"Well, I shall be if you talk such rubbish again. I catch butterflies in
the wood."
"Are there pretty butterflies there? I had a collection when I was a
student; I believe I have it still."
At this a desire for rivalry seized hold of Veronica.
"You should see my collection," she said. "I have all kinds. Tigers,
Admirals, Apollos; only, it is such a pity, my Apollo has lost one of
its wings."
"Have you a Hebe?"
"Oh, yes, it is nearly as big as the palm of my hand."
"And how big is that? Let me see it."
Veronica spread out her hand on the table; it was not so very big after
all, but fine and pink as a roseleaf. Gyuri took a match and began to
measure it, and in doing so, accidentally touched her hand with his
finger, upon which she hastily drew it away and blushed furiously.
"It is very hot," she said, putting up her hand to her hot face, as
though she had drawn it away for that purpose.
"Yes, the room has got quite hot," broke in Mrs. Szliminszky. "Unbutton
your coat, Wladin!"
Wladin heaved a sigh of relief, and undid his coat.
Veronica returned to the subject of the butterflies.
"I think butterfly catching must be the same to me as hunting is to a
man."
"I am very fond of butterflies," answered Gyuri, "because they only love
once."
"Oh, I have another reason for liking them."
"Perhaps because of their mustaches?"
Veronica turned her head away impatiently.
"Mr. Wibra, you are beginning to be unpleasant."
"Thank you for the compliment."
"What compliment?"
"You say I am beginning to be unpleasant, which is as much as to say I
was pleasant till now."
"I see it is dangerous to talk with you, for you put words into my mouth
I never intended saying. I shall not speak again."
"I'll never do it again, never, I assure you. Only do talk," pleaded
Gyuri.
"Do the butterflies really interest you?"
"Upon my honor, they interest one more at this moment than lions and
tigers."
"I think butterflies are so pretty--like a beautifully dressed woman.
And what tasteful combinations of color! I always look at their wings as
though they were so many patterns of materials. For instance, look at a
Hebe, with its black and red under-wings, do not they match beautifully
with the yellow and blue-top wings! And then the Tiger, with its brown
and yellow-spotted dress! Believe me, the renowned Worth might with
advantage take a walk in the woods, and learn the art of combining
shades from the butterflies."
"Gently, Wladin!" called out Mrs. Szliminszky at this moment. "How many
lungs have you? A three-kreutzer stamp is sufficient for local letters."
Wladin and Senator Fajka were wondering how matters would stand if they
were both very deaf, and Wladin was talking so loudly that his loving
spouse felt bound to put in a word of remonstrance, and request him to
have some respect for his lungs.
"They are quite close to each other, and yet they shout as though they
were trying to persuade some one not to put a fifteen-kreutzer stamp on
a local letter. Oh dear! When will people be more sensible?"
At that moment, Senator Konopka rose and drank to the health of the
host, the "regenerator" of Babaszek. He spoke in exactly the same thin,
piping voice as Mr. Mravucsan; when the guests closed their eyes, they
really believed the master of the house himself was speaking, and
sounding his own praises; of course this caused great amusement. Upon
that up sprang the mayor, and answered the toast in Konopka's voice,
with just the same grimaces and movements he always made, and the
merriment rose in proportion. Kings do this too in another form, for at
meetings and banquets they pay each other the compliment of dressing up
in each other's uniforms; and yet no one thinks of laughing at them.
Toast succeeded toast.
"You have let the dogs loose now," whispered Fajka to Konopka.
Mokry drank to the health of the lady of the house, and then Mravucsan
stood up a second time to return thanks in his wife's name. He remarked
that, to their great disappointment, one of those invited had been
unable to come, namely, Mrs. Muencz, who had at the last moment had an
attack of gout in her foot, which was no wonder, considering the amount
of standing and running about she did when there was a fair in their
town. Then they all emptied their glasses to the health of the old
Jewess.
After the shouts of acclamation had died away, Wladin Szliminszky called
out:
"Now it is my turn!"
"Wladin, don't make a speech!" cried his wife. "You know it is bad for
your lungs to speak so loud."
But she could do nothing now to prevent him; a henpecked husband is
capable of everything; he will button or unbutton his coat, eat or drink
to order, but refrain from making the speech his brain has conceived he
will not; at least, it has never yet been heard of in the annals of
Hungarian history.
"I take up my glass, gentlemen, to drink to the fairest flower of the
company, beloved by God, Who on one occasion sent down His servant from
Heaven, saying: 'Go down at once, Peter, with an umbrella; don't let the
child get wet.' Long life to Miss Veronica Belyi!"
Veronica was as red as a rose, especially when the guests all got up one
after the other, and went and kissed her hand; some of them even knelt
to do it, and pious Mrs. Mravucsan bent down and kissed the hem of her
dress.
Gyuri thought at first on hearing Wladin's peculiar speech that the good
man had gone mad, and now seeing every one following his example, was
more surprised than ever, and a strange feeling crept over him.
"What miracle is it your husband is referring to?" he asked, turning to
Mrs. Szliminszky.
That good lady looked at him surprised.
"What! Don't you know the story? Why, it is impossible. It is even
printed in Slovak verse."
"What is printed?"
"Why, the story of the umbrella ... Wladin, you are very hot, your face
is the color of a boiled lobster. Shall I give you my fan?"
"What about the umbrella?" queried Gyuri impatiently.
"It is really strange you have never heard anything about it. Well, the
story runs, that when your fair neighbor was a little child, they once
left her out on the veranda of the priest's house. Her brother, the
priest of Glogova, was in the church praying. A storm came on, it poured
in torrents, and the child would have been wet through and have got
inflammation of the lungs, or something of the kind, if a miracle had
not taken place. An old man appeared on the scene, no one knows from
where; he seemed to have fallen from heaven, and he spread an umbrella
over the child's head."
"My umbrella!" burst unconsciously from the lawyer.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing, nothing."
His blood coursed more quickly through his veins, his heart beat faster,
he raised his head quickly, with the result that he also knocked his
glass over.
"A christening, another christening!" called out every one.
"My best wishes," said Mr. Rafanidesz, turning to Mrs. Szliminszky, who
blushed becomingly and told him not to talk nonsense.
But the young lawyer would not let her continue the conversation; he
drew his chair nearer to hers, and said:
"Please go on."
"Well, the gray-haired man disappeared, no one knew how nor where, and
those who saw him for a moment swore it was St. Peter."
"It was Muencz!"
"Did you speak?"
Gyuri bit his lip, and saw that he had spoken his thoughts aloud.
"Nothing, nothing; please go on."
"Well, St. Peter disappeared, and left the umbrella behind him."
"And does it still exist?"
"I should think it does indeed. They keep it as a relic in the church of
Glogova."
"Thank God!"
He drew a deep breath, as though a great weight had fallen from him.
"Found!" he murmured. He thought he would have fallen from his chair in
his joy.
"And to whom does it belong? To the Church?" asked Gyuri.
"It may be yours once," said Mrs. Szliminszky. "It will be Veronica's
when she marries; the priest of Glogova told me so himself. 'It will
belong to my sister,' he said, 'unless she makes a present of it to the
Church when she marries.'"
"Oh, no," said the lawyer, shaking his head. "At least, I mean ... What
am I saying? What were we speaking about? It is fearfully warm, I'm
stifling. Please, Mr. Mravucsan, could we have the window open?"
"Of course," and the mayor ran to open it.
"Button up your coat, Wladin!"
A fresh spring air entered by the window, and a slight breeze put out
both the candles.
"Kisses allowed," called out Klempa.
A branch of lilac was just outside the window, and spread its delicious
perfume through the room, decidedly more pleasant than the fumes of
tobacco smoke which had filled it a minute before.
Madame Krisbay, startled by the sudden darkness, gave vent to a little
scream, and Klempa seized the opportunity to exclaim:
"I assure you it was not I!"
There was a general confusion in the darkness, but Mrs. Szliminszky,
wanting to prove she was above being troubled by such trifles, quietly
continued her conversation with Gyuri.
"It is a pretty little legend, Mr. Wibra. I am not easily imposed upon,
and, besides, we are Lutherans; but I must say it is a very pretty
legend. But the umbrella is really wonderful. Sick people are cured if
they stand under it; a dead man rose to life again when it touched him.
It is of no use your shaking your head, for it is true. I know the man
himself, he is still alive. Altogether the things that umbrella has done
are wonderful, especially the fact that it has brought luck and riches
to the priest of Glogova."
A dark suspicion took possession of Gyuri, and when the candles were
relighted, it was to be seen he was as pale as death.
"Is the priest rich?" he asked.
"Very rich," answered Mrs. Szliminszky.
He drew nearer to her, and suddenly seized hold of her hand, pressing it
convulsively. The good lady could not make out why. (If he had done so a
minute sooner, she could have understood it, but the candles were alight
now!)
"He found something in the umbrella, did he not?" he asked, panting.
Mrs. Szliminszky shrugged her white shoulders, half visible through the
lace insertion of her dress.
"Why, what could he find in an umbrella? It is not a box, nor an iron
case. But for the last fourteen years people have come from great
distances to be married under the umbrella, and they pay generously for
it. And then when a rich person is dying anywhere beyond the Bjela Voda,
from the Szitnya right as far as Krivan, they send for the priest of
Glogova to hear their confession, and after their death, to bury them
under the umbrella."
Veronica, to whom the mayor's wife had been showing the embroidered
table-cloth, calling her attention to the fineness of the linen, now
caught a few words of the conversation.
"Are you speaking of our umbrella?" she asked amiably, leaning toward
them.
Gyuri and Mrs. Szliminszky started.
"Yes, my dear," answered the latter, slightly confused.
Gyuri smiled mischievously.
"I see," said Veronica, "you don't believe the story."
"No, I do not."
"Really?" asked the girl reproachfully; "and why?"
"Because I never believe nonsense, and because ..."
He had nearly said too much, but he kept back the words that rose to his
lips when he saw how wounded the girl appeared at his incredulity. She
smiled, turned her head away, and gazed silently at her plate. Gyuri was
silent too, though he felt inclined to cry out:
"I am rich at last, for in the handle of that umbrella there are unknown
treasures."
It is remarkable that if good luck befalls a man, his first wish (for he
still has wishes, even if they are all fulfilled) is to communicate it
to others; he would like trumpets sounded, heralds to be sent round to
announce it to the whole world. But then comes doubt, the everlasting
"perhaps." And so it was with Gyuri.
"What is the umbrella like, Miss Veronica?" he asked.
Veronica closed her lips firmly, as though she considered it unnecessary
to answer him, then thought better of it, and said:
"It is not much to look at; it is of faded red stuff, looks a thousand
years old, and is patched all over."
"With a border of small green flowers?"
"Have you seen it?"
"No, I only asked."
"Yes, there is a border of green flowers on it."
"Could I see it?"
"Certainly. Do you wish to?"
"That is what I am going to Glogova for."
"Why, if you don't believe in it?"
"Just for that very reason. If I believed in it I should not go."
"You are a heathen."
She drew her chair away from him, at which he at once became serious.
"Have I hurt you?" he asked contritely.
"No, but you frighten me," and her lovely oval face expressed
disappointment.
"I will believe anything you like, only don't be afraid of me."
Veronica smiled slightly.
"It would be a shame not to believe it," struck in Mrs. Szliminszky,
"for it is a fact--there is plenty to prove it. If you don't believe
that, you don't believe anything. Either the miracles in the Bible are
true, and if so, this is true too, or ..."
But she could not finish her sentence, for at that moment Madame Krisbay
rose from the table, saying she was tired, and would like to retire to
her room, and Mrs. Mravucsan led her and Veronica to two small rooms
opening on to the courtyard. In the doorway Gyuri bowed to Veronica, who
returned it with a slight nod.
"Shall we start early in the morning?" he asked.
She bowed with mock humility.
"As you like, Mr. Thomas," she said.
Gyuri understood the reference, and answered in the same strain:
"It depends upon how long the saints sleep."
Veronica turned her head, and shook her fist playfully at him.
"I will pay you out!" she said.
Gyuri could hardly take his eyes off her, she looked so pretty as she
spoke. Let the saints look like that if they could!
Soon after the Szliminszky pair started for home, accompanied by a man
carrying a lantern. Mrs. Szliminszky had made Wladin put on a light
spring coat, hung a long cloak over his shoulders, tied a big woollen
scarf round his neck, and having ordered him only to breathe through his
nose, once they were out, she turned to Gyuri again.
"Yes, it is a beautiful legend, it made a great impression on me."
"Poor legends!" returned Gyuri. "If we were to pick some of them to
pieces, and take the romance out of them, their saintly odor, their
mystery, what strange and simple truths would be left!"
"Well, they must not be picked to pieces, that is all. Wladin, turn up
the collar of your coat."
The lawyer thought for a minute.
"Perhaps you are right," he said.
After a short time Gyuri also asked to be shown to his room.
"The magnet has gone!" muttered the lawyer's clerk.
Hardly had the door closed when Kukucska, the butcher, exclaimed:
"Now we are free!"
He took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, thus showing the head of an
ox tatooed on his left arm, then winked knowingly at Mravucsan. The
mayor seemed to understand the look, for he went to a cupboard and
pulled out one of the drawers, from which he took a pack of cards. The
knave of spades was missing, but that did not make any difference to
the intelligent members of Babaszek society, for they had once before
played "Preference" with those cards, and the last player had simply
received one card less when they were dealt out, though he was supposed
to have the knave of spades, and it was called the "spirit card." If
they were playing spades, the last player in imagination threw the knave
on it, saying: "I play the spirit card!" So now, in spite of this small
difficulty, they decided to play, and the game lasted till daylight. The
Senators, the butcher, and the clergyman played, the lawyer's clerk
dealt, and Klempa looked on, having no money to lose, and went from one
player to the other, looking over their shoulders, and giving them
advice what to play. But one after the other sent him away, declaring he
brought them bad luck, which rather depressed him. So the poor
schoolmaster wandered from one to the other, till at last he took a seat
between the clergyman and the butcher, dropped his weary head on the
table, and went to sleep, his long beard doubled up, and serving as a
pillow. But he was to have a sad awakening, for that mischievous Pal
Kukucska, seeing the beard on the table, conceived the idea of sealing
it there; and fetching a candle and sealing-wax, they dropped some on
the beard in three places, and Mravucsan pressed his own signet ring on
it. Then they went on playing, until he should awake.
Other incidents, and not very pleasant ones either, were taking place in
the house. Madame Krisbay, to whom the mayor's wife had given her own
bedroom, would not go to bed with the enormous eider-down quilt over
her, for she was afraid of being suffocated during the night. She asked
for a "paplan" (a kind of wadded bed cover), but Mrs. Mravucsan did not
possess such a thing, so she brought in her husband's enormous fur-lined
cloak and threw it over madame, which so frightened the poor nervous
woman that she was attacked by migraine, and the mayor's wife had to
spend the night by her bed, putting horse-radish on her temples.
An unpleasant thing happened to Veronica too. As soon as she was alone
in the Mravucsans' best bedroom, she locked the door, hung a cloak on
the door-handle so that no one could look through the key-hole, drew the
curtains across the tiny windows which opened on to the courtyard, and
then began to undress. She had taken off the bodice of her dress and
unfastened her skirt, when all at once she became aware of two bright
eyes watching her intently from under the bed. It was a kitten, and it
was gazing at her as intently and admiringly as though it had been a
prince changed by some old witch into the form of a cat. Veronica,
alarmed, caught up her skirt and bodice, and put them on again.
"Go along, you tiresome kitten," she said; "don't look at me when I'm
undressing."
She was such an innocent child, she was ashamed to undress before the
kitten. She dressed again, and tried to drive it out of the room, but it
hid itself under the bed, then jumped on a cupboard, and it was quite
impossible to get rid of it. Mrs. Mravucsan, hearing the noise from the
next room, called out:
"What is the matter, my dear?"
"I can't drive the cat out."
"Never mind, she won't hurt you."
"But she always watches me," answered Veronica.
She put her candle out, and began to undress in the dark, but that
tiresome cat walked into the middle of the room again, and her eyes
shone more than ever.
"Wait a bit, you curious little thing," said Veronica. "I'll get the
best of you yet."
She made a barricade of chairs, then got inside it, as though she were
in a fortress, and began to undo her boots. Do you think that barricade
made any impression on the kitten? Not a bit of it. There she was again,
on the top of the chairs, from there one jump took her on to the
washing-stand, and another on to Veronica's bed. There she was seized
upon and a shawl bound round her head.
"Now, kitty, stare at me if you can!"
And after that she managed to undress in peace.
CHAPTER II.
NIGHT BRINGS COUNSEL.
While the two ladies were occupied with these trifles, and Klempa with
his beard sealed to the table slept the sleep of the just, Gyuri had
also retired to his bed, but found it impossible to sleep. It was not
from indigestion, for Mrs. Mravucsan's excellent supper had not
disagreed with him; it was his brain which was hard at work, going over
all the incidents that had taken place that day. He seemed to have lived
through years in the last few hours. What an age it seemed since he had
looked for the umbrella in Mrs. Muencz's shop! And it was found quite
unexpectedly. God had given it into the charge of an angel.
From the umbrella his thoughts flew to the "angel."
She was a nice little thing, he decided; not a bit unpleasant like other
girls of that age he knew, who were thoughtless, useless creatures.
Veronica was an exception. And she seemed to have taken to him too.
He passed again in revision all her words, her movements, and as he went
on, he found among the smiles, the softened voice, the unwatched
moments, certain signs of coldness here and there, as though she were
putting a restraint upon herself.
But he was so happy now, that he did not need the friendship of a silly
girl. He was a rich man now, a nabob beginning from to-day. He would
live like a prince henceforward, spend the winter in Budapest, or on the
Riviera, in Monaco, and the summer at Ostend; in fact, he would be a
grand gentleman, and not even look at poor priests' sisters. (How
tiresome it was, his thoughts would always return to Veronica.)
Sleep would not come, how could it be expected? One scheme after the
other passed before his mind's eye, like the butterflies in the Glogova
woods. And he chased them all in turn. Oh! if it were only daylight, and
he could move on. His watch was ticking on the table beside his bed; he
looked at it, the hands pointed to midnight. Impossible! It must be
later than that; his watch must be slow! Somewhere in the distance a
cock crew, as much as to say: "Your watch is quite right, Mr. Wibra." He
heard faint sounds of music proceeding from the "Frozen Sheep" in the
distance, and some one on his way home was singing a Slovak shepherd's
song.
Gyuri lighted a cigar, and sat down to smoke it and think things over.
How strangely the umbrella had been found--at least _he_ had not found
it yet, it was not yet in his possession, and when he came to look at
the facts, he found he was not much nearer to it than he had been. Until
now he had supposed it had been thrown away as a useless rag, and he had
had little hope of finding it. And now, what had happened? Things were
quite different to what they had imagined them; for as it turned out,
the umbrella was a treasure, a relic in a church. What was to be done
about it? What was he to say to the priest to-morrow? "I have come for
my umbrella"? The priest would only laugh at him, for, either he was
bigoted and superstitious, in which case he would believe St. Peter had
brought the umbrella to his sister, or he was a Pharisee, and in that
case he would not be such a fool as to betray himself.
The wind was rising, and the badly fitting windows and door of the
little room that had been allotted to him were rattling, and the
furniture cracked now and then. He could even hear the wind whistling
through the Liskovina Wood, not far from the house. Gyuri blew out the
light and lay down again under the big eider-down quilt, and imagined
he saw the corpse Mr. Mravucsan had spoken of, hanging from a tree,
waving from side to side in the wind, and nodding its head at him,
saying: "Oh, yes, Mr. Wibra, you'll be well laughed at in the parish of
Glogova."
The lawyer tossed about on the snow-white pillows, from which an odor of
spring emanated (they had been out in the garden to air the day before).
"Never mind," thought he, "the umbrella is mine after all. I can prove
it in a court of justice if necessary. I have witnesses. There are Mr.
Sztolarik, Mrs. Muencz and her sons, the whole town of Besztercebanya."
Then he laughed bitterly.
"And yet, what am I thinking of? I can't prove it, for, after all, the
umbrella does not belong to me, but to the Muencz family, for the old man
bought it. So only that which is in the handle belongs to me. But can I
go to the priest and say: 'Your reverence, in the handle of the umbrella
is a check for 200,000 or 300,000 florins, please give it to me, for it
belongs of right to me'?"
Then Gyuri began to wonder what the priest would answer. He either
believed the legend of the umbrella, and would then say: "Go along, do!
St. Peter is not such a fool as to bring you a check on a bank from
Heaven!" Or if he did look in the handle and find the receipt, he would
say: "Well, if he did bring it, he evidently meant it for me." And he
would take it out and keep it. Why should he give it to Gyuri? How was
he to prove it belonged to him?
"Supposing," thought our hero, "I were to tell him the whole story,
about my mother, about my father, and all the circumstances attending
his death. Let us imagine he would believe it from Alpha to Omega; of
what use would it be? Does it prove that the treasure is mine? Certainly
not. And even if it did, would he give it to me? A priest is only a man
after all. Could I have a lawsuit, if he would not give it me? What
nonsense! Of course not. He might take the receipt out of the handle,
and what proofs can I bring then that it was ever in it?"
The perspiration stood on his forehead; he bit the bed-clothes in his
helpless rage. To be so near to his inheritance, and yet not be able to
seize hold of it!
"Black night, give counsel!" was Gyuri's prayer. And it is best, after
all, to turn to the night for help. Gyuri was right to ask its advice,
for it is a good friend to thought. Among the Golden Rules should be
written: "Think over all your actions by night, even if you have decided
by day what course to take!" For a man has night thoughts and day
thoughts, though I do not know which are the better. I rather think
neither kind is perfect. For daylight, like a weaver, works its colors
into one's thoughts, and night covers them with its black wings. Both of
them paint, increase and decrease things--in one word, falsify them.
Night shows the beloved one more beautiful than he is, it strengthens
one's enemies, increases one's troubles, diminishes one's joy. It is not
kind of it; but night is sovereign, and is answerable to no one for its
actions. Take things as they come, but do not put aside serious thought
when you are seeking the truth. Though, of course, you do not really
seek the truth; even if it comes to meet you, you get out of its way. I
ought to have said, do not despise the night when you are trying to find
the way out of a thing. Night will show you what to do, without your
even noticing it. If it can do it in no other way, it brings you gentle
sleep, and gives you advice in dreams.
After a time the wind dropped, the music at the "Frozen Sheep" ceased,
and Gyuri heard nothing but a rhythmic murmur, and all at once he seemed
to be in the woods of Glogova, chasing butterflies with Veronica.
As they ran on among the bushes, an old man suddenly appeared before
them, with a golden crook, a glory round his head, and his hat hanging
by a bit of string from his neck.
"Are you Mr. Wibra?" he inquired.
"Yes; and you?"
"I am St. Peter."
"What do you want?"
"I wish to sign a receipt for your happiness."
"For my happiness?"
"I see you cannot get your umbrella, and my friend Gregorics has asked
me to help you. So I am quite willing to sign a paper declaring that I
did not give the umbrella to the young lady."
"It is very good of you, but I have neither paper nor ink here. Let us
go back to the village."
"I have no time for that; you know I have to be at the gates of Heaven,
and I can't stay away for long."
"Well, what am I to do, how am I to get my umbrella?"
St. Peter turned his back, and began to walk back the way he had come,
but stood still beside a large oak-tree, and made a sign to Gyuri to
approach. Gyuri obeyed.
"I'll tell you what, my friend, don't think too long about it, but marry
Veronica, and then you will have the umbrella too."
"Come," said Gyuri, catching hold of the golden crook. "Come and ask her
brother to give his permission."
He pulled hard at the crook, but at that moment a strong hand seemed to
pull him back, and he awoke.
Some one was knocking at the door.
"Come in," he said sleepily.
It was the Mravucsans' farm-servant.
"I've come for your boots," he announced.
Gyuri rubbed his eyes. It was day at last, the sun was smiling at him
through the window. His thoughts were occupied with his dream, every
incident of which was fresh in his mind. He thought he heard St. Peter's
voice again saying: "Marry Veronica, my friend, and then you will have
the umbrella too."
"What a strange dream," thought Gyuri; "and how very much logic it
contains! Why, I might have thought of that solution myself!"
* * * * *
By the time Gyuri was dressed, it was getting late, and every member of
the Mravucsan household was on foot. One was carrying a pail to the
stables, another a sieve, and near the gate which last night's wind had
partly lifted off its hinges, Gyuri's coachman was examining the damage
done. Seeing his master advancing toward him, he took off his hat with
its ostrich feathers (part of the livery of a Hungarian coachman is a
kind of round hat, with two ends of black ribbon hanging from it at the
back, and some small ostrich tips in it).
"Shall I harness the horses, sir?"
"I don't know yet. Here, my good girl, are the ladies up?"
"They are breakfasting in the garden," answered the maid he had
accosted. "Please walk this way."
"Well, then, you may harness, Janos."
Gyuri found the ladies seated round a stone table under a large
walnut-tree. They had finished breakfast, only madame was still nibbling
a bit of toast. He was received with ironical smiles, and Veronica
called out:
"Here comes the early riser!"
"That title belongs to me," said Mravucsan, "for I have not been to bed
at all. We played cards till daybreak. Klempa is still asleep with his
beard sealed to the table."
"A nice sort of thing for grown-up folks to do!" remarked Mrs.
Mravucsan.
Gyuri shook hands with them all, and Veronica got up and made a deep
courtesy.
"Good-morning, early riser," she said. "Why are you staring at me so?"
"I don't know how it is," stammered Gyuri, gazing at the girl's
beautiful face, "but you seem to me to have grown."
"In one night?"
"You were quite a little girl yesterday."
"You appear to be dazed!"
"I certainly am when I look at you."
"You seem to be sleepy still. Is this the time of day to get up?"
The playful, gentle tone was delightful to Gyuri, and he began to be
quite talkative.
"I fell asleep for a short time, and if the servant had not woke me, I
should be asleep still. Oh, if he had only waited five minutes longer!"
"Had you such a pleasant dream?" asked Mrs. Mravucsan. "Will you take
some coffee?"
"If you please."
"Won't you tell us your dream?"
"I was going to marry--in fact, had got as far as the proposal."
"Did she refuse you?" asked Veronica, raising her head, the beauty of
which was enhanced by the rich coronet of hair, in which she had stuck a
lovely pink.
"I don't know what would have happened, for at the critical moment the
servant woke me."
"What a pity, we shall never know how it would have turned out!"
"You shall know some time."
"How?"
"I will tell you."
"How can you do that? Dreams cannot be continued from one night to
another like novels in a periodical."
Gyuri drank his coffee, lit a cigar, and from out the cloud of smoke he
replied in a mysterious voice, his eyes turned heavenward:
"There are such dreams, as you will see. And how did you sleep?"
Thereupon Mrs. Mravucsan began to tell the story of Veronica's adventure
with the kitten. Every one laughed, poor Veronica was covered with
blushes, and Mrs. Mravucsan, finding the opportunity a good one,
launched upon a little lecture.
"My dear child, exaggeration is never good, not even in modesty. You
will have to get used to such things. What will you do when you are
married? You will not be able to shut your husband out of your room."
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Veronica. "How can you say such dreadful things!"
And she jumped up, blushing furiously, and ran away to the
gooseberry-bushes, where her dress got caught, and in trying to move on,
the gathers got torn. Thereupon there was a rush for needle and thread,
and the confusion was heightened when the carriage drove up, the two
handsome black horses pawing the ground impatiently.
(The lawyer's business must be a good one; he must have lied a lot to be
able to buy such horses!)
Every member of the household had some task allotted to her. Anka must
wrap up the ham in a cloth, Zsuzsa must run and fetch the fresh bread
that had been baked for the occasion. Some one else must bring knives
and forks. Would they like a little fruit packed in the basket? The
foreign lady would be glad of something of the kind. And should she put
a small pot of jam in too?
"But, my dear Mrs. Mravucsan, we shall be at home by dinner-time!"
"And supposing something happens to prevent it? You never can know."
And off she went to her storeroom, while the mayor tried to persuade
them to stay at least an hour longer; but it was of no use, the
travellers had made up their minds to start; not even the possibility of
seeing Klempa wake up would induce them to change their plans.
They got into the carriage, the two ladies on the back seat, and Gyuri
on the box with the coachman, but his face turned toward the ladies.
Whether he would hold out in that uncomfortable position till Glogova
remained to be seen.
"To Glogova," said Gyuri to the coachman, and Janos cracked his whip and
the horses started, but hardly were they out of the yard, when the
mayor's wife came tripping after them, calling out to them at the top of
her voice to stop. They did so, wondering what had happened. But nothing
serious was the matter, only Mrs. Mravucsan had unearthed a few apples
in her storeroom, with which she filled their pockets, impressing upon
them that the beautiful rosy-cheeked one was for Veronica. Then they
started again, with a great amount of waving of handkerchiefs and hats,
until the house, with its smoking chimneys and its large walnut-tree,
was out of sight.
As they passed Mrs. Muencz's shop she was standing at the door in her
white cap, nodding to them with her gray head, which seemed cut into two
parts by the broad-rimmed spectacles. At the smithy they were hammering
away at the priest's broken chaise, and farther on various objects which
had been left unsold at yesterday's fair were being packed in boxes, and
then put in carts to be taken home again. They passed in turn all the
tiny houses, with their brightly-painted doors, on which the names of
the owners were printed in circles. At the last house, opposite the
future Jewish burial-ground, two pistol-shots were fired.
The travellers turned their heads that way, and saw Mr. Mokry in his new
suit, made by the noted tailor of Besztercebanya, with his hat in one
hand, and in the other the pistol he had fired as a farewell greeting.
On the other side of the road was the dangerous windmill, its enormous
sails throwing shadows over the flowering clover-fields. Luckily it was
not moving now, and looked like an enormous fly pinned on the blue sky.
There was not a breath of wind, and the ears of wheat stood straight and
stiff, like an army of soldiers. Only the sound of the horses' hoofs was
to be heard, and the woods of Liskovina stretched before them like a
never-ending green wall.
The Third Devil
PART V
CHAPTER I.
MARIA CZOBOR'S ROSE, THE PRECIPICE, AND THE OLD PEAR-TREE.
Madame Krisbay was very much interested in the neighborhood they were
driving through, and asked many questions. They passed a small chapel in
the wood, and Veronica explained that a rich innkeeper had once been
killed there by robbers, and the bereaved widow had built this chapel on
the spot.
"Perhaps out of gratitude?" suggested Gyuri.
"Don't be so horrid," exclaimed Veronica.
The Liskovina Wood is quite like a park, with the exception that there
is not much variety in the way of trees, the birch, the favorite tree of
the Slovaks, being predominant. But of flowers there were any amount.
The ferns grew to a great height, the Anthoxantum had flowered, and in
its withered state filled the whole wood with its perfume. Among plants,
as among people, there are some which are only pleasant and agreeable
to others after their death. What a difference there is in the various
kinds of plants! There is the gladiolus, the most important part of
which is the bulb it hides under the earth; whoever eats it dreams of
the future.
Much simpler is the ox-eye daisy, for it will tell you without any
ceremonies if the person you are thinking of loves you very much, a
little, or not at all; you have only to pull off its snow-white petals
one by one, and the last one tells you the truth.
The wild pink provides food for the bee, the lily serves as a
drinking-cup for the birds, the large dandelion is the see-saw of the
butterflies. For the Liskovina woods are generous, and provide beds for
all kinds of insects, strawberries for children, nosegays for young
girls, herbs for old women, and the poisonous aconite, which the
peasants in that part called the "Wolf-killer."
Whether it ever caused the death of a wolf is doubtful, for wolves have
their fair share of sense, and probably, knowing something of botany,
they tell their cubs: "Don't touch the Aconitum Lycotinum, children; it
is better to eat meat."
It was delightful driving in the shady woods, though Madame Krisbay was
alarmed each time a squirrel ran up a tree, and was in constant fear of
the robbers who had killed the rich innkeeper.
"Why, that was eighty years ago, madame!"
"Well, and their sons?"
She was restless till they had got clear of the wood and had come to a
large barren plain, with here and there a small patch of oats, stunted
in their growth.
But after that they came to another wood, the far-famed "Zelena Hruska,"
in the shape of a pear. Supposing robbers were to turn up there!
And Gyuri was just wishing for their appearance while madame was
thinking with horror of them. As he sat face to face with the girl, he
decided to marry her--because of the umbrella. The girl was certainly
pretty, but even had she not been so, the umbrella was worth the
sacrifice. St. Peter had told him what to do, and he would follow his
advice. Superstition, at which he had laughed the day before, had taken
possession of him, and made a place for itself among his more rational
thoughts. He felt some invisible power pushing him on to take this step.
What power was it? Probably St. Peter, who had advised him in his dream
to take it. But how was he to set to work? That was what was troubling
him the whole time. How convenient it would be if there were some
romance nowadays, as in olden times or in novels; for instance, if
robbers were now to appear on the scene, and he could shoot them down
one after the other with his revolver, and so free Veronica, who would
then turn to him and say:
"I am yours till death!"
But as matters were at present, he did not dare to take any steps in the
right direction; the words he had so well prepared seemed to stick in
his throat. Doubts arose in his mind; supposing she had not taken a
fancy to him! Supposing she were already in love! She must have seen
other men besides himself, and if so, they _must_ have fallen in love
with her. Something ought to happen to help matters on a little.
But no robbers came, there probably were none; it was a poor
neighborhood, nothing grew there, not even a robber.
After they had passed the wood, they saw an old castle among the trees,
on the top of a hill. It was the Castle of Slatina, had formerly
belonged to the Czobors, and was now the property of the Princes of
Coburg.
They had to stop at an inn to feed the horses, and Veronica proposed
their going to look at the castle, of which an old man had charge; he
would show them over it. The innkeeper assured them some of the rooms
were just as the Czobors had left them; in the court were a few old
cannon, and in the house a collection of curious old armor, and some
very interesting family portraits, among them that of a little girl,
Katalin Czobor, who had disappeared from her home at the age of seven.
Veronica was very interested in the child.
"And what happened to her?" she asked.
"The poor child has never turned up to this day!" sighed the innkeeper.
"And when was it she disappeared?"
"About three hundred years ago," he answered with a smile, and then
accompanied his guests up the mountain path that led to the castle.
They were silent on their return, only Madame Krisbay remarking:
"What a mouldy smell there was in there!"
Veronica had caught sight of a beautiful rose on a large bush near the
half-ruined walls of the bastion.
"What an exquisite flower!" she exclaimed.
The old caretaker had a legend about that too. From this spot beautiful
Maria Czobor had sprung from the walls, and thrown herself down the
precipice, for her father wished her to marry an officer in the
Emperor's army, and she was in love with a shepherd. The latter had
planted a rose-bush on this spot, and every year it bore one single
blossom. Gyuri dropped behind the others, and begged the old man to give
him the rose.
"My dear sir, what are you thinking of? Why, the poor girl's spirit
would haunt me if I were to do such a thing!"
Gyuri took out his purse and pressed two silver florins into the man's
hand, upon which, without further ado, he took out his knife and cut
the rose.
"Won't the young lady's spirit haunt you now?" asked Gyuri, smiling.
"No, because with part of the money I will have a Mass said for the
repose of her soul."
Gyuri ran after the ladies with the rose in his hand, and offered it to
Veronica.
"Here is Maria Czobor's rose," he said. "Will you give me your pink in
exchange?"
But she put her hands behind her back, and said coldly:
"How could you have the heart to pick it?"
"I did it for your sake. Will you not exchange?"
"No; I would not for the world wear that flower; I should think I had
stolen it from that poor girl."
"Will you really not accept it?"
"No!"
Gyuri threw the rose away, and it rolled down the hillside in the dust
and dirt.
Veronica gazed pityingly after the flower as long as it was visible,
then turned angrily to Gyuri.
"Is that the way to treat a flower? Had it hurt you in any way?"
"Yes," answered the lawyer shortly.
"Did it prick you?"
"It informed me of a very unpleasant fact."
"What was it?"
"It whispered the continuation of my last night's dream to me."
"What a little chatterbox!"
She turned her big eyes upon Gyuri and spoke in a jesting tone.
"I should have had a refusal!"
Veronica threw back her head, and turned her eyes toward heaven.
"Poor Mr. Wibra!" she exclaimed. "What misfortune to be refused in a
dream!"
"Pray go on, make as much fun of it as you like," he said bitterly.
"And are you sure you would have been refused?"
"Yes, now I am sure of it," he answered sadly. "You might guess now of
whom I dreamed."
"Of me?" she asked surprised, and the smile died away on her lips. "Of
me?" she stammered again, then was silent, descending the hill quietly
in madame's wake with bent head. She had lifted the skirt of her dress a
little to prevent its dragging in the dust, and her little feet were
partly visible as she tripped along with regular steps, treading on the
grass and flowers, which, however, were not crushed by her footsteps,
but rose again as she passed on.
A tiny lizard crossed their path, its beautiful colors shining in the
sunlight. But what a sad fate befell it! Just at that moment a giant
(well known in Besztercebanya) came that way, murmuring: "Why should it
live?" and bringing down a heavy heel severed the poor lizard's head
from its body.
Veronica just then turned round, and saw the cruel action; she felt
inclined to cry over the poor lizard, but did not dare to say anything,
for she herself began to be afraid of this Goliath, so she only murmured
under her breath: "Wretch!"
When they were farther down the hill she saw before her the rose he had
thrown away; there it lay, dirty and dusty, among the stones by the
roadside, and, obeying a sudden impulse, she bent and picked it up,
blowing the dust off its rosy petals, and then she placed it in the
bosom of her dress, where it seemed as though it were in its right place
at last. She did not say a word, nor did she look at that dreadful
Goliath, but turned away her head, so that he could not see her face.
But Goliath was quite satisfied at seeing the rose where he had wished
it to be, and out of gratitude would have liked to restore the lizard to
life, but that was of course impossible.
At the foot of the hill the carriage was waiting, and the travellers
took their places again, this time with an uncomfortable feeling.
Silently they sat opposite each other, one looking to the right, the
other to the left, and if their eyes happened to meet they hastily
turned them away. When they spoke, their remarks were addressed to
Madame Krisbay, who began to notice that something had happened.
But what? Only a few childish words to which their minds had given a
more serious meaning than they were meant to have, and had increased in
size as once the professor's narrow cell in Hatvan, which the devil
enlarged to such an extent that the whole town had place in it. Well, in
those few words, everything was contained.
But now something else happened. I don't know how it was, but I think a
pin dropped, and at the same moment Veronica bent down as though to look
for it. In doing so the pink fell out of her hair into Gyuri's lap, and
he picked it up in order to return it to her. But she made him a sign to
keep it.
"If it _would_ not stay in my hair, and fell into your lap, you may as
well keep it."
_Would_ it not have stayed in her hair? Was it quite an accident?
thought Gyuri, as he smelt the flower. What a pleasant odor it had! Was
it from her hair?
Now they were driving beside the Brana, the far-famed Brana, which quite
shuts this part of the country off from the rest of the world, like an
immense gate. That is why it is called the Brana, or gate. It is no
common mountain, but an aristocrat among its kind, and in fine weather
it wears a hat, for its summit is hidden in clouds. Several small
streams make their way down its side, flowing together at the foot, and
making one broad stream.
"That is the Bjela Voda," explained Veronica to Madame Krisbay, "we are
not far from home now."
They still had to drive through one wood, and then the little white
cottages of Glogova would be before them. But this was the worst bit of
the road, crooked and curved, full of ruts and rocks, and so narrow that
there was hardly room for the carriage to pass.
Janos turned round and said with a shake of his head:
"The king himself would grow crooked here!"
"Take care, Janos, that you don't upset us!"
Janos got down from his seat, and fastened one of the wheels firmly, for
there was no brake to the carriage; and now the horses had to move at a
funeral pace, and sometimes the road was so narrow between two hills
that they could see nothing but the blue sky above them.
"This place is only fit for birds," muttered Janos.
"Don't you like this part of the country?"
"It is like a pock-marked face," he replied. "It is not the sort of
place one would come to to choose a wife."
Gyuri started. Had the man discovered his intentions?
"Why do you think so?"
"My last master, the baron (Janos had been at some baron's before in
Saros county), used to say to his sons, and he was a clever man too,
'Never look for a wife in a place where there are neither gnats, good
air, nor mineral springs!'"
At this both Veronica and Gyuri were obliged to laugh.
"That's a real Saros way of looking at things. But, you see, you have
vexed this young lady."
"According to your theory I shall have to be an old maid!" said
Veronica.
But Janos vigorously denied the possibility of such a thing.
"Why, dear me, that is not likely; why ... you ..."
He wanted to say something complimentary, but could not find suitable
words, and as chance would have it, his next words were nearer to
swearing than to a compliment, for the shaft of the carriage broke. The
ladies were alarmed, and Gyuri jumped down from his seat to see the
extent of the damage done. It was bad enough, for it had broken off just
near the base.
"What are we to do now?" exclaimed Janos. "I said this place was only
fit for birds, who neither walk nor drive."
"Oh, that is nothing serious," said Gyuri, who at that moment was not to
be put out by a shaft, nor by a hundred shafts.
"Give me your axe, and you go and hold the horses. I'll soon bring you
something to fasten the shaft to, and strengthen it."
He took the axe out of the tool-box under the coachman's seat, said a
few words to reassure the ladies, and then jumped the ditch by the side
of the road.
There were some trees there, but they were as rare as the hairs on the
head of an old man. First came a birch, then a hazelnut bush, then a
black-thorn, then a bare piece of ground without any trees, and then
again a few old trees. So it was rather difficult to find a suitable
tree; one was too big, another too small; so Gyuri went on and on in
search of one, and got so far that soon the carriage was out of sight,
and only Veronica's red sunshade was to be seen in the distance, like a
large mushroom. At length his eyes fell on a young birch, which grew
near to a small precipice. It was too big for a seedling and too small
for a tree, but well-grown and promising. All the same it must be
sacrificed, and down came the axe.
But hardly had two or three blows been struck, when a voice was heard,
crying out:
"Reta! Reta!" (Help! Help!)
Gyuri started and turned round. Who had called? The voice seemed quite
close, but no one was visible far and near.
Again the call for help was repeated, and now it seemed to come out of
the earth, and Gyuri immediately concluded it came from the precipice,
and ran toward it.
"Here I am!" he called out. "Where are you and what is the matter?"
"I am down the precipice," was the answer; "help me, for God's sake!"
Gyuri looked down, and saw a figure there in a black coat, but he could
not see much of it, for it would have been dangerous to have gone too
near to the edge.
"How did you manage to get down there?"
"I fell in yesterday evening," answered the man in the black coat.
"What! Yesterday evening! And can't you get out?"
"It is impossible, for there is nothing to hold on to, and if I catch
hold of any projecting bits, they give way, and I fall back with them."
"You are in a bad way altogether! And has no one passed here since
then?"
"No one comes this way. I was prepared for the worst when I heard the
sound of blows in the neighborhood. Thank God you came! Help me if you
can, good man, whoever you may be, and I will reward you!"
"I will help you of course with the greatest pleasure, but I must think
first how to manage it. If I let down the trunk of a small tree could
you climb up it?"
"I am very weak from want of sleep and from hunger," answered the man,
his voice getting weaker from shouting.
"Poor fellow! Wait a moment!"
He had suddenly remembered the apples Mrs. Mravucsan had put in his
pockets that morning.
"Hallo, there! Lookout! I am going to throw down a few apples to go on
with while I think over what I am to do."
He took the apples out of his pockets, and rolled them down one after
the other.
All of a sudden he remembered that Veronica's was among them. Supposing
she were vexed at his giving it away!
"Have you got them?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Please don't eat the red one, it is not mine."
"Very well, I will not eat it."
"You seem to be of the better class?"
"I am the parish priest of Glogova."
Gyuri, surprised, fell a step backward. How strange! The parish priest
of Glogova! Could anything more unexpected have happened?
"I will get you out, your reverence; only wait a few minutes."
Back he ran to the carriage, which was waiting in the valley below. From
this point the country round about looked like the inside of a poppy
head cut in two. He did not go quite up to the carriage, but as soon as
he was within speaking distance, shouted at the top of his voice to
Janos:
"Take the harness off the horses, and bring it here to me; but first tie
the horses to a tree."
Janos obeyed, grumbling and shaking his head. He could not make out what
his master needed the harness for. He had once heard a wonderful tale of
olden times, in which a certain Fatepoe Gabor (tree-felling Gabor) had
harnessed two bears to a cart in a forest. Could Gyuri be going to do
the same?
But whatever it was wanted for, he did as his master told him, and
followed him to the precipice. Here they fastened the various straps
together, and let them down.
"Catch hold of them, your reverence," called out Gyuri, "and we will
pull you up."
The priest did as Gyuri said, but even then it was hard work to get him
up, for the ground kept giving way under his feet; however, at length
they managed it.
But what a state he was in, covered with dirt and dust; on his face
traces of the awful night he had passed, sleepless and despairing,
suffering the pangs of hunger. He hardly looked like a human being, and
we (that is, my readers and I) who knew him years before would have
looked in vain for the handsome, youthful face we remember. He was an
elderly man now, with streaks of gray in his chestnut hair. Only the
pleasant, amiable expression in his thin face was the same. He was
surprised to see such a well-dressed young man before him--a rarity on
the borders of the Glogova woods.
"How can I show you my gratitude?" he exclaimed, with a certain pathos
which reminded one strongly of the pulpit.
He took a few steps in the direction of the stream, intending to wash
his hands and face, but he stumbled and felt a sharp pain in his back.
"I must have hurt myself last night, when I fell, I cannot walk very
well."
"Lean on me, your reverence," said Gyuri. "Luckily my carriage is not
far off. Janos, you go on cutting down that tree, while we walk slowly
on."
They certainly did go slowly, for the priest could hardly lift his left
foot, and frequently stumbled over the roots of trees. The carriage was
some way off, so they had plenty of time for conversation, and every now
and then they sat down to rest on the trunk of a fallen tree.
"Tell me, your reverence, how did you come to be in this part of the
country late at night?"
And then the priest related how he had expected his sister home
yesterday, who had gone to meet her governess. As time went on, and
there were no signs of them, he began to feel anxious, and toward
evening became so restless that he did as he had often done before, and
walked to the borders of the little wood. He walked on and on, finding
the way by keeping his eye on the hills on both sides, and listened for
the sounds of wheels in the distance. All at once it occurred to him
that they might have gone round by the Pribalszky mill, which was a
longer but prettier way to Glogova, and Veronica, his sister, was fond
of the shade there. Of course that was what they had done, and they must
have arrived at home long ago while he was looking for them. So the best
way was to turn back at once, and in order to get home as soon as
possible, he unfortunately struck across a side path. In his haste he
must have stepped too near to the edge of the precipice and had fallen
in.
"My poor little sister!" he sighed. "How anxious she must be about me!"
Gyuri would have liked to turn the priest's sorrow into joy.
"We will soon reassure the young lady, and your reverence will feel all
right after a night's rest. In two or three days it will seem like an
amusing incident."
"But which might have ended in a horrible death if Divine Providence had
not sent you to help me."
"It really does seem as though Divine Providence had something to do
with it. The shaft of my carriage broke, or I should never have come
near that precipice."
"If I live to be a hundred I shall never forget your kindness to me, and
your name will always have a place in my prayers. But how thoughtless of
me! I have not even asked you your name yet."
"Gyuri Wibra."
"The well-known lawyer of Besztercebanya? And so young! I am glad to
make the acquaintance of such an honorable man, sir, who is beloved in
the whole of Besztercebanya; but I should be much more pleased if a poor
man now stood before me, to whom I could give a suitable reward. But how
am I to prove my gratitude to you? There is nothing I possess which you
would accept."
A smile played around Gyuri's mouth.
"I am not so sure of that. You know we lawyers are very grasping."
"Is there really something, or are you joking?"
The lawyer did not answer immediately, but walked on a few steps toward
an old wild pear-tree, which had been struck by lightning, and not far
from which the carriage was standing.
"Well, yes," he answered then, slowly, almost in a trembling voice,
"there is something I would gladly accept from you."
"And what is it?"
"It has just struck me that there is something in my carriage which you
might give me."
"In your carriage?"
"Yes, something you do not know of yet, and which I should be very happy
to possess."
The priest took him by the hand.
"Whatever it may be, it is yours!"
In another minute they had reached the pear-tree.
"There is my carriage."
The priest looked that way, and saw, first a red sunshade, then a black
straw hat under it, with some white daisies in it, and beneath it a
sweet, girlish face. It all seemed so familiar to him, the sunshade, the
hat, and the face. He rubbed his eyes as though awaking from a dream,
and then exclaimed, catching hold of the lawyer's arm:
"Why, that is my Veronica!"
The lawyer smiled quietly and bowed.
"That is," went on the priest in his kind, gentle voice, "for the
future she is your Veronica, if you wish."
By this time Veronica had seen and recognized her brother, had jumped
out of the carriage and run to meet him, calling out:
"Here we are, safe and sound. How anxious you must have been! And our
carriage is broken to bits; and oh! if you had only seen the horses! All
sorts of things have happened, and I have brought Madame Krisbay."
The priest embraced her, and was glad she seemed to know nothing of his
accident. How sensible of Gyuri not to have mentioned it!
"Yes, yes, my darling, you shall tell me everything in order later on."
But Veronica wanted to tell everything at once, the carriage accident in
Babaszek, the supper at Mravucsans' (oh, yes! she had nearly forgotten,
Mr. Mravucsan had sent his kind regards), then to-day's journey, the
loss of her earring and its recovery ...
The priest, who was slowly beginning to understand things, here broke in
upon her recital.
"And did you give the finder of it a reward?"
She was silent at first at the unexpected question, then answered
hurriedly:
"No, of course not, how can you think of such a thing? What was I to
give? Besides, he would not accept anything."
"I am surprised at that, for he has since then applied to me for a
reward."
"Impossible!" said Veronica, casting a side-glance at Gyuri. Strange
doubts had arisen in her mind, and her heart began to beat.
"And what does he ask for?" she asked in a low voice.
"He wants a good deal. He asks for the earring he found, and with it its
owner. And I have promised him both!"
Veronica bent her head; her face was suffused with burning blushes, her
bosom heaved.
"Well? Do you give no answer? Did I do right to promise, Veronica?"
Gyuri took a step toward her, and said, in a low, pleading voice:
"Only one word, Miss Veronica!" then stood back under the shade of the
pear-tree.
"Oh! I am so ashamed!" said Veronica trembling, and bursting into tears.
A breeze came up just then across the Brana, and shook the pear-tree,
which shed its white petals, probably the last the old tree would bear,
over Veronica's dress.
CHAPTER II.
THREE SPARKS.
Madame sits in the carriage, and can understand nothing of what is going
on. The young lady entrusted to her charge springs out of the carriage,
runs up to a strange man in a long black coat, throws her arms round his
neck, and then they all begin to talk with excited gestures, standing
under the pear-tree. Then her pupil comes back to the carriage, mild as
a lamb, arm in arm with the young man who had found her earring
yesterday. All of this is so unexpected, so surprising. And while they
are mending the broken shaft and reharnessing the horses, the man in the
black coat, who turns out to be the girl's brother, turns to her and
whispers in her ear:
"Your pupil has just engaged herself!"
Good gracious! When and where? Why, now, under the tree! Ah, Madame
Krisbay, you feel you ought to faint now, partly because you are a
correct woman, and consequently horrified at the way the event has taken
place, and partly because you have fallen among such strange people;
but your bottle of Eau de Cologne is quite at the bottom of your
travelling-bag, and so it will be better not to faint now. But it is
very shocking all the same! For though a tree is suitable for flirting
under, or for declarations of love, it is not the correct place to ask a
parent or guardian for a girl's hand. The proper place for that
(especially in novels) is a well-furnished drawing-room. If the girl is
very shy she runs out of the room; if not very shy she falls on her
knees and asks the blessing of her parents or guardian, as the case may
be. But how is one to kneel under a tree? These were the thoughts that
were troubling Madame Krisbay, not Veronica. She, on the contrary, was
thinking that one fine day she would return to this spot with her
sketch-book, and draw the old tree as a souvenir.
All this time the carriage was rolling along the dusty road. There was
no room for the coachman, so he had to follow on foot, and Gyuri took
the reins into his own hands, Veronica sitting on the box beside him. Oh
dear! she thought, what would they think of her in the village as they
drove through?
The road was better now, and they could drive faster, so Gyuri loosened
the reins, and began to think over the events that had taken place. Was
it a dream or not? No, it could not be, for there was Veronica sitting
near to him, and behind him Father Janos was talking to Madame Krisbay
in the language of the Gauls. No, it was simple truth, though it seemed
stranger than fiction. Who would have believed yesterday that before the
sun set twice he would find his inheritance, and a wife into the
bargain? Twenty-four hours ago he had not known of the existence of Miss
Veronica Belyi. Strange! And now he was trying to imagine what the world
had been like without her. It seemed impossible that he had not felt the
want of her yesterday. But the wheels were making such a noise, that he
found it difficult to collect his thoughts. Wonders had happened. One
legend, that of the umbrella, was done away with, but on its ruins
another had built itself up. Heaven and earth had combined to help him
to his inheritance. Heaven had sent a dream and earth a protector.
His heart swelled as he thought of it. Oh, if the girl next him only
knew to what a rich man she had promised her hand!
After passing the Kopanyicza Hills, which seem like a screen to the
entrance of the valley, Glogova, with its little white houses, lay
before them.
"We are nearly at home now," said Veronica.
"Where is the Presbytery?" asked Gyuri.
"At the end of the village."
"Tell me when to turn to the right or the left."
"Very well, Mr. Coachman! At present keep straight on."
A smell of lavender pervaded the street, and the tidy little gardens
were filled with all sorts of flowers. In front of the houses children
were playing, and in most of the courtyards a foal was running about,
with a bell tied round its neck. Otherwise the village seemed quite
deserted, for all who could work were out in the fields, and the women,
having cooked the dinner at home, had carried it out to their husbands.
Only on the grass-plot in front of the school-house was there life;
there the children were at play, and their greetings to those in the
carriage was in Hungarian.
Of the villagers only the "aristocratic" were at home. At the threshold
of a pretty little stone house stood Gongoly, much stouter than some
years before. In front of the smithy sat Klincsok, quietly smoking,
while the smith mended a wheel.
"Hallo!" he called out. "So you've come back! Why, we were thinking of
looking out for another priest!" Which showed that Father Janos' absence
had been noticed.
How Glogova had changed in the last few years! There was a tower to the
church, the like of which was not to be seen except in Losoncz; only
that on the tower of Losoncz there was a weathercock. In the middle of
the village was a hotel, "The Miraculous Umbrella," with Virginian
creeper climbing all over it, and near it a pretty little white house,
looking as though it were made of sugar; behind it a garden with a lot
of young trees in it.
"Whose house is that?" asked Gyuri, turning round.
"The owner is on the box-seat beside you."
"Really? Is it yours, Veronica?"
She nodded her head.
"There is a small farm belonging to it," said Father Janos modestly.
"Well, we won't take it with us, but leave it here for your brother,
shall we, Veronica?"
Then he turned to the priest again, saying:
"Veronica has a fortune worthy of a countess, but neither you nor she
knows of it."
Both the priest and Veronica were so surprised at this announcement,
that they did not notice they were in front of the Presbytery, and Gyuri
would have driven on if Vistula, the old watch-dog, had not rushed out
barking with joy; and old Widow Adamecz called out, with the tears
rolling down her face:
"Holy Mary! you have heard the prayers of your servant!"
"Stop! here we are. Open the gate, Mrs. Adamecz."
The widow wiped away her tears, dropped her book, and got up to open the
gate.
"Is dinner ready?" asked Father Janos.
"Dinner? Of course not. Whom was I to cook for? We all thought your
reverence was lost. I have not even lighted the fire, for my tears would
only have put it out again."
"Never mind, Mrs. Adamecz. I feel sure you were anxious on my account,
but now go and see about some dinner for us, for we are dying of
hunger."
Veronica had become suspicious at the widow's words, and began to storm
her brother with questions; then burst out crying and turned her back
upon Gyuri, declaring they were hiding something from her. So they were
obliged to tell her the truth, and her poor little heart nearly broke
when she thought of what her brother had gone through, and what danger
he had been in.
While this was going on, Mrs. Adamecz was bustling about in the kitchen,
and giving every one plenty of work to do. Both the maids were called in
to help, and the farm-servant too.
"Come and whip this cream, Hanka. And you, Borbala, go and fetch some
salt. Is the goose plucked? Now, Matyas, don't be so lazy, run and pick
some parsley in the garden. Dear me! How very thin the good lady is whom
Miss Veronica has brought home with her. Did you see her? I shall have
hard work to feed her up and make her decently fat. Give me a saucepan;
not that one, the other. And, Borbala, grate me some bread-crumbs. But
the young man is handsome. I wonder what he wants here? What did you
say? You don't know? Of course you don't know, silly, if I don't. But
this much is certain (between ourselves of course), there is something
strange in Miss Veronica's eyes. Something has happened, but I can't
make out what."
Widow Adamecz thought of all sorts of things, both good and bad, but her
cooking was excellent, and she gave them such a dinner, that even the
lovers found their appetites.
After dinner, Gyuri sent a man on horseback with a letter to Mr.
Sztolarik in Besztercebanya.
"MY DEAR GUARDIAN:
"I have great things to communicate to you, but at
present can only write the outlines. I have found the
umbrella, partly through Mrs. Muencz, partly by chance.
At present I am in Glogova, at the priest's house,
whose sister Veronica I have asked in marriage. She is
a very pretty girl; besides, there is no way of getting
at the money unless I marry her. Please send me by the
messenger two gold rings from Samuel Huszak's shop,
and the certificate of my birth; it must be among your
papers somewhere. I should like the banns to be
published the day after to-morrow.
"I remain," etc.
He told the messenger to hurry.
"I'll hurry, but the horse won't!"
"Well, use your spurs."
"So I would, but there are no spurs on sandals!"
The horse was a wretched one, but all the same, next day they heard a
carriage stop at the door, and who should get out but Sztolarik himself.
Great man though he was, no one was glad to see him except the priest.
Veronica felt frightened. She hardly knew why, but it seemed as though a
breath of cold air had entered with him. Why had he come here just now?
The old lawyer was very pleasant to her.
"So this is little Veronica?" he asked.
"Yes," answered Gyuri proudly.
The old gentleman took her small hand in his large one, and pinched her
cheek in fatherly fashion. But no amount of pinching would bring the
roses back just then. Her heart was heavy with fear. Why, oh, why had he
come?
Gyuri was surprised too, for Sztolarik hated to leave his home.
"Have you brought them?" he asked.
"Yes."
Veronica drew a breath of relief, for Gyuri had mentioned that he
expected the engagement rings from Besztercebanya.
"Give them to me," he said.
"Later on," answered the old lawyer. "First of all I must speak to you."
He must speak to him first? Then he must have something to say which
could not be said after they had exchanged rings! Veronica again felt a
weight on her heart. Gyuri got up discontentedly from his place next to
Veronica, whose fingers began to play nervously with the work she had in
her hands.
"Come across to my room then."
Gyuri's room was at the other end of the house, which was built in the
shape of an L. It used to be the schoolroom before the new school was
built. (Widow Adamecz had learnt her A B C there.) The priest who had
been there before Father Janos had divided the room into two parts by a
nicely painted wooden partition, and of one half he had made a spare
bedroom, of the other a storeroom.
Veronica was feeling as miserable as she could, and her one wish at that
moment was to hear the two gentlemen's conversation, for everything
depended on that. Some demon who had evidently never been to school, and
had never learned that it was dishonorable to listen at doors or walls,
whispered to her:
"Run quickly, Veronica, into the storeroom, and if you press your ear to
the wall, you will be able to hear what they say."
Off went Veronica like a shot. It is incredible what an amount of honey
a demon of that description can put into his words; he was capable of
persuading this well-educated girl to take her place among the pickled
cucumbers, basins of lard, and sacks of potatoes, in order to listen to
a conversation which was not meant for her ears.
Not a sound was to be heard in the storeroom but the dripping of the fat
from a side of bacon hanging from the rafters, and which the great heat
there was causing it to melt. Some of it even fell on her pretty dress,
but what did she care for that just then?
"So you have found out all about the umbrella," she heard Sztolarik say,
"but have you seen it yet?"
"Why should I?" asked Gyuri. "I cannot touch its contents till after the
wedding."
"Why not sooner?"
"Because, for various reasons, I do not wish the story of the umbrella
known."
"For instance?"
"First of all, because Father Janos would be the laughing-stock of the
place."
"Why do you trouble your head about the priest?"
"Secondly, because it would give Veronica reason to think I am only
marrying her for the sake of the umbrella."
"But she will know it later on in any case."
"I shall never tell her."
"Have you any other reasons?"
"Oh, yes. I dare say they would not even give me the check; it is
probably not made out in any particular name; so how am I to prove to
them that it is mine? It really belongs to the person who has it in his
possession. And perhaps they would not even give me the girl, for if her
fortune is as large as we think it, she can find as many husbands as she
has fingers on her hands."
Veronica felt giddy. It was as though they were driving nails into her
flesh. She could not quite understand all they were talking about--of
umbrellas, receipts, large fortunes. What fortune? But this much she had
begun to understand, that she was only the means to some end.
"Well, well," began Sztolarik again after a short pause, "the affair
seems to be pretty entangled at present, but there is still worse to
come."
"What more can come?" asked Gyuri in an uncertain voice.
"Don't do anything at present. Let us find out first of all whether you
love the girl."
Poor little Veronica was trembling like a leaf in her hiding-place. She
shut her eyes like a criminal before his execution, with a sort of
undefined feeling that the blow would be less painful so. What would he
answer?
"I think I love her," answered Gyuri, again in that uncertain voice.
"She is so pretty, don't you think so?"
"Of course. But the question is, would you in other circumstances have
asked her to marry you? Answer frankly!"
"I should never have thought of such a thing."
A sob was heard in the next room, and then a noise as though some pieces
of furniture had been thrown down.
Sztolarik listened for a few moments, and then, pointing to the wall,
asked:
"Do you know what is on the other side?"
"I think it is the storeroom."
"I thought I heard some one sob."
"Perhaps one of the servants saw a mouse!"
And that is how a tragedy looks from the next room when the wall is
thin. If there is a thick wall it does not even seem so bad. One of the
servants had seen a mouse, or a heart had been broken; for who was to
know that despair and fright only have one sound to express them?
Veronica, with her illusions dispersed, ran out into the open air; she
wished to hear no more, only to get away from that hated place, for she
felt suffocating; away, away, as far as she could go.... And this all
seemed, from the next room, as though Widow Adamecz or Hanka had seen a
mouse. But, however it may have seemed to them, they had forgotten the
whole thing in half a minute.
"You say it would never have occurred to you to marry her. So you had
better not hurry with the wedding. Let us first see the umbrella and its
contents, and then we shall see what is to be done next."
Gyuri went on quietly smoking his cigarette and thought:
"Sztolarik is getting old. Fancy making such a fuss about it!"
"I have thought it well over," he went on aloud, "and there is no other
way of managing it; I must marry the girl."
Sztolarik got up from his chair, and came and stood in front of the
young man, fixing his eyes on him.
"But supposing you could get at your inheritance without marrying
Veronica?"
Gyuri could not help smiling.
"Why, I have just said," he exclaimed impatiently, "that it cannot be
done, but even if it could, I would not do it, for I feel as though she
also had a right to the fortune, as it has been in her possession so
long, and Providence seems to have sent it direct to her."
"But supposing you could get at it through Veronica?"
"That seems out of the question too."
"Really? Well, now listen to me, Gyuri, for I have something to tell
you."
"I am listening."
But his thoughts were elsewhere, as he drummed on the table with his
fingers.
"Well," went on Sztolarik, "when I went in to Huszak's this morning to
buy the two rings you wanted sent by the messenger (for I had no
intention of coming here myself then), Huszak was not in the shop, so
the rabbit-mouthed young man waited on me. You know him?"
Yes, Gyuri remembered him.
"I told him to give me two rings, and he asked whom they were for. So I
said they were going a good distance. Then he asked where to, and I told
him to Glogova. 'Perhaps to the priest's sister?' he asked. 'Yes,' I
said. 'She's a beauty,' he remarked. 'Why, do you know her?' asked I.
'Very well,' he answered."
Gyuri stopped tapping, and jumped up excitedly.
"Did he say anything about Veronica?"
"You shall hear in a minute. While he was wrapping up the rings he went
on talking. How had he got to know the priest's sister? 'I was in
Glogova last year.' 'And what the devil were you doing in Glogova?'
'Why, the villagers were having a silver handle made here for a
wretched-looking old umbrella, which they keep in their church, and the
stupid things were afraid to send the umbrella here for fear any one
should steal it, though it was not worth twopence; so I was obliged to
go there in order to fasten the handle on.'"
"Why, this is dreadful!" exclaimed Gyuri, turning pale.
Sztolarik smiled.
"That is only why I said, my friend, that we had better wait a bit
before deciding anything."
"Let us go at once to Father Janos and ask him to show us the umbrella."
He could not wait a minute longer. He had been so near to his object,
and now it was slipping from him again, like a Fata Morgana, which lures
the wanderer on to look for it.
It was easy to find the priest; he was feeding his pigeons in the
garden.
"Father Janos," began Gyuri, "now Mr. Sztolarik is here he would like to
look at your wonderful umbrella. Can we see it?"
"Of course. Mrs. Adamecz," he called out to the old woman, who was
plucking a fowl at the kitchen door, "will you bring me out the key of
the church, please?"
She did as she was asked, and the priest, going on in front, led his
visitors through the church.
"This way, gentlemen, into the sacristy."
As they stepped in there it was before them! Pal Gregorics's old
umbrella smiled at them, and seemed like an old friend, only the handle,
yes, the handle was unknown to them, for it was of silver.
Gyuri gazed at it speechlessly, and felt that the end was near. A demon
was behind him, constantly urging him on, and whispering: "Go on, go on,
and look for your inheritance!" A second demon ran on before him,
beckoning and crying: "Come along, it is this way!"
But there was a third one, the liveliest of all, who followed in the
wake of the second one, and each time Gyuri thought he had attained his
end, this demon turned round, and laughed in his face, saying: "There is
nothing here!"
Sztolarik kept his countenance, and carefully examined the handle of the
umbrella, as though he were admiring the work.
"Had it always this same handle?" he asked.
"Oh dear no, this is of real silver, and very finely chased. The
jeweller in Besztercebanya made it, and he is quite an artist. Just look
at the style, and what taste is displayed in it. My parishioners had it
made last summer as a surprise for me while I was away at the baths. The
old handle had been broken off, and it was almost impossible to make use
of the umbrella. I expect it was Klincsok's idea, for he started the
collection. There are still plenty of good Christian hearts to be
found."
Then he turned to Gyuri.
"I will introduce you to Klincsok, he is a very worthy man."
Gyuri wished the worthy Klincsok in Jericho, and he could even have
found him a companion for the journey, for behind him was the first
demon, again whispering: "Go and look for your inheritance!"
"But I suppose they kept the old handle?" he asked.
"I do not think so," answered the priest. "It was only of common wood; I
believe Mrs. Adamecz asked Veronica for it."
(It must have been the second demon speaking through the priest: "The
handle of the umbrella is in Mrs. Adamecz's possession.")
Sztolarik now became curious too.
"Who is Mrs. Adamecz?" he asked.
"My old cook, who just now brought me the keys."
Mr. Sztolarik burst out laughing, the walls of the empty church
re-echoing with the sound. When they were outside, and the priest had
gone in with the keys, the old lawyer took the two rings out of the
paper they were wrapped in and pressed them into Gyuri's palm, saying
quaintly:
"According to your logic of half an hour ago, you must now marry old
Mrs. Adamecz, so go and ask for her hand at once."
Gyuri gave no answer to this cruel thrust, and went into the kitchen,
where the widow was frying pancakes.
"I say, Mrs. Adamecz, where have you put the old handle of the church
umbrella?"
Widow Adamecz finished frying her pancake, put it on a wooden platter
with those she had already fried, and then turned round to see who was
speaking to her.
"What have I done with the old handle, my dear? Well, you see, this is
how it was. My little grandson, Matyko, got ill last year just at
cabbage-cutting time--no, I believe it was earlier in the year ..."
"I don't care when it was, only go on."
Widow Adamecz quietly poured some more of the batter into the
frying-pan.
"Let me see, what was I saying? Ah, yes, I was speaking of Matyko. Well,
it was the result of the staring."
(The peasants think that if a child is much looked at and admired it
pines away.)
Gyuri began impatiently to tap with his foot on the floor.
"Will you tell me where it is?"
"It is there under the table."
"What, the handle?"
"No, the child."
Yes, there was Matyko, sitting on a basin turned upside down, a
fat-faced, blue-eyed Slovak child, playing with some dried beans, its
face still dirty from the pancakes it had eaten.
"Bother you, woman! Are you deaf?" burst out the lawyer. "I asked you
about the handle of the umbrella, not about the child."
Mrs. Adamecz tossed her head.
"Well, that's just what I am talking about. I tell you, they persisted
in admiring Matyko, and the poor little angel was fading away. There is
only one remedy for that; you must take a burning stick, and let three
sparks fall from it into a glass of water, and of this the child must
drink for three days. I did this, but it was of no use; the child went
on suffering and getting thinner from day to day, and my heart nearly
broke at the sight of him; for I have a very soft heart, as his
reverence will tell you ..."
"I don't doubt it for a minute, but for heaven's sake answer my
question."
"I'm coming to it in a minute, sir. Just at that time they were having
the silver handle made to the umbrella, and our young lady, pretty
dear, gave me the old handle. Why, thought I, that will be just the
thing for Matyko; if three sparks from that holy wood are of no use,
then Matyko will be entered in the ranks of God's soldiers."
At the thought of little Matyko as one of God's soldiers her tears began
to flow. It was lucky if none of them fell into the frying-pan.
"Mrs. Adamecz!" exclaimed Gyuri, alarmed, his voice trembling. "You
surely did not burn the handle?"
The old woman looked at him surprised.
"How was I to get the three sparks from it if I did not burn it?"
Gyuri fell back against the wall, the kitchen and everything in it swam
before his eyes, the plates and basins seemed to be dancing a waltz
together; a tongue of fire arose from the fireplace, bringing with it
the third demon, who exclaimed: "There is nothing here!"
But all at once he felt a hand laid on his arm. It was Sztolarik.
"It was, and is no more," he said. "But never mind, Fate intended it to
be so. For the future you will not, at all events, run after a shadow,
you will be yourself again, and that is worth a good deal, after all."
CHAPTER III.
LITTLE VERONICA IS TAKEN AWAY.
But it was of no use Sztolarik preaching about the uselessness of
worldly goods, for those worldly goods are very pleasant to have.
When a favorite child dies, the members of the family always pronounce
very wise words, which are supposed to comfort one another, such as:
"Who knows how the child would have turned out? It might have come to
the gallows in time; perhaps it was better it had died now," etc. But
for all that, wisdom has never yet dried our tears.
Sztolarik said all he could think of to console Gyuri, but the young
lawyer was quite cast down at the thought that his dreams would never
now be realized; his whole life was before him, dark and threatening.
But the world was the same as of old, and everything went just the same
as though Widow Adamecz had never burned the handle of the umbrella.
The hands of the parish clock pointed to the Roman figure II., and the
chimes rang out on the air; the servants laid the table for dinner,
Mrs. Adamecz brought in the soup, and his reverence led his guests into
the dining-room, and placed them right and left of Madame Krisbay, when
all at once they noticed that Veronica was missing.
"I was just going to ask," said Madame Krisbay, "if she had been with
the gentlemen?"
"I thought she was with you," said the priest.
"I have not seen her for two hours."
"Nor I."
"Nor we."
"Perhaps she is in the kitchen?"
Madame Krisbay looked vexed, got up from her seat, and went into the
kitchen to call her pupil, but returned at once with the remark that she
had not been seen there either.
"Where can she be?" exclaimed the priest, and ran out to look for her,
sending the servants to some of her favorite seats in the garden,
thinking she might have gone there to read, and have forgotten the time.
Mrs. Adamecz grumbled in the kitchen, for the dinner was spoiling.
"Well, serve the dinner," said Father Janos, for, of course, he could
not keep his guests waiting, especially as Sztolarik wanted to return
home as soon as possible.
So the dishes were brought in one after the other, but still there was
no sign of Veronica; and Hanka had returned with the news that no one
had seen her.
Gyuri sat in his place, pale and quiet.
"Perhaps she is in the apiary," suggested her brother, "or perhaps"
(here he hesitated a minute, not knowing how to continue), "perhaps
something unpleasant has taken place between you?"
Gyuri looked up surprised.
"Nothing has taken place between us," he said coldly.
"Then, Hanka, run across to the new house and look in the apiary. Please
excuse her, gentlemen, she is such a child still, and follows her own
whims. She is probably chasing a butterfly. Take some more wine, Mr.
Sztolarik."
He was trying to reassure himself, not his guests, as he sat there
listening to every sound, paying scant attention to the conversation,
and giving many wrong answers.
Sztolarik asked if the bad weather this year had made much difference to
the harvest.
"One or two," answered the priest.
"Have you any other brothers or sisters?"
"I don't know."
His answers showed the perturbed state of his mind, and it was with
difficulty he kept his seat at table. At length the old lawyer said:
"Perhaps it would be better if your reverence were to go and look for
Miss Veronica yourself; and I should be glad if you would send word to
my coachman that I wish to start as soon as possible, for it is a long
drive to Besztercebanya."
The priest seized the opportunity, and begging Madame Krisbay to excuse
him, hurried away, for he found Veronica's absence very strange, and was
beginning to get anxious. So, Madame Krisbay having retired, the two
gentlemen were left alone, and a painful silence ensued. Gyuri was
gazing with melancholy eyes at the canary, which was also silent now.
"You had better order your carriage, too," said Sztolarik, breaking the
silence at last. "We could leave at the same time."
Gyuri murmured some unintelligible answer, and shook his head.
"But you will have to leave soon, for our part here is played out."
"I tell you it is impossible."
"Why?"
"Don't you see that Veronica is lost?"
"What does that matter to you? The umbrella handle is lost too."
Gyuri made an impatient gesture.
"What do I care about the umbrella?"
"So it is the girl you want? You told me a different tale before
dinner."
Gyuri turned round.
"I did not know then."
"And now you know?"
"Yes, now I know," he answered shortly.
"And may I ask," said Sztolarik, "when did Amor light this flaming fire?
for you did not seem to take much interest in the girl before her
disappearance."
"And yet it is causing me at the present moment all the tortures of
hell. Believe me, my dear guardian, the loss of my inheritance seems to
me a trifle beside the loss of Veronica."
Sztolarik was impressed by the apparent sincerity of Gyuri's sorrow.
"That's quite another thing," he said. "If that is how you feel I will
stay here with you. Let us go and look for the girl ourselves, and find
out what she thinks on the subject."
When they went out, they found great confusion reigning in the
courtyard, but Mrs. Adamecz was loudest in her lamentations.
"I knew this would be the end of it. A legend should never be tampered
with by a mortal's hand, or it will fall to pieces. Oh, our dear young
lady! She was God's bride, and they wanted to make her the bride of a
mortal, so God has taken her to Himself."
Sztolarik sprang toward her, and caught hold of her hand.
"What is that you say? Have you heard anything?"
"Gundros, the cowherd, has just told us that he saw our young lady this
morning running straight toward the Bjela Voda, across the meadows, and
her eyes were red, as though she had been crying. There is only one
conclusion to be drawn from that."
A lot of women and children were gathered round the kitchen door, and
one of them had also seen Veronica earlier than Gundros had.
"Did she look sad?" asked Gyuri.
"She was crying."
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Gyuri despairingly.
"We will look for her," Sztolarik assured him.
"Where?"
"Out in the meadows or in the village, for it is certain she must be
somewhere about, and we shall soon know where."
"That will not be so easy," sighed Gyuri, "for we have no glass to show
us things, as they have in fairy-tales."
"I'll have the whole village round us in a few minutes."
Gyuri shook his head doubtfully. Had Sztolarik gone mad to think he
could call all the people together from the fields, from the woods, from
everywhere round about? But the old lawyer was as good as his word.
Veronica must be found at any cost.
"Where is his reverence?" he asked of the bystanders.
"He has gone to the pond where the hemp is soaked, to see if the young
lady has fallen in there."
"Where is the bell-ringer?"
"Here I am, sir."
"Go up at once into the tower, and ring the big bell."
"But there is no fire!"
"That does not matter. If I order it to be done, you must do it. Do you
know me?"
Of course he knew Mr. Sztolarik, who had often been to Glogova since he
had been made President of the Courts. So off ran Pal Kvapka, and in a
few minutes the big fire-bell was tolling. There was no wind, and the
sound was carried for miles around over the meadows, into the woods,
over the mountains, and soon the people came running up from every side.
It was astonishing how soon the villagers were assembled round the
Presbytery. Those who saw it will never see its like again, until the
Archangel Gabriel sounds his trumpet at the last day.
Sztolarik gazed placidly at the crowd assembled around him.
"Now," he said, "I have only to stand up in their midst and ask them if
any of them have seen Veronica. But it will be quite unnecessary, for
Veronica herself will soon be here. Look out of the window," he called
up to the bell-ringer, "and tell me if you can see the young lady."
"Yes, I can see her, she is running through the Srankos' maize-field."
"She lives!" exclaimed Gyuri ecstatically, but his joy was soon at an
end, for he thought: "If there is nothing the matter with her she must
have run away from me."
And he began to wonder if it would not have been better if she were
dead, for then he could have believed she loved him, and could have
loved her and sorrowed for her.
The bell-ringer still went on tolling the bell, so Sztolarik called up
to him:
"Stop tolling, you fool, can't you? Show us which way the Srankos'
maize-field lies."
The bell-ringer pointed to the right.
"You run on in front, Gyuri, and try and get out of her what is the
matter with her."
But Gyuri was already gone, through the priest's garden, across Magat's
clover-field, and his heart began to beat, for from there he could see
Veronica in her green dress, without a hat, only a little red silk shawl
round her shoulders. Across Szlavik's corn-field, then into Gongoly's
meadow, and they were face to face.
The girl drew a sobbing breath when she saw him, and began to tremble
violently.
"Where is the fire?" she asked.
"Don't be frightened, there is no fire. My guardian had the bell rung so
as to make you return home. Why did you run away?"
The girl turned pale, and bit her lip.
"It is enough if I know the reason," she said in a low voice. "Please
leave me alone."
And she turned round as though to return to the woods.
"Veronica, for heaven's sake don't torture me; what have I done?"
The girl looked at him coldly, her eyes were like two bits of ice.
"Leave me alone," she said, "what do you want with me?"
The young man caught hold of her hand, and Veronica did her best to free
herself from his grasp, but he would not let go her hand till he had
forced a ring on to her finger.
"That is what I want," he said.
"That is what you want, is it?" laughed the girl bitterly. "And this is
what I want!" And she tore off the ring and threw it away, across the
meadow, into the grass. Poor Gyuri fell back a few steps.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "why did you do it? Why?"
"Do not try to deceive me any longer, Mr. Wibra. You should not put a
ring on my finger, but on the umbrella, for that is what you really want
to marry."
Gyuri began to understand what had taken place.
"Good heavens! You listened to our conversation!"
"Yes, I know all!" said Veronica, blushing slightly. "It is no good your
denying it."
"I don't wish to deny anything. But listen to me, please."
They walked quietly through the meadow, Gyuri talking, the girl
listening, while the thousands of insects which peopled the fields flew
away before their feet. Gyuri related the story of his life, and of his
father's, of the supposed inheritance, of his search for it, and how he
had gathered the threads together till they led him to Babaszek. The
girl listened to him, first with reproach in her eyes, then as judge,
trying to find out the truth, and as the story began to interest her
more and more, she became quite excited. Now she was neither plaintiff
nor judge, only an interested listener, surprised that the threads led
nearer and nearer to herself. Now Gyuri is speaking of Mrs. Muencz's son,
now Moricz is telling his story, which shows that the umbrella must be
in Glogova. Then the forester's wife tells the tale of St. Peter's
bringing the umbrella to the orphan child. A few more words and the
story was complete.
Veronica knew all, and her eyes were swimming in tears.
"Oh, dear, how dreadful! Mrs. Adamecz burned the handle!"
"God bless her for it!" said Gyuri brightly, seeing the girl's
depression, "for now at least I can prove to you that I love you for
yourself alone."
Veronica had taken off the small red shawl and was swinging it in her
hand. Suddenly she caught hold of Gyuri's arm, and smiled at him through
her tears.
"Do you really mean that you still want to marry me?"
"Of course. What do you say to it?"
"I say that ..." She ceased speaking, for there was a queer feeling in
her throat.
"Well?"
"That you are very volatile, and ..."
"And?"
"And that ... Let us run back and look for my ring."
With that she turned, and ran as fast as she could to the part of the
meadow in which they had been standing when she threw the ring away.
Gyuri could hardly keep up with her.
They looked for the ring a long time, but it was not to be found. And
soon Father Janos appeared on the scene.
"I say, Gyuri, don't say anything about the umbrella to my brother."
"No, my darling, I will never mention it."
His reverence gave Veronica a good scolding.
"You naughty girl! Is that the way to behave? How you frightened us! Of
course you were chasing a butterfly?"
"No, I was running away from one, but it caught me."
"What, the butterfly?"
"Yes, that ugly, big butterfly standing beside you."
His reverence understood as much as he was meant to, and set to work,
too, to look for the ring. But they might have looked for it till
Doomsday if Mr. Gongoly had not passed that way. Veronica had quite
despaired of finding the ring.
"Well, well, my dear," said the nabob of Glogova, shaking back his long
gray hair, "never mind, trust in Gongoly, he will find it for you. There
is only one way to do it, so in an hour's time they will be making hay
in this field."
* * * * *
Though the grass was not two inches high (it had only been cut a
fortnight before), Mr. Gongoly sent his men there to mow it, with the
result that next day the ring was safely resting on Veronica's finger.
And for years the people spoke of the wonderful fact that in that year
Mr. Gongoly's meadow gave two crops of hay, and it was always mentioned
if any one spoke disparagingly of the Glogova fields.
What more am I to say? I think I have told my story conscientiously. All
the same there are some things that will never be known for certain; for
instance, what really became of Pal Gregorics' fortune, for there is no
sign of it to this day. Was the supposed receipt in the handle of the
umbrella or not? No one will ever know, not even little Matyko, who
drank the water with three sparks in it. No king drinks such precious
liquid as he did--if the story be true.
The legend of the holy umbrella is still believed in in those parts. Mr.
Sztolarik, who was fond of a gossip, certainly told his version of the
story, how old Muencz the Jew had made a present to Christianity of a
holy relic, and so on; but the old belief was strongly rooted, and he
was only laughed at when he told his tale. And after all, there was
something mystic and strange in the whole affair, and the umbrella had
brought worldly goods to every one, Gyuri included, for it had given him
the dearest little wife in the world. They were married very soon and
never had such a wedding taken place in Glogova before. According to
Veronica's special wish, every one who had been at the Mravucsans'
supper was invited to the wedding, for she wanted all those who had been
present at their first meeting to take part in their happiness. There
were a lot of guests from Besztercebanya too, among them the mother of
the bridegroom, in a black silk dress, the President of the Courts, the
mayor, and lots of others. Then there were the Urszinyis from Kopanyica,
two young ladies from Lehota in pink dresses, and Mrs. Muencz from
Babaszek, with lovely golden earrings on.
There were so many different kinds of conveyances in Glogova that day,
it would have taken a week to look at them all.
Dear me, what a lovely procession it was too; the peasants stood and
gazed open-mouthed at all the people in their beautiful dresses, but
most of all at the bride, who walked at the head of the procession in a
lovely white dress with a long veil and a wreath of orange-blossoms. Oh,
how pretty she was!
But the bridegroom was splendid too, in the same kind of dress in which
the king has his portrait painted sometimes. His sword, in a velvet
sheath mounted in gold, clattered on the pavement as he walked up the
church.
They stood in a semicircle round the altar, each lady with a nosegay of
flowers in her hand, and perfumed to such an extent that the church
smelled like a perfumer's shop.
It was a little cool in the church, and the young ladies from Lehota
were seen to shiver now and then in their thin pink dresses; but
everything went off very well.
The bridegroom spoke his "yes" in a loud, firm voice, the walls seemed
to re-echo it, but the bride spoke it almost in a whisper, it sounded
like the buzzing of a fly.
Poor child! She got so nervous toward the end of the ceremony that she
began to cry. Then she looked for her handkerchief, but was there ever a
pocket in a wedding dress? She could not find it, so some one from
behind offered her one, then turned and said:
"Button up your coat, Wladin!"
THE END.
Transcriber's Note: The following typographical errors and spelling
inconsistencies present in the original edition have been corrected.
In the Table of Contents, "MARIA CZOBOR'S ROSE" was changed to "MARIA
CZOBOR'S ROSE".
In the Introduction, "strong satrical bent" was changed to "strong
satirical bent".
In Part II, Chapter I, "Believe me, Rosalia" was changed to "Believe me,
Rosalia", and a missing quotation mark was added after "something in the
writing business".
In Part II, Chapter III, "PAL GREGORICS'S DEATH AND WILL" was changed to
"PAL GREGORICS'S DEATH AND WILL".
In Part II, Chapter IV, "appeared at Gaspar's house" was changed to
"appeared at Gaspar's house".
In Part III, Chapter II, "OUR ROSALIA" was changed to "OUR ROSALIA".
In Part III, Chapter IV, an extraneous quotation mark was removed after
"threatened with damage by hail!"
At the head of Part IV, "Intellectual Society in Babaszek" was changed
to "Intellectual Society in Babaszek".
In Part IV, Chapter I, "THE SUPPER AT THE MRAVUCSANS'" was changed to
"THE SUPPER AT THE MRAVUCSANS'", and a missing parenthesis was added
after "Stay in your parish, Rafanidesz".
In Part IV, Chapter II, extraneous quotation marks were removed after
"seize hold of it!" and "a small pot of jam in too?"
In Part V, Chapter II, "Visztula, the old watch-dog" was changed to
"Vistula, the old watch-dog".