When the men, accompanied by several children who were playing in the
village street and had inquisitively joined the passing procession,
appeared at the Molnars' hut with their horrible burden, the beautiful
Panna was standing in the kitchen, churning. At the sight of the
lifeless form lying on the bier, she uttered a piercing shriek and
dropped the stick from her hands, which fell by her side as though
paralyzed. It was at least a minute before her body was again subject
to her will and she could rush to the corpse and throw herself prone
upon it.
Meanwhile the men had had time to carry the dead form into the room
adjoining the kitchen and set the bier upon the clay floor, after which
they took to their heels as if pursued by fiends; at least Janos and
the beadle did so; the gardener had remained to try to comfort the poor
woman, so suddenly widowed, in the first tempest of her despair.
Panna lay on her husband's dead body, wringing her hands and moaning:
"Oh, God! oh, God!" sobbing until even the gardener, a stolid,
weather-beaten peasant, and anything but soft-hearted, could not
restrain his own tears. Not until after several minutes had passed did
the young wife raise herself to her knees, and ask in a voice choked
with tears, what all this meant, what had happened.
"The master shot your Pista," replied the gardener in a tone so low
that it was scarcely audible.
"The master? Pista? Shot?" repeated Panna mechanically, absently, as
if the words which she slowly uttered belonged to an unknown,
incomprehensible language. She stared at the gardener with dilated
eyes, and her lips moved without emitting any sound. At last, however,
understanding of the present returned, and the words escaped with
difficulty from her labouring breast: "Oh, God, oh, God, how could it
happen? How could God permit such misery?" Again she was silent,
while the gardener looked away and seemed to be examining the opposite
house with the utmost attention through the panes of the little window.
But Panna was beginning to think more clearly and to recover from the
dull stupor into which the sudden shock had thrown her. Still kneeling
beside the corpse, wringing her hands, and amid floods of tears, she
began again:
"The master shot my poor Pista from carelessness?"
The gardener hesitated a moment, then he said:
"Not from carelessness, poor woman."
In an instant Panna was on her feet, stood beside the gardener at a
single bound, grasped him by the shoulder, and said in a firm, harsh
voice, while her tears suddenly ceased to flow: "Not from carelessness,
you say? Then it was intentional?"
The gardener nodded silently.
"That is impossible, it cannot be, no innocent person is murdered, and
I am certain that Pista has done nothing; he was the gentlest man in
the world, he wouldn't harm a fly, he hadn't drunk a drop of wine in
five years, he-- Have no regard for me! Tell me everything, and may
God reward you for remaining with me in this hour."
The gardener could no longer withhold the truth, and acquainted her
with the occurrence whose commencement the coachman Janos had described
to him on the way, whose tragical close he himself had witnessed.
Panna listened silently, never averting her eyes from the body during
the entire story. In the midst of a sentence from the gardener, she
suddenly uttered a shriek, and again threw herself upon the dead man.
"Here, here is the hole!" she murmured. "Horrible! horrible!"
Hitherto she had had before her eyes only a vague, shapeless,
blood-stained vision, without being able to distinguish any details;
now for the first time she had seen, amid the blood and oozing brains,
the terrible wound in the forehead. But this interruption lasted only
a moment, then Panna again stood beside the gardener and begged him to
continue.
He soon reached the catastrophe, which once more drew a scream, or
rather a quickly suppressed, gasping sound, from the widow, and then
closed with a few well-meant, but clumsy, words of consolation.
Here Panna interrupted him.
"That's enough, Friend, that's enough; now I know how it all was and I
will comfort myself. If you have anything to do, don't stay with me
longer, and may God reward you for what you have done."
"What do you mean to do now?" asked the gardener, deeply moved.
"Nothing. I mean a great many things. I have much to do."
She went into the kitchen and soon came back with a wooden water-pail
and a coarse linen towel. Placing the vessel on the floor beside the
corpse, she began to wash the face, without taking any farther notice
of her visitor. During her melancholy task she only murmured from time
to time in broken sentences; "Oh, God, oh, God!--No, God is not
just--Pista, the gentlest man--he was not like us--he was not
hot-tempered--What is God's will?"
The gardener felt that he was not wanted, so, after exhorting the widow
to be calm and to come to him if she needed advice or help, he went
away. She had nodded and, without turning her head, called after him
again: "God will repay you!"
When left alone, Panna carefully dried the dead man's face, placed
under his head a pillow which she took from the bed, kissed his poor,
ugly face,--sobbing meanwhile from the very depths of her heart,--and
covered it with a gay little silk kerchief which he had brought to her
from the last fair. Then she hurriedly made some changes in her own
dress and left the house, whose door she locked behind her.
Without looking round, she walked rapidly to the field where she knew
that her father was working, which she reached in a quarter of an hour.
He was toiling with other day-labourers in a potato-patch, pulling the
ripe roots out of the ground, and when she came up was stooping over
his work. He did not notice his daughter until she was standing by his
side and touched him lightly on the shoulder with her finger.
Then he straightened himself, exclaiming in great astonishment:
"Panna! What is the matter?"
A glance at her made him start violently, and he added in a subdued
voice:
"A misfortune? Another misfortune?"
Panna did not reply, but grasped his arm and, with long, swift strides,
led him far beyond the range of hearing of the other workmen. When
they had reached the edge of the field, she said softly:
"Father, Herr von Abonyi has just shot my Pista out of sheer
wantonness, like a mad-dog."
The old peasant staggered back several paces as if he had been hit on
the head with a club. Then his face, whose muscles had contracted till
it resembled a horrible mask, flushed scarlet, he uttered a tremendous
oath, and made a sudden movement as though to hurry away.
But Panna was again at his side, holding him fast.
"What are you going to do, Father?"
"There--the hoe--the dog must die--he must be killed--now--at
once--I'll run in--I'll split his head--die--the dog," he panted,
trying to wrench himself from his daughter's strong grasp.
The latter held him still more firmly.
"No, Father," she said, "try to be calm. I am quiet. Rage has never
been a good counsellor to us. I thought you would take it so, and
therefore I wanted to tell you myself, before you heard it from others."
The old man swore and struggled, but Panna would not release him.
"Father, be sensible, we are not living among robbers, an innocent man
is not shot down unpunished. You need not split his lordship's head,
another will do that, a greater person than you or he. There is a law,
there is a court of justice."
Her father grew calmer, his distorted face began to relax. Panna now
released his arm, sat down on the boundary-stone beside which they had
been standing, and, gazing fixedly at the ground, while rolling the hem
of her apron between her fingers, she continued, speaking more to
herself than to him,
"We certainly know best that punishment will not fail. They shot our
poor Marczi, and he only gave a man a blow. If you ever had a little
quarrel with any one in the tavern, they imprisoned you for weeks and
months. I, too, have atoned for the crime I committed; nothing remains
unpunished, and the nobleman will get his deserts, as we have always
received ours."
The sun was setting, and the notes of the vesper-bell echoed from the
distance. The old man picked up his hoe, which he had left in the
furrow and, lost in thought, walked home with his daughter in silence.
Panna prepared the bed she had used when a girl in her father's hut,
and went to rest early. It is not probable that she slept during the
night. At least she was already completely dressed when, very early
the next morning, the parish-beadle knocked at the door of the hut, and
it was she who opened it.
He asked for the key of her house, because the corpse must be carried
to the town-hall.
"Why?"
"Because, early in the forenoon, the committee and the district
physician will come from the city to hold the coroner's inquest."
"Will he be present?"
"Who?"
"The--Herr von Abonyi."
The beadle shrugged his shoulders and said,
"I don't know."
Panna did not give up the key, but went with the beadle herself, and
was present when the latter appeared, with three other men and a bier,
and bore the corpse away.
The coachman Janos, and another servant, also came to fetch the wheels
and poles on which they had brought the dead man home the day before,
and which belonged to the castle. Panna locked her door behind them,
and followed the corpse to the town-hall.
In the centre of the court stood a long black table, surrounded with
all sorts of pails and various utensils, and near it a small one with
writing materials and a chair before it. Meanwhile the body was left
on the bier beside the table and covered with a horse-blanket. A great
crowd of people, among them many women, and even little children,
flocked into the building in a very short time, thronged about the
bier, the black table, and Panna, who was leaning against it, carrying
on a low, eager hum of conversation till it seemed as though countless
swarms of bumble-bees were buzzing through the air.
About eight o'clock two carriages drove up, from which descended five
dusty gentlemen, dressed in the fashion of the city, and a servant.
These were the examining magistrate, the prosecuting attorney, the
district physician, a lawyer, and a clerk of the court, then the
beadle, who carried a box containing the dissecting instruments. In
the absence of the parish-magistrate--it was remembered that Abonyi
held this office--the gentlemen were received by the village notary
(parish clerk) and ushered into the interior of the building, where an
abundant breakfast awaited them. Meanwhile the people were dismissed
from the courtyard, and as the mere request did not induce them to move
fast enough, were urged forward with gentle force, after which the gate
was closed and bolted on the inside. Panna had been obliged to go out
with the others, but she would not leave the spot, where she was joined
by her father, though she entreated him to return home or go to his
work in the field and not meddle with anything.
At nine o'clock the little funeral-bell in the church-steeple began to
toll, and at the same time the post-mortem examination took place, but
did not last long, as it was only necessary to open the cavity of the
skull. The investigation proved that the missile, a lead, cone-shaped
bullet of large calibre, had entered above the left eye, torn its way
through the left-half of the brain in a curve passing from above to the
lower portion within, and lodged in the pons vorolii. Under such
circumstances, death must have been instantaneous.
When all was over, the beadle again opened the gate and admitted the
curious throng. The village notary went to Panna and asked whether she
wished to have the funeral from the town-hall, or from her own house.
She decided in favor of the latter plan, and the notary gave the
necessary orders to the beadle. A coffin had been ordered by the
gardener the day before, and was ready for delivery. Some old women
offered to attend to dressing the body and preparing it for burial,
notifying the clergyman, etc., so Panna was spared all the mournful
business details which demand attention from a crushed spirit at a
moment when it is so incapable of forming any sensible, practical
conclusions, and could therefore remain near the committee.
After the post-mortem examination was over, the members went to view
the scene of the deed. Panna followed, and was silently permitted to
do so by the beadle and the constable, while the throng of villagers
was kept back. A mist dimmed Panna's eyes, when she saw the place
where the crime was committed, but she bore up bravely and watched the
proceedings around her with the utmost attention.
The gentlemen entered the coach-house and, standing at the door, she
could hear the physician say that he thought he noticed blood-stains on
the floor. The examining magistrate sketched a slight plan of the
place in his note-book, and ordered Janos and the gardener, who were in
the vicinity, to be brought in by the beadle. They were required to
point out the places where they were standing at the time of the
misfortune, and to briefly relate in turn the details of the story,
during which the prosecuting attorney and the lawyer for the defense
made notes. All this afforded Panna infinite satisfaction. She felt
her heart grow lighter, and became calm, almost cheerful. A voice in
her soul said: "There--there is justice!" and every letter which the
gentlemen, with swiftly moving pencils, scrawled on the paper, seemed
to her a link in the steel chain which was being forged before her
eyes, ever longer and heavier, and would serve to drag the criminal
fettered before the tribunal.
From the castle, the committee returned to the town-hall, and now
followed the real official examination of the witnesses, whose previous
information had been taken merely as unofficial information, and not as
legal depositions. They were summoned singly into the room and
examined, first Janos, then the gardener, and lastly the beadle. When
the latter came out Panna, who, until then had waited patiently at the
threshold, stepped resolutely into the chamber, though the constable
told her that she had not been summoned.
The examining magistrate looked at the new-comer in surprise, and asked
what she wanted.
"What do I want?" replied Panna in astonishment, "why, to be examined
as the others have been."
"Were you present when the misfortune happened?"
Panna felt a pang in her heart when the examining magistrate used the
word "misfortune." She would have wished him to say "crime." But she
answered with a firm voice.
"No, I was not present."
"Then you cannot be a witness."
"I am not a witness, I am the accuser."
The lawyer for the defense smiled faintly, but the prosecuting attorney
drew himself up and answered sternly and impressively, before the
examining magistrate had found time to open his mouth.
"You are mistaken, my good woman. I am the accuser, and you have
nothing more to do here."
"That is true," the magistrate now remarked. "If you desire to obtain
damages from Herr von Abonyi, you can bring the complaint before the
civil court. You have nothing to do with the criminal trial."
"But it is my husband, my Pista, who has been murdered!" cried Panna,
who was beginning to be greatly excited.
The prosecuting attorney twirled a lead-pencil between his fingers, but
the examining magistrate rose, took the widow by the hand and led her
to the door, saying soothingly: "You don't understand, my good woman;
the point in question is not your Pista, but our Pista. He was a
member of society, and his cause is the cause of all of us. Rely upon
it, you will have justice." While speaking he had opened the door and
given the constable a sign to lead the woman away.
This was not necessary; Panna went voluntarily, after casting a strange
look at the magistrate which somewhat perplexed him.
The cartwright's funeral took place in the afternoon amid a great
throng of villagers. Since his mother's death Molnar had had no
relatives in the place, and his wife and her father were the only
mourners among the concourse which followed the coffin to the cemetery.
The Catholic pastor, who was often Abonyi's partner at his evening card
parties, delivered an edifying address beside the open grave. He took
for his text the verse (Matthew v. 44): "But I say unto you, Love your
enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and
pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you," and said a
great deal about forgiveness and reconciliation. The listeners were
much moved, and frequently wiped their eyes. Panna alone was tearless
and sullen, she felt enraged with the fat, prating priest, who did not
seem to her to speak sincerely.
After the funeral she went with her father to his hut, and there the
two sat at the table opposite to each other, gazing into vacancy
without uttering a word. But they did not remain long undisturbed in
their gloomy meditations, for the door soon opened and the priest came
in with a smooth, unctuous: "Praised be Jesus Christ!"
"In eternity, amen!" replied the old man in a dull tone, rising
slightly from his chair, while Panna sat still in silence.
The priest took his seat beside the widow and, in sweet, cajoling
words, began to enlarge upon the subject of his funeral address. He
exhorted her, as her confessor, to remember that she was a Christian,
she must forgive her adversaries, nay, even love her enemies, that she,
too, might be forgiven; if she cherished anger and vengeance in her
heart, her sin would be greater than Herr von Abonyi's----
Here Panna threw back her head and looked at the honeyed speaker so
fiercely, that he found it advisable to follow another course. He
represented to her that Abonyi had committed the deed by some
incomprehensible rashness, in a sort of delirium and that he desired
nothing more ardently than to make amends for the consequences of the
luckless act, so far as lay in human power. While speaking, he put his
hand into his pocket and drew out a bank-note of large amount, which he
laid on the table.
Panna could bear no more. Seizing the money furiously, she threw it
violently on the floor and, with rolling eyes and quivering lips,
shrieked:
"I want justice, not alms. He must hang--I must see him dead like my
Pista, before I am at peace."
The priest now lost his evangelical mildness also, and rose angrily,
exclaiming:
"Fie! fie! you are a pagan, a pagan, and belong to all the fiends in
hell." With these pious words he went away. The bank-bill, crushed
into a ball, flew out of the room after him, then the door banged
violently.