubled his head no more about them, but closed the heavy

oaken door of the house, and went home to bed.

The next morning the cramp returned, and was only partially relieved by

the medicine Anna gave him. He was frightfully weak, and only now and

then showed interest in what was going on around him.

"Give us a good dinner, Anna," he said once, "and make dumplings, the

boy likes them."

And half an hour afterward:

"Make the dumplings with jam, Anna, the boy likes them best so."

The only thing he would take himself was mineral water. Toward afternoon

the cramp was much worse, and he began to spit blood. Anna was

frightened, and began to cry, and ask if he would not have a doctor or a

priest. Gregorics shook his head.

"No, no, I am quite ready to die, everything is in order. I am only

waiting for Gyuri. What time is it?"

The church clock just then struck twelve.

"It is time the coach arrived. Go and tell Matyko to wait outside by

the gate, and carry Gyuri's bag in when he comes."

Anna wrung her hands in despair. Should she own she had not sent off the

telegram? No, she dare not tell him; she would carry on the deception,

and send Matyko out to the gate. But the sick man got more and more

restless.

"Anna," he said, "take the horn out, and tell Matyko to blow it when the

boy arrives, so that I may know at once."

So Anna took down the horn, and had less courage than ever to own the

truth.

The sick man was quieter after that, and listened attentively, raising

his head at every sound, and feeling for his umbrella every now and

then.

"Open the window, Anna, or I shan't hear Matyko blow the horn."

The sunlight streamed in through the open window, and the perfume of

acacia blossoms was borne in on the breeze.

"Put your hand on my forehead, Anna."

She did as she was told, and found his skin cold and dry. The sick man

sighed.

"Your hand is too rough, Anna. The boy's is so soft and warm."

He smiled faintly, then opened his eyes.

"Did you not hear anything? Listen! Was that the horn?"

"I don't think so. I heard nothing."

Gregorics pointed to a clock in the next room.

"Stop it," he said. "I can't hear anything. Quick, quick!"

Anna got on a chair, and stopped the clock. In that moment she heard a

sound in the next room, something like a groan, then the muttered words:

"I hear the horn!" then another groan.

Anna jumped off the chair, and ran into the next room. There all was

still; on the bed were large spots of blood, and Gregorics lay there

dead, his face white, his eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling. One

hand hung down by his side, the other firmly held the umbrella.

Thus died poor Pal Gregorics, and the news of his death soon spread

among his relations and his neighbors. The doctor said he had died of

some illness with a long Latin name, which no one had ever heard, and

said that if he had been called sooner he might have saved him.

Boldizsar was soon on the spot, also his brother Gaspar with all his

family. Mrs. Panyoki, the eldest sister, was in the country at the time,

and on receipt of the news late the same evening, exclaimed

despairingly:

"What a deception! Here have I been praying all my life for him to die

in the winter, and he must needs go and die in the summer. Is there any

use in praying nowadays? What a deception! Those two thieves will take

everything they can lay their hands on."

She ordered the horses to be harnessed, and drove off as fast as she

could, arriving about midnight, by which time the two brothers were in

possession of everything, had even taken up their abode in the house,

and driven Anna out in spite of her protests that the house was hers,

and she was mistress there.

"Only the four walls are yours, and those you shall have. The rest is

ours, and a good-for-nothing creature like you has no right here. So off

you go!"

Gaspar was a lawyer, and understood things; how was poor Anna to take

her stand against him. She could only cry, put on her hat, pack up her

box, and limp over the road to Matyko's mother. But before she went the

two brothers turned her box out, to see she took nothing with her to

which she had no right.

The funeral took place on the third day. It was not a grand one by any

means; no one shed a tear except poor Anna, who did not dare go near the

coffin for fear of being sent off by the relations. The boy had not yet

arrived from Szeged, and it was better so, for he would probably have

been turned out of the courtyard by the two brothers of the dead man.

But even though Anna did not walk with the mourners, she was the centre

of all eyes, for did not that big house outside the town belong to her

now? And when she dropped her handkerchief wet with her tears, did not

all the unmarried men, one of them even a lawyer, rush to pick it up for

her?

This incident went to prove how much she had risen in people's

estimation. After the funeral, there was a general gathering of all the

family at Sztolarik's in order to hear the will read. Well, it was a

rather strange one on the whole.

The old gentleman had left 2000 florins to the Academy of Arts and

Sciences, and 2000 florins to each of the ladies at whose houses he had

visited years before, and to those who had refused to marry him. Nine

ladies were mentioned by name, and the legacy had been placed in the

hands of Sztolarik to be paid at once to the legatees.

The relations listened with bated breath, every now and then throwing in

a remark, such as, "Very good. Quite right of him," etc. Only Mrs.

Panyoki muttered, when the nine ladies' names were read out: "Dear me,

how very strange!"

Boldizsar, who was of opinion it was not worth while worrying over such

trifles (after all, Pal had been slightly mad all his life), said

grandly:

"Please continue, Mr. Sztolarik."

The lawyer answered shortly: "There is no more!"

Their surprise was great, and there was a general rush to look at the

will.

"Impossible!" they all exclaimed at once.

The lawyer turned his back on them repeating:

"I tell you there is not another word!"

"And the rest of his fortune, his estates in Bohemia?"

"There is no mention of them. I can only read what I see written here;

you must at least understand that, gentlemen."

"It is incomprehensible," groaned Gaspar.

"The curious part of it is," remarked Boldizsar, "that there is no

mention of that woman and her son."

"Yes, of course," answered Gaspar, "it does seem strange."

The lawyer hastened to reassure them.

"It can make no difference to you," he said. "Whatever fortune there may

be that is not mentioned in the will falls to you in any case."

"Yes, of course," said Gaspar, "and that is only right. But the money?

Where is it? There must be any amount of it. I'm afraid some wrong has

been done."

Mrs. Panyoki said nothing, only looked suspiciously at her two

brothers.

CHAPTER IV.

THE AVARICIOUS GREGORICS.

The contents of the will soon became known in the town, and caused quite

a little storm in the various patriarchal drawing-rooms, with their

old-fashioned cherry-wood pianos, over which hung the well-known

picture, the "March of Miklos Zrinyi," and their white embroidered

table-cloths on small tables, in the centre of which stands a silver

candlestick, or a glass brought from some watering-place with the name

engraved on it, and a bunch of lilac in it. Yes, in those dear little

drawing-rooms, there was any amount of gossip going on. It was really

disgraceful of Gregorics, but he was always tactless. The idea of

compromising honest old ladies, mothers and grandmothers!

The nine ladies were the talk of the town, their names were in every

mouth, and though there were many who blamed Gregorics, there were also

some who took his part.

"After all," they said, "who knows what ties there were between them?

Gregorics must have been a lively fellow in his youth."

And even those who defended Gregorics decided that after all there must

have been some friendship between him and the nine ladies at some time

or other, or why should he have remembered them in his will; but his

behavior was not gentlemanly in any case, even if they were to believe

the worst. In fact, in that case it was even more tactless.

"For such behavior he ought to be turned out of the club, I mean he

ought to have been turned out; in fact, I mean, if he were alive he

might be turned out. I assure you, if they write on his gravestone that

he was an honorable man, I'll strike it out with my own pencil."

These were the words of the notary.

The captain of the fire-brigade looked at it from a different point of

view.

"It is a cowardly trick," he declared. "Women only reckon until they are

thirty-five years of age, and these are all old women. A little

indiscretion of this kind cannot hurt them. If you breathe on a rusty

bit of steel it leaves no mark. We only remove caterpillars from those

trees which have flowers or leaves, or which will bear fruit, but on

old, dried-up trees we leave them alone. But it is the husbands

Gregorics has offended, for it is cowardly to affront people who cannot

demand satisfaction from you. And I think I may affirm with safety that

Gregorics is now incapable of giving satisfaction."

The next morning Istvan Vozary (whose wife was one of the nine ladies

mentioned in the will) appeared at the lawyer's and informed him that as

his wife had never had anything to do with the dead man, she had no

intention of accepting the 2000 florins. When this was known in the

town, the eight remaining ladies arrived, one after the other, at the

lawyer's, in order to make known to him their refusal of the legacy, as

they also had nothing to do with Gregorics.

I do not know when Sztolarik had had such a lively time of it as on that

day, for it was really amusing to see those wrinkled old dames,

toothless and gray-haired, coming to defend their honor.

But it was even livelier for the Gregorics family, for they thus got

back the 20,000 florins they had been cheated out of--that is, with the

exception of the 2000 florins left to the Academy of Arts and Sciences,

for, of course, the Academy accepted the legacy, though it also had had

nothing to do with Gregorics. But the Academy (the tenth old woman) was

not so conscientious as the other nine.

The joy of the Gregorics soon turned to bitterness, for they could not

manage to find out where the Bohemian estates were. Gaspar went off to

Prague, but came back after a fruitless search. They were unable to find

any papers referring to the estates; not a bill, not a receipt, not a

letter was to be found.

"It was incomprehensible, such a thing had never happened before,"

Boldizsar said.

They were wild with anger, and threatened Matyko and Anna to have them

locked up, if they would not tell them where the estates were in

Bohemia; and at length they were brought before the Court and examined.

Matyko at least must know all about it, for he had travelled everywhere

with his master.

So Matyko had to own that his master had never been to Bohemia at all,

but had always gone to Szeged or to Kolozsvar, where Gyuri had been at

school.

Oh! that sly Pal Gregorics, how he had cheated his relations! Now it was

as clear as day why he had turned all his possessions into money, of

course he had given it all to that boy. But _had_ he given it him? How

could he have trusted hundreds of thousands to a child of that age?

Then, where had he put it? to whom had he given it? That was the riddle

the Gregorics were trying to solve.

The lawyer, the last person who had spoken to Gregorics, declared he had

not mentioned any money, and Anna swore by Heaven and earth that she

and her son had not received a kreutzer from him, and were much

embittered at the fact of his leaving them without any provision. She

had not a good word to say for the dead man. He had made the boy unhappy

for life, spending so much on him and his education, and then leaving

him totally without providing for him; so that the boy, for whom

expensive professors had been kept, would now be reduced to giving

lessons himself, in order to enable him to live, for the house would

hardly bring in enough to pay for his keep, while attending the lectures

at the University.

"Well," said Sztolarik, "if he had intended the boy to have his money,

he could have given it straight into his hands, no one could prevent

it."

This was quite true, and that was the very reason it seemed so strange

he had not done so. The house in Vienna had been sold for 180,000

florins, the Privorec estates for 75,000, which made over a quarter of

million florins. Good heavens! Where had he put it to? If he had

exchanged the paper notes for gold, melted it, and eaten it by spoonfuls

ever since, he could not have finished it yet.

But Gregorics had been a careful man, so the money must be in existence

somewhere. It was enough to drive one mad. It did not seem likely that

Anna or the boy should have the money, nor Sztolarik, who was Gyuri

Wibra's guardian; so the brothers Gregorics did not despair of finding

it, and they engaged detectives to keep their eyes on Anna, and looked

up a sharp boy in Pest to let them know how Gyuri lived there, and to

find out from his conversation whether he knew anything of the missing

money. For Gyuri had gone to Pest, to attend the University lectures,

and study law. The boy sent word that Gyuri lived very simply, attended

every lecture, lived at the "Seven Owls," and dined at a cheap

eating-house known by the name of the "First of April." This little

restaurant was mostly frequented by law students. On the daily bill of

fare was the picture of a fat man speaking to a very thin man, and

underneath was the following conversation:

Thin man: "How well you look; where do you dine?"

Fat man: "Why here, at the 'First of April.'"

Thin man: "Really? Well, I shall dine there too for the future."

All the same, the fare was not of the best, and perhaps the above

conversation was intended to make April Fools of people. For the

restaurant-keepers of olden times were frank, and even if they lied,

they did it so naively, that every one saw through the lie.

Gaspar Gregorics received the following particulars as to Gyuri's mode

of life:

"He breakfasts at a cheap coffee-house, attends lectures all the

morning, dines at the 'First of April,' the afternoon he passes at a

lawyer's office, copying deeds, etc., and in the evening he buys a

little bacon or fried fish for supper, then goes home and studies till

midnight. Every one likes him, and he will make his way in the world."

That avaricious Gaspar Gregorics began to wish the boy had the quarter

of a million after all, for he might in a few years' time marry his

daughter Minka, who was just eleven.

Anna had let the house, and Sztolarik sent Gyuri thirty florins every

month out of the rent.

The Gregorics divided the 18,000 florins refused by the nine ladies,

among the three of them, and also the few hundreds obtained by the sale

of the dead man's furniture and personal property, but the rest of the

money was still missing.

The whole town was discussing the question of its whereabouts, and all

sorts of silly tales were set afloat. Some said the old gentleman had

sent it to Klapka, and that one day Klapka would return with it in the

form of guns and cannon. Others said he had a castle, somewhere away in

the woods, where he kept a very beautiful lady, and even if he had not

been able to eat up his fortune in the form of melted gold, a pretty

woman would soon know how to dispose of it.

But what made the most impression on every one was, that an ironmonger

appeared at Gaspar's house with a bill for a large caldron Gregorics had

bought the day before his death, but had not paid for.

Gaspar gave a long whistle.

"That caldron was not among the things we sold," he said. And he went

through the inventory again; but no, the caldron was not there.

"I am on the right road," thought Gaspar. "He did not buy the caldron

for nothing. Consequently, what did he buy it for? Why, to put something

in it of course, and that something is what we are looking for!"

Boldizsar was of the same opinion, and positively beamed with delight.

"It is God's finger," he said. "Now I believe we shall find the

treasure. Pal must have buried the caldron somewhere, thinking to do us

out of our rights; and he would have succeeded if he had not been so

stupid as not to pay for the caldron. But luckily in cases of this kind

the wrongdoer generally makes some stupid mistake."

The ironmonger remembered that it was Matyko who had chosen the caldron

and taken it with him; so Gaspar one day sent for the servant, gave him

a good dinner with plenty of wine, and began to question him about

Pal's last days, introducing the incident of the caldron, the bill for

which the ironmonger had just sent him he said.

"What about it, Matyko," he asked. "Did your master really order it? I

can hardly believe it, for what could he have wanted it for? I'm afraid

you have been buying things for yourself, in your master's name."

That was the very way to make Matyko speak, to doubt his honor; and now

he let out the whole story in order to clear himself. The day before his

death, his master had told him to go and buy a caldron, and bring it

him, together with two masons. He had done as he was told, and toward

evening had taken the caldron into his master's bedroom; the masons had

arrived at the same time, and had seen the caldron, so they could bear

witness to the fact.

"Well, that's right, Matyko, you're a lucky fellow, for if you have two

witnesses, your honor is as intact as ever, and you must consider my

words as unspoken. Drink another glass of wine, and don't be offended at

my suspicion; after all, it was only a natural conclusion; we could find

no traces of the caldron, and the ironmonger wanted to be paid for it,

and said you had taken it away. Where can it have got to?"

"Heaven only knows," answered Matyko.

"Did you never see it again?"

"Never."

"And what became of the masons? What did they come for?"

"I don't know."

Gaspar smiled pleasantly at the man.

"You are like 'John Don't-know' in the fairy tale. He always answered,

'I don't know' to everything that was asked him. Of course you don't

know the two witnesses either who could establish your innocence? In

that case, my good fellow, you're no better off than you were before."

"But I do know one of them."

"What is his name?"

"Oh, I don't know his name."

"Well, how do you know him, then?"

"He has three hairs at the end of his nose."

"Rubbish! He may have cut them off since then."

"I should know him all the same by his face; it is just like an owl's."

"And where did you pick up the two masons?"

"They were mending the wall of the parish church."

By degrees Gaspar Gregorics got all particulars out of the man; and now

the ground seemed to be burning under his feet, so he went straight into

the town to look for the man with the three hairs on his nose.

It was not difficult to find him, and at the first place he asked at,

three voices answered at once:

"That must be Andras Prepelicza. His mustache made a mistake, and grew

on the top of his nose instead of on his lip."

After that it was mere child's play, for every workman knew that

Prepelicza was "building Pest," as they expressed it. He was working at

a large house in the Kerepesi Street.

Gaspar immediately had the horses harnessed, and drove to Pest, not

stopping till he reached the capital; and there he set to work to find

Prepelicza among the Slovak workmen. The mason was just going up on a

pulley to the third story when he found him, and Gaspar shuddered as he

thought: "Supposing the cords were to give way now!"

"Hallo, Prepelicza!" he shouted. "Wait a bit, I was just looking for

you. I want to have a talk with you."

"All right," called out the mason, examining the newcomer from above.

"Come up if you want to talk."

"You come down to me, it is very important."

"Well, shout it out, I can hear it all right up here."

"I can't do that, I must speak to you in private at any cost."

"Good or bad?"

"Very good."

"Good for me?"

"Yes, good for you."

"Well, if it is good for me it can wait till the evening. I shall be

down by then, but I want to finish this top window first."

"Don't argue, but come down at once. You won't be sorry for it."

"Why, I don't even know who you are."

"I'll send you word in a minute."

And with the next pulley he sent Prepelicza up a nice new crisp

ten-florin note. The man who took it up got a florin for doing so.

At the sight of this novel visiting-card Prepelicza threw down his

hammer and trowel, and with the next pulley returned to his mother

earth, where miracles have been going on ever since the time of Moses.

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"Follow me."

"To the end of the world, sir."