The committee, after the official proceedings were over, had returned
to the city, but not until the constable had given the beadle
information which afforded food for village gossip during several days.
It was learned that, directly after the fatal act, Herr von Abonyi had
saddled a horse and ridden alone to the city to denounce himself. It
was late in the evening when he reached the examining magistrate's
house. The latter, an old friend of Abonyi, was much troubled and
shocked, and it was long ere he could collect himself sufficiently to
be able to take the deposition of the acknowledged criminal. It was
ten o'clock before all the formalities were settled, then the
magistrate, deeply agitated, took leave of his unfortunate friend. The
former had not considered it necessary to arrest him, as Abonyi had
pledged his word of honor to hold himself always ready to obey the
summons of the court.
Panna of course heard these tales, as well as other people, and she
also noticed how they were received in the village. There were
numerous comments, some foolish, some sensible; as usual, opposite
parties were formed; one condemned Abonyi's being left at liberty, the
other thought it perfectly natural, since it could not be supposed that
so great and rich a man as Carl von Abonyi would make his escape under
cover of the darkness, like a strolling vagabond who has nothing but a
staff and a knapsack. Panna of course belonged to the malcontents. It
did not enter her head that any one could be permitted to go about
unmolested, after killing a man. The ingenious distinctions between
imprisonment while awaiting trial, and imprisonment as a punishment
were too subtle for her, and she did not wish to understand them; she
only knew that whenever her father was brought before the examining
magistrate, he was detained, and used to wait in jail two months and
longer, until at last condemned to a fortnight's imprisonment, which
was considered expiated by the imprisonment while awaiting trial.
Justice seemed to her far too slow. What kind of justice was this
which delayed so long, so torturingly long? Punishment ought to follow
crime as the thunder follows the lightning-flash. The murdered man's
death-glazed eyes ought to be still open, when the murderer is dangling
on the gallows. This was the demand of Panna's passionate heart, but
also of her peasant-logic, which could comprehend the causal relation
between sin and expiation clearly and palpably, only when both were
united in a single melodramatic effect. Why was nothing heard of a
final trial, of a condemnation? For what were the legal gentlemen
waiting? Surely the case was as clear as sunlight, with no
complication whatever, the criminal had acknowledged everything. Even
if he had not, there were three witnesses who had all been present, the
committee had seen the corpse, the hole in the forehead, the bullet
from the revolver, the blood-stains in the coach-house, was not all
this a hundred times enough to condemn a man on the spot? Yet week
after week elapsed, and nothing new was heard of the matter.
Meanwhile it was rumoured in the village that Abonyi was visiting a
friend, a land-owner in the neighboring county, with whom he was
constantly engaged in hunting. This might and might not be true.
At any rate it seemed to Panna atrocious that it was even possible.
When one evening the gardener, who was no longer in Abonyi's service,
came to see the widow, she poured out her heart, which was brimming
with bitterness, to the kind, faithful fellow.
"Isn't it enough to enrage a dove, that Pista has been mouldering in
the ground six weeks and his murderer still goes about at liberty,
perhaps enjoys himself in hunting?"
The gardener tried to soothe the infuriated woman, and said all sorts
of things about the laws, forms, etc.
"Laws? Forms?" Panna excitedly broke in, "where were these laws and
forms when our Marczi, my brother, was executed a few hours after his
offence? And he had not killed any one, only dealt a harsh officer a
blow."
"That was in the army, Panna, that was in war; it is an entirely
different matter."
"Indeed? And is it also a different matter that, a few years ago, the
vine-dresser's Bandi was hung three days after he set fire to his
master's barn?"
"Of course it is different, at that time we were under martial law."
"So once it was war and once it was martial law--that's all nonsense,
and I'll tell you what it is: our Marczi and the vine-dresser's Bandi
were peasants, and Herr von Abonyi is a gentleman."
The gardener made no reply, perhaps because he secretly shared Panna's
belief; but her father, who had been sitting at the table, cutting
tobacco with a huge knife and taking no part in the conversation,
suddenly struck its point so violently into the table that it stuck
fast, vibrating and buzzing, and exclaimed:
"Panna, Panna, I told you so then! The best way would have been to
split the dog's skull with the hoe that very day."
Meanwhile the affair pursued its regular course, which neither the
impatience of those concerned hastens nor their submission delays, and
one morning the gardener came to Panna's hut with the news that he had
received the summons to appear as witness at the trial, which was to
take place in four days. This was nearly three months after the
murder, and it was already late in November.
Panna knew that the witnesses were reimbursed for the expense incurred
for the carriages in which they drove to the city, and begged the
gardener to take her with him to the court, which the latter readily
promised.
On the appointed morning the peasant's vehicle appeared in front of
Panna's hut at a very early hour. It was not yet five o'clock, and
dense darkness obscured the village and the neighbourhood. But Panna
already stood at her door, and was seated in the carriage almost before
it had stopped. She wore a black dress, a dark shawl covered her
shoulders, at her throat was her old silver crucifix, which had again
come into her possession after her mother-in-law's death, and on her
head was a black silk kerchief, which set off her beautiful face so
marvellously that one might have supposed she had studied the effect,
had not this grave, strong woman been so wholly incapable of any act of
coquetry. She was pale and thoughtful, and during the whole way did
not address a single word to the gardener, who sat beside her,
occasionally glancing at her with admiring approval, only one could see
that the deep gloom which during the past few weeks had constantly
shadowed her features had disappeared.
In fact, she was calm, almost content. The satisfaction due her had
been delayed a strangely long time, but at last it would be hers;
to-day she, too, was to learn that the hand of justice could stroke her
with maternal kindness, after having hitherto, during her whole life,
experienced only its power to deal blows.
The road which, in the autumn, had been thoroughly soaked, had recently
been frozen hard by the early frosts, and they made such rapid progress
that, after a ride of barely five hours, the vehicle reached the city
and stopped in front of the town hall.
The beginning of the examination had been fixed at ten o'clock, but it
was fully eleven before it commenced. The room in which it took place
presented no imposing appearance. It was an apartment, or if one
chooses to call it so, a hall of ordinary size, with four windows; in
the centre was a wooden railing which divided it into two nearly equal
parts; inside was the usual apparatus of justice, a green-covered table
with writing materials and a black crucifix, between two candlesticks,
placed on a platform for the court-room; at the right, also on the
platform, a small table for the prosecuting attorney; below, a wooden
bench for the defendant, two police officers, and a little table for
the lawyer for the defence. Outside the railing stood a few wooden
benches, which afforded room for about forty persons.
When Panna entered with the gardener the other two witnesses, Janos and
the beadle, were already in the space set apart for the audience, and
also the village notary, the new parish magistrate, a rich peasant and
cattle-dealer named Barany, the pastor, several other residents of
Kisfalu, and two or three owners of estates in the county, friends of
the defendant.
Panna, who sat in the front row, directly by the railing, had no eyes
for her surroundings, and scarcely noticed that every one was gazing at
her with curiosity and interest. Her mood was calm, almost solemn, and
she gazed steadily at the door in the end of the room through which the
court must enter.
At last a constable appeared, who moved the armchairs, arranged the
papers on the green table, and then noisily opened the doors. The
three judges, followed by the constable, came in and took their seats;
with them appeared the prosecuting attorney, the same one who had taken
part in the preliminary examination in Kisfalu, and almost immediately
after a side-door opened and Herr von Abonyi entered, accompanied by
his lawyer and followed by a man whose uniform cap showed that he was
some official. This individual remained standing at the door, while
Abonyi took his seat on the wooden bench and the lawyer in his chair.
Abonyi had bowed to the court when he entered, and now cast a searching
glance at the spectators. But he involuntarily started and hastily
averted his head, without noticing the smiling greetings of his
friends, for the first things he beheld were Panna's flashing black
eyes, which had pierced him when he first appeared, and which he
actually seemed to feel burning through his clothes, and consuming his
body, as he turned away from them.
Panna was intensely excited; her heart throbbed violently and her
eyebrows contracted in a gloomy frown. Abonyi's appearance had
destroyed a large share of her consoling and soothing illusions. She
had had a vague idea that he would be brought in in some humiliating
convict garb, perhaps with handcuffs or even with his feet chained, and
sit between two soldiers with fixed bayonets, deserted, humble,
penitent. Instead of that she saw Abonyi just as she was in the habit
of seeing him, attired in an elegant black suit, smoothly-shaved and
carefully combed, with plump cheeks and smiling lips, head erect and
bold eyes, more distinguished in appearance than any one inside the
rail, without the slightest token in aspect and bearing which could
mark him as a man charged with a heinous crime, in short here, just as
in his village, thoroughly the _grand seigneur_.
The presiding judge opened the proceedings and ordered the clerk of the
court to read the accusation, which was homicide through negligence, as
well as the minutes of the coroner's inquest and the other documents of
the investigation, then he proceeded to the examination of the accused,
asking the usual questions concerning his name, age, etc., in a
courteous, kindly tone, wholly devoid of sternness, which filled Panna
with vehement rage. This was not the terrible personification of the
fell punishment of crime, but a smooth farce, acted amid universal
satisfaction.
Now the judge reached the kernel of the matter, and asked the defendant
to state the circumstances of the event which formed the subject of the
legal proceedings. Abonyi, in a somewhat unsteady voice, related that
on the fatal day he had gone to his coachhouse and found "his workman"
asleep; he had roused him and warned him to be more industrious, then
the fellow became amazingly insolent and defiant, and threatened him so
roughly with a pitchfork, that he owed his escape with a whole skin
solely to his rapid flight, and the presence of mind with which he
bolted the furious man into the shed.
Panna listened with dilated eyes and open mouth; a burning flush
suffused her cheeks, her breath came in gasps, and bending far forward,
she clenched the railing convulsively with both hands. It seemed
incredible that she could have heard correctly. What, is it possible
to lie so in a court of justice, in the presence of the black crucifix,
the judges, the listeners? And the prosecutor does not interrupt him
in his infamous speech? The earth which holds the murdered man, now
slandered in his very grave, does not open and swallow the shameless
liar?
The gardener, who perceived what was passing in her mind, laid his hand
upon her arm and whispered into her ear: "For heaven's sake, Panna,
keep quiet, control yourself, or if you cannot, go out of the room."
Panna impatiently motioned to him to keep silent, for the defendant was
continuing his story. He related how the imprisoned cartwright had
constantly raged and threatened murder and arson so that, as parish
magistrate, he had considered it his duty to have the dangerous fellow
arrested. To intimidate the rebellious man, he had sent for a
revolver, which he thought was not loaded, and this was accidentally
discharged----
"Lies! Wretched, base lies!" shrieked Panna, shaking her clenched fist
furiously at Abonyi, who turned pale and paused in his story. A
passing tumult arose; the listeners crowded around Panna, who had
started up, and tried to force her back into her seat and to quiet her.
The presiding judge frowned and was about to speak, when the
prosecuting attorney told him in a hasty whisper who the disturber was.
But Panna continued to cry out: "Don't believe him, gentlemen, he is
lying! He shot him intentionally and without cause."
She would have said more, but the judge interrupted her, exclaiming
violently: "Silence, unhappy woman, you are making yourself guilty of a
serious offence and deserve that we should inflict exemplary
punishment. But we will have compassion on your condition and content
ourselves with turning you out of the room."
At the same time he beckoned to the constable, who, with the individual
standing behind the defendant, and a watchman posted in the
audience-room, seized the screaming woman and, in spite of her
struggles, forced her out of the door.
This interruption had lasted several minutes and evidently affected all
present very unpleasantly. Now, calmness gradually returned and the
trial could pursue its course. After the defendant, the turn of the
witnesses came. Their depositions were to elucidate two points
especially: whether Molnar had really behaved in such a manner that
deeds of violence might be expected from him, and it was necessary to
threaten him with a weapon and put him in fetters--also, whether the
revolver had been discharged accidentally or intentionally.
The first witness, Janos, gave his testimony cautiously and sinuously;
he did not know how the dispute had begun; he was not present while
Pista uttered the threats of which Herr von Abonyi spoke, as he had
gone first to fetch the revolver and then the beadle; Pista had
certainly seemed angry and excited, and would not permit handcuffs to
be put upon him; he, Janos, had his back turned to his master when the
shot was fired.
The beadle, too, could only say that Pista would not suffer himself to
be fettered, and that he had not noticed the discharge of the revolver.
Now the gardener was summoned. Abonyi looked sharply at him; the
witness bore the gaze quietly and began to speak. He stated that Pista
had always been a harmless, peaceful man, while the nobleman, on the
contrary, was arrogant and harsh in his intercourse with common people.
The lawyer for the defence interrupted him with the words: "You are not
asked for a certificate of good conduct!" and the judge admonished him
to keep to the point.
The gardener, unintimidated, added that Herr von Abonyi had first
inflicted bodily abuse on the cartwright, who was not his employee, and
the latter then threatened him or rather defended himself.
The judge asked if he had seen this.
"No," replied the witness, "but Janos saw it and told me."
Janos was recalled and confronted with the gardener. He could remember
nothing about it.
The examination was continued. The gardener testified that Pista had
been willing to submit to arrest, but would not allow himself to be
handcuffed, for which, moreover, not the semblance of necessity had
existed. Besides, Herr von Abonyi had had an evil intention when he
sent for the revolver, for he asked expressly for the one lying on the
table by the bed, and the whole parish knew that this weapon was always
loaded. So it was false that Herr von Abonyi supposed he held an
unloaded pistol in his hand.
The judge addressed his last question to the witness: "Did you see the
defendant fire the weapon intentionally?"
The gardener replied that no one could have seen that, except a person
who stood directly beside the criminal and watched his finger closely;
he could only say that Herr von Abonyi kept the weapon constantly
aimed, and his finger on the trigger, so that he, the gardener, had
involuntarily thought that some mischief would happen, and that the
shot was fired at the precise moment when Pista raised the pitchfork
against the servant, who was pressing upon him.
The lawyer for the defence rose and informed the court that the witness
was a servant whom Abonyi had discharged.
"I was discharged after I gave the same testimony at the preliminary
examination which I have given to-day," observed the gardener quietly.
"Speak only when the court questions you!" said the judge reprovingly;
then he whispered a short time with his companions in office, and
finally announced that the last witness would not be sworn.
The gardener looked at the judge in bewilderment and returned to his
place among the audience.
The prosecuting attorney now began his speech. He censured Abonyi for
sending for the revolver, and the command to handcuff the refractory
man seemed to him to show over-zeal and somewhat unjustifiable
severity; there was no ground to believe that murder was intended, yet
the defendant had committed a grave offence when, yielding to an absurd
notion, he had deemed it proper to threaten the cartwright with a
fire-arm. He would therefore propose to sentence Abonyi for homicide
through negligence to--six months' imprisonment.
Abonyi's lawyer tried to show that the revolver had not been
superfluous, since it was necessary to inspire a furious man, who was
threatening deeds of violence, with salutary terror, and thereby
restrain him from excesses. As parish-magistrate, it was Abonyi's duty
to oppose the cartwright, and when the latter scorned and rebelled
against the authorities, Abonyi had been fully justified in compelling
the cartwright to respect his orders, even by forcibly handcuffing him.
For the unfortunate accident which resulted in the loss of a human
life, Abonyi could not be held responsible, and he therefore requested
the acquittal of his client.
The prosecuting attorney replied that it was not fully proved that
Molnar had been so refractory that handcuffing was indispensable; but
he would admit that it was necessary to maintain the dignity of the
magistracy energetically, in the midst of a turbulent, insubordinate
populace.
Abonyi's lawyer answered that, instead of making any rejoinder, he had
only one thing to say: his client would engage to provide for the
unfortunate Molnar's widow by giving her a large piece of land and also
settling upon her an annual income, legally secured, of four hundred
florins.
A murmur of approval ran through the audience, suppressed by a stern
command from the judge. After a short whispered consultation, during
which the defendant was not even led out of the court-room, the judge
pronounced the sentence, that the defendant, for the homicide through
negligence of Stefan Molnar, was condemned to six months imprisonment;
any claims for compensation from those entitled to demand them were
reserved and could be brought before the civil courts. The prosecuting
attorney declared himself satisfied with the sentence, as his proposal
had been fully accepted; the lawyer for the defence exchanged whispers
a moment with the condemned man, and then also said that he would give
up the appeal to a higher tribunal; the judge closed the proceedings,
and Abonyi went out through the door by which he had entered, while the
man with the cap followed respectfully.
When the gardener came out of the courtroom he saw Panna standing in
the corridor, where she had been waiting since her expulsion from the
court-room. Hurrying up to him, she asked with an anxious look, "Well?"
"Sentenced!" replied the gardener, turning his head away.
"Ah!" A low cry escaped her breast and her eyes sparkled. "Sentenced!
And when?"
The gardener gazed at her inquiringly.
"What do you mean by when?"
"Why, when will he be--executed?"
"Executed? you are out of your mind. He is sentenced to six months'
imprisonment."
Meanwhile they had gone down into the courtyard; at the gardener's
words Panna suddenly stood still, stared fixedly at him, and said in a
hollow tone:
"You know how I am, and what I feel, why do you jest so unpleasantly
with me?"
"What I tell you is the most bitter earnest."
"Man! Six months! You are drivelling! That is impossible! A man who
has murdered another can be acquitted, it may be said that he did not
kill him, that the guilt was not proved, I understand that; but when it
is admitted that he is guilty, he surely cannot be sentenced to six
months' imprisonment! That is a mockery of mankind. My brother
strikes a brutal officer--he is executed; the vine-dresser's Bandi
burns a miserable barn--he is executed. This man kills a human being
and gets six months' imprisonment. No, I cannot believe it."
The gardener contented himself with silently shrugging his shoulders in
reply to the woman's passionate outburst of feeling, and pursued his
way. Panna followed him with compressed lips. She could not help
believing his communication, but she continually revolved it in her
mind, still unable to comprehend its meaning fully. They were seated
in the carriage again, and had driven a considerable distance, when she
began once more:
"There are higher courts. It cannot be left so."
"No one entered an appeal, so the case will not go to the higher
courts."
"Then you think that this six months is the last utterance of justice?"
"The last, Panna; only the king or God can still change the sentence."
Panna's eyes flashed.
"The king can change the sentence, you say?"
"He, of course," replied her companion laconically.
Panna said nothing more on the way home. Only the gardener once heard
her murmur:
"Justice is a fine thing, a very fine thing."