St. Peter's Umbrella: A Novel

The Gregorics Family

PART II

CHAPTER I.
THE TACTLESS MEMBER OF THE FAMILY.

The child was weak and sickly, and his grown-up brothers always hoped for his death; however, he did not die, but grew up, and when of age took possession of his fortune, most of which he had inherited from his mother, who had died during his minority and left him her whole fortune; whereas the children of the first wife only had their share of the father's fortune, which, however, was not to be sneered at, for old Gregorics had done well in the wine trade. In those days it was easier to get on in that line than it is now, for, in the first place, there was wine in the country, and in the second place there were no Jews. In these days there is plenty of Danube water in the wine-cellars, but not much juice of the grapes.

Nature had blessed Pál Gregorics with a freckly face and red hair, which made people quote the old saying, "Red-haired people are never good."

So Pál Gregorics made up his mind to prove that it was untrue. All these old sayings are like pots in which generations have been cooking for ages, and Pál Gregorics intended to break one of them. He meant to be "as good as a piece of bread, and as soft as butter, which allows itself to be spread equally well on white bread or black." (This is a favorite phrase among the peasants, when describing a very good man.)

And he was as good a man as you could wish to see, but what was the good of it? Some evil spirit always seemed to accompany him and induce people to misunderstand his intentions.

The day he came back from Pest, where he had been completing his studies, he went into a tobacconist's shop and bought some fine Havanas, which at once set all the tongues in Besztercebánya wagging.

"The good-for-nothing fellow smokes seven-penny cigars, does he? That is a nice way to begin. He'll die in the workhouse. Oh, if his poor dead father could rise from his grave and see him! Why, the old man used to mix dry potato leaves with his tobacco to make it seem more, and poured the dregs of the coffee on it to make it burn slower."

Pál Gregorics heard that he had displeased the good townsfolk by smoking such dear cigars, and immediately took to short halfpenny ones. But this did not suit them either, and they remarked:

"Really, Pál Gregorics is about the meanest man going, he'll be worse than his father in time!"

Gregorics felt very vexed at being called mean, and decided to take the very next opportunity to prove the contrary. The opportunity presented itself in the form of a ball, given in aid of a hospital, and of which the Mayoress of the town was patroness. The programme announced that though the tickets were two florins each, any larger sum would be gratefully accepted. So Pál Gregorics gave twenty florins for his two-florin ticket, thinking to himself "They shan't say I am mean this time."

Upon that the members of the committee put their heads together and decided that Pál Gregorics was a tactless fellow. It was the greatest impertinence on his part to outbid the Mayor, and a baron to boot! Baron Radvánszky had given ten florins for his ticket, and Gregorics throws down twenty. Why, it was an insult! The son of a wine merchant! What things do happen in the nineteenth century, to be sure! Whatever Pál Gregorics did was wrong; if he quarrelled with some one and would not give in, they said he was a brawler; and if he gave in, he was a coward.

Though he had studied law, he did nothing particular at first, only drove to his estate a mile or two out of the town and spent a few hours shooting; or he went for a few days to Vienna, where he had a house inherited from his mother; and the rest of his time he spent in Besztercebánya.

"Pál Gregorics," they said, "is a lazy fellow; he does nothing useful from one year's end to the other. Why are such useless creatures allowed to live?"

Pál heard this too, and quite agreed with them that he ought to get some work to do, and not waste his life as he was doing. Of course, every one should earn the bread they eat. So he looked for some employment in the town. That was enough to set all the tongues wagging again. What? Gregorics wanted work in the town? Was he not ashamed of himself, trying to take the bread out of poor men's mouths, when he had plenty of cake for himself? Let him leave the small amount of employment there was in the town to those who really needed it. Gregorics quite understood the force of this argument, and gave up his idea. He now turned his thoughts toward marriage, and determined to start a family; after all that was as good an occupation as any other.

So he began to frequent various houses where there were pretty girls to be met, and where he, being a good match, was well received; but his step-brothers, who were always in hopes that the delicate little man would not live long, did their best to upset his plans in this case too. So Pál Gregorics got so many refusals one after the other, that he was soon renowned in the whole neighborhood. Later on he could have found many who would have been glad of an offer from him, but they were ashamed to let him see it. After all, how could they marry a man whom so many girls had refused?

On the eve of St. Andrew's any amount of lead was melted by the young girls of the town, but not one of them saw in the hardened mass the form of Gregorics. In fact, none of the young girls wanted to marry him. What they looked for was romance, not money. Perhaps some old maid would have jumped at his offer, but between the young maids and the old maids there is a great difference—they belong to two different worlds. The young girls were told that Pál Gregorics spat blood, and of course, the moment they heard that, they would have nothing more to do with him, so that at his next visit their hearts would beat loudly, but not in the same way they had done last time he drove up in his coach and four. Poor Gregorics! What a pity! The horses outside may paw the ground, and toss their manes as much as they like, what difference does it make? Pál Gregorics spits blood! Oh, you silly little Marys and Carolines. Of course Pál Gregorics is an ugly, sickly man, but think how rich he is; and after all, he only spits his own blood. So what can it matter to you?

Believe me, Rosália, who is ten years older than you, would not be such a silly little goose, if she had your chances, for she is a philosopher, and if she were to be told that Pál Gregorics spits blood she would only think to herself, "What an interesting man!" And aloud she would say, "I will nurse him." And deep down in her mind where she keeps the ideas that cannot be put into words, which, in fact, are hardly even thoughts as yet, she would find these words, "If Gregorics spits blood already, he won't last so very long."

You silly little girls, you know nothing of life as yet; your mothers have put you into long dresses, but your minds have not grown in proportion. Don't be angry with me for speaking so plainly, but it is my duty to show my readers why Pál Gregorics did not find a wife among you. The reason is a simple one. The open rose is not perfectly pure; bees have bathed in its chalice, insects have slept in it. But in the heart of an opening bud, not a speck of dust is to be found.

That is why Pál Gregorics was refused by so many young girls, and by degrees he began to see that they were right (for, as I said before, he was a good, simple man), marriage was not for him, as he spat blood; for after all, blood is one of the necessaries of life. When he had once made up his mind not to marry, he troubled his head no more about the girls, but turned his attention to the young married women. He had beautiful bouquets sent from Vienna for Mrs. Vozáry, and one fine evening he let five hundred nightingales loose in Mrs. Muskulyi's garden. He had the greatest difficulty in getting so many together, but a bird-fancier in Transylvania had undertaken to send them to him. The beautiful young woman, as she turned on her pillows, was surprised to hear how delightfully the birds were singing in her garden that night.

He had no success with the young married women either, and was beginning to get thoroughly sick of life, when the war broke out. They would not take him for a soldier either, they said he was too small and thin, he would not be able to stand the fatigues of war. But he wanted to do something at any cost.

The recruiting sergeant, who was an old friend of his, gave him the following advice:

"I don't mind taking you if you particularly wish to work with us, but you must look out for some occupation with no danger attached to it. The campaign is fatiguing; we'll give you something in the writing business."

Gregorics was wounded in his pride.

"I intend accepting only the most dangerous employment," he said; "now which do you consider the most dangerous?"

"Why, that of a spy," was the answer.

"Then I will be a spy."

And he kept his word. He dressed himself as one of those vagrants of whom so many were seen at that time, and went from one camp to the other, carrying information and letters. Old soldiers remember and still talk of the little old man with the red umbrella, who always managed to pass through the enemy's camp, his gaze as vacant as though he were unable to count up to ten. With his thin, bird-like face, his ragged trousers, his battered top-hat, and his red umbrella, he was seen everywhere. If you once saw him it was not easy to forget him, and there was no one who did not see him, though few guessed at his business. Some one once wrote about him: "The little man with the red umbrella is the devil himself, but he belongs to the better side of the family."

In the peaceful time that succeeded the war, he returned to Besztercebánya, and became a misanthrope. He never moved out of his ugly, old stone house, and thought no more of making a position for himself, nor of marrying. And like most old bachelors he fell in love with his cook. His theory now was to simplify matters. He needed a woman to cook for him and to wait on him, and he needed a woman to love; that means two women in the house. Why should he not simplify matters and make those two women one? Anna Wibra was a big stout woman, somewhere from the neighborhood of Detvár. She was a rather good-looking woman, and used to sing very prettily when washing up the plates and dishes in the evening. She had such a nice soft voice that her master once called her into his sitting-room, and made her sit down on one of the leather-covered chairs. She had never sat so comfortably in her life before.

"I like your voice, Anna; sing me something here, so that I can hear you better."

So Anna started a very melancholy sort of song, "The Recruit's Letter," in which he complains to the girl he loves of all the hardships of war.

Gregorics was quite softened by the music, and three times he exclaimed: "What a wonderful voice!" And he kept moving nearer and nearer to Anna, till all at once he began to stroke her cheek. At this she turned scarlet, and jumped up from her chair, pushing him away from her.

"That's not in my contract, sir!" she exclaimed.

Gregorics blushed too.

"Don't be silly, Anna," he said.

But Anna tossed her head and walked to the door.

"Don't run away, you stupid, I shan't eat you."

But Anna would not listen, and took refuge in her kitchen, from which she was not to be coaxed again that evening.

The next day she gave notice to leave, but her master pacified her by the gift of a golden ring, and a promise never to lay a finger on her again. He told her he could not let her go, for he would never get any one to cook as well as she did. Anna was pleased with the praise and with the ring, and stayed, on condition that he kept his promise. He did keep it for a time, and then forgot it, and Anna was again on the point of leaving. But Gregorics pacified her this time with a necklace of corals with a golden clasp, like the Baronesses Radvánszky wore at church. The necklace suited her so well, that she no longer thought of forbidding her master to touch her. He was rich enough, let him buy her a few pretty things.

In fact, the same afternoon she paid a visit to the old woman who kept a grocer's shop next door, and asked whether it would hurt very much to have her ears pierced. The old woman laughed.

"Oh, you silly creature," she said, "you surely don't want to wear earrings? Anna, Anna, you have bad thoughts in your head."

Anna protested and then banged the door behind her, so that the bell fastened to it went on ringing for some moments.

Of course she wanted some earrings, why should she not have some? God had given her ears the same as to all those grand ladies she saw at church. And before the day was over she had found out that it would hardly hurt her at all to have her ears pierced.

Yes, she wanted to have some earrings, and now she did all she could to bring Gregorics into temptation. She dressed herself neatly, wore a red ribbon in her hair, in fact, made herself thoroughly irresistible. Gregorics may have been wily enough to be a spy for a whole Russian and Austrian army, but a woman, however simple, was far deeper than he.

Next Sunday she went to church with earrings in her ears, much to the amusement of the lads and lasses of the town, who had long ago dubbed her "the Grenadier." And in a few weeks' time the whole town was full of gossip about Gregorics and his cook, and all sorts of tales were told, some of them supremely ridiculous. His step-brothers would not believe it.

"A Gregorics and a servant! Such a thing was never heard of before!"

The neighbors tried to pacify them by saying there was nothing strange in the fact, on the contrary it was quite natural. Pál Gregorics had never done things correctly all his life. How much was true and how much false is not known, but the gossip died away by degrees, only to awaken again some years later, when a small boy was seen playing about with a pet lamb in Pál Gregorics's courtyard. Who was the child? Where did he come from? Gregorics himself was often seen playing with him. And people, who sometimes out of curiosity looked through the keyhole of the great wooden gates, saw Gregorics, with red ribbons tied round his waist for reins, playing at horses with the child, who with a whip in his hand kept shouting, "Gee-up, Ráró." And the silly old fellow would kick and stamp and plunge, and even race round the courtyard. And now he was rarely seen limping through the town in his shabby clothes, to which he had become accustomed when he was a spy, and under his arm his red umbrella; he always had it with him, in fine or wet weather, and never left it in the hall when he paid a visit, but took it into the room with him, and kept it constantly in his hand. Sometimes the lady of the house asked if he would not put it down.

"No, no," he would answer, "I am so used to having it in my hand that I feel quite lost without it. It is as though one of my ribs were missing, upon my word it is!"

There was a good deal of talk about this umbrella. Why was he so attached to it? It was incomprehensible. Supposing it contained something important? Somebody once said (I think it was István Pazár who had served in the war), that the umbrella contained all sorts of notes, telegrams, and papers written in his spying days, and that they were in the handle of the umbrella, which was hollow. Well, perhaps it was true.

The other members of the Gregorics family looked with little favor on the small boy in the Gregorics's household, and never rested till they had looked through all the baptismal registers they could lay hands on. At last they came upon the entry they wanted, "György Wibra, illegitimate; mother, Anna Wibra."

He was a pretty little fellow, so full of life and spirits that every one took a fancy to him.

CHAPTER II.
DUBIOUS SIGNS.

And then he would offer the old professor, who was very fond of betting, one of his choicest cigars.

"I never had such a clever pupil before," the old professor used to say. "I have had to teach very ordinary minds all my life, and have wasted my talents on them. A sad thing to say, sir. I feel like that nugget of gold which was lost at the Mint. You know the tale, sir? What, you have never heard it? Why, a large nugget of gold was once lost at the Mint. It was searched for everywhere, but could not be found. Well, after a long examination of all the clerks, it turned out that the gold had been melted by accident with the copper for the kreutzers. You understand me, sir? I have been pouring my soul into two or three generations of fools, but, thank goodness, I have at last found a worthy recipient for my knowledge. Of course, you understand me, sir?"

But Pál Gregorics needed no spurring on in this case; he had fixed intentions as far as the boy was concerned, and folks were not far wrong when they (mostly in order to vex the other Gregorics) prophesied the end would be that Gregorics would marry Anna Wibra, and adopt her boy. Kupeczky himself often said:

"Yes, that will be the end of it. Who will bet with me?"

It would have been the end, and the correct way too, for Gregorics was fond enough of the boy to do a correct thing for once in a way. But two things happened to prevent the carrying out of this plan. First of all Anna fell from a ladder and broke her leg, so that she limped all her life after, and who wants a lame wife?

The second thing was, that little Gyuri was taken ill very suddenly. He turned blue in the face and was in convulsions; they thought he would die. Gregorics fell on his knees by the side of the bed of the sick child, kissed his face and cold little hands, and asked despairingly:

"What is the matter, my boy? Tell me what hurts you."

"I don't know, uncle," moaned the child.

At that moment Gregorics suffered every pain the child felt, and his heart seemed breaking. He seized hold of the doctor's hand, and his agony pressed these words from him:

"Doctor, save the child, and I'll give you a bag full of gold."

The doctor saved him, and got the bag of money too, as Gregorics had promised in that hour of danger. (Of course the doctor did not choose the bag, Gregorics had one made on purpose.)

The doctor cured the boy, but made Gregorics ill, for he instilled suspicion into his mind by swearing that the boy's illness was the result of poison. Nothing could have upset Gregorics as much as this declaration. How could it have happened? Had he eaten any poisonous mushrooms? Gyuri shook his head. Well, what could he have eaten?

The mother racked her brains to find out what could have been the cause. Perhaps this, perhaps that, perhaps the vinegar was bad, or the copper saucepans had not been quite clean? Gregorics shook his head sorrowfully.

"Don't talk nonsense, Anna," he said.

Deep down in his heart was a thought which he was afraid to put into words, but which entirely spoiled his life for him, and robbed him of sleep and appetite. He had thought of his step-brothers; they had something to do with it, he was sure. There was an end to all his plans for adopting the boy, giving him his own name, and leaving him his fortune. No, no, it would cost Gyuri his life; they would kill him if he gave them the chance. But he did not intend to give them the chance. He trembled for the child, and hardly dared to love him. He started a new line of conduct, a very mad one too. He ordered the boy to address him as "sir" for the future, and forbade him to love him.

"It was only a bit of fun, you know, my allowing you to call me 'uncle.' Do you understand?"

Tears stood in the boy's eyes, and seeing them old Gregorics bent down and kissed them away; and his voice was very sad as he said:

"Don't tell any one I kissed you, or you will be in great danger."

Precaution now became his mania. He took Kupeczky into his house, and the old professor had to be with the boy day and night, and taste every bit of food he was to eat. If Gyuri went outside the gates, he was first stripped of his velvet suit and patent leather shoes, and dressed in a ragged old suit kept on purpose, and allowed to run barefoot. Let people ask in the streets, "Who is that little scarecrow?" And let those who knew answer, "Oh, that is Gregorics's cook's child."

And, in order thoroughly to deceive his relations, he undertook to educate one of his step-sister's boys; took him up to Vienna and put him in the Terezianum, and kept him there in grand style with the sons of counts and barons. To his other nephews and nieces he sent lots of presents, so that the Gregorics family, who had never liked the younger brother, came at last to the conclusion that he was not such a bad fellow after all, only something of a fool.

Little Gyuri himself was sent away to school after a time; to Kolozsvár and then to Szeged, as far away as possible, so as to be out of reach of the family. At these times Kupeczky secretly disappeared from the town too, though he might as well have been accompanied by a drum and fife band, for not a soul would have asked where he was going.

Doubtless there was a lot of exaggeration in all this secrecy and precaution, but exaggeration had a large share in Gregorics's character. If he undertook something very difficult he was more adventurous than the devil himself, and once his fear was overcome, he saw hope in every corner. His love for the child and his fear were both exaggerated, but he could not help it.

While the boy was pursuing his studies with success, the little man with the red umbrella was placing his money in landed estate. He said he had bought a large estate in Bohemia, and in order to pay for it had been obliged to sell his house in Vienna. Not long after he had built a sugar factory on the estate, upon which he began to look out for a purchaser for his Privorec estates. He soon found one in the person of a rich merchant from Kassa. There was something strange and mysterious in the fact of the little man making so many changes in his old age. One day he had his house in Besztercebánya transferred to Anna Wibra's name. And the little man was livelier and more contented than he had ever been in his life before. He began to pay visits again, interested himself in things and events, chattered and made himself agreeable to every one, dined with all his relations in turn, throwing out allusions and hints, such as, "After all, I can't take my money with me into the next world," and so on. He visited all the ladies who had refused him years ago, and very often went off by train, with his red umbrella under his arm, and stayed away for months and weeks at a time. No one troubled about him, every one said:

"I suppose the old fellow has gone to look after his property."

He never spoke much about his Bohemian estates, though his step-brothers were much interested in them. They both offered in turns to go there with him, for they had never been in Bohemia; but Gregorics always had an answer ready, and to tell the truth he did not seem to trouble himself much about the whole affair. Which was not to be wondered at, for he had no more possessions in Bohemia than the dirt and dust he brought home in his clothes from Carlsbad, where he spent a summer doing the cure.

The whole story was only trumped up to put his relations off the scent, whereas the truth was that he had turned all he had into money, and deposited it in a bank in order to be able to give it to the boy. Gyuri's inheritance would be a draft on a bank, a bit of paper which no one would see, which he could keep in his waistcoat pocket, and yet be a very rich man. It was well and carefully thought out. So he did not really go to his estates, but simply to the town where Gyuri was studying with his old professor.

Those were his happiest times, the only rays of light in his lonely life; weeks in which he could pet the boy to his heart's content. Gyuri was a favorite at school, always the first in his class, and a model of good behavior.

The old man used to stay for weeks in Szeged and enjoy the boy's society. They were often seen walking arm in arm on the banks of the Tisza, and when they and Kupeczky talked Slovak together, every one turned at the sound of the strange language, wondering which of the many it was that had been invented at the Tower of Babel.

When the last lesson was over, Gregorics was waiting at the gate, and the delighted boy would run and join him—though his comrades, who, one would have thought, would have had enough to occupy their thoughts elsewhere, teased him about the old man. They swore he was the devil in propria persona, that he did Gyuri Wibra's exercises for him, and that he had a talisman which caused him to know his lessons well. It was easy to be the first in his class at that rate. There were even some silly enough to declare the old gentleman had a cloven foot, if you could only manage to see him with his boots off. The old red umbrella, too, which he always had with him, they thought must be a talisman, something after the style of Aladdin's lamp. Pista Paracsányi, the best classical verse writer, made up some lines on the red umbrella; which were soon learnt by most of the boys, and spouted on every possible occasion, in order to annoy the "head boy." But the poet had his reward in the form of a black eye and a bleeding nose, bestowed upon him by Gyuri Wibra, who, however, began to be vexed himself at the sight of the red umbrella, which made his old friend seem ridiculous in the eyes of his schoolfellows, and one day he broached the subject to the old gentleman.

"You might really buy a new umbrella, uncle."

The old gentleman smiled.

"What, you don't like my umbrella?"

"You only get laughed at, and the boys have even made verses about it."

"Well, my boy, tell your schoolfellows that 'all that glitters is not gold,' as they may have heard; but tell them, too, that very often things that do not glitter may be gold. You will understand that later on when you are grown up."

He thought for a bit, idly making holes in the sand with the umbrella, and then added:

"When the umbrella is yours."

Gyuri made a wry face.

"Thank you, uncle, but I hope you don't mean to give it me on my birthday instead of the pony you promised me?"

And he laughed heartily, upon which the old gentleman began to laugh too, contentedly stroking his mustache, consisting of half a dozen hairs. There was something strange in his laugh, as though he had laughed inward to his own soul.

"No, no, you shall have your pony. But I assure you that the umbrella will once belong to you, and you will find it very useful to protect you from the wind and clouds."

Gyuri thought this great nonsense. Such old gentlemen always attached themselves so to their belongings, and thought such a lot of them. Why, one of his professors had a penholder he had used for forty years!

One episode in connection with the umbrella remained fixed in Gyuri's memory ever after. One day they rowed out to the "Yellow," as they call a small island situated just where the Maros and the Tisza met, and where the fishermen of Szeged cook their far-famed "fish with paprika" (a kind of cayenne grown in Hungary, and much used in the national dishes). We read in Márton's famous cookery book that "fish with paprika" must only be boiled in Tisza water, and the same book says that a woman cannot prepare the dish properly.

Well, as I said before, the three of them rowed out to the "Yellow." As they were landing they struck against a sand heap, and Gregorics, who was in the act of rising from his seat, stumbled and lost his balance, and in trying to save himself from falling dropped his umbrella into the water, and the current carried it away with it.

"My umbrella, save it!" shouted Gregorics, who had turned as white as a sheet, and in whose eyes they read despair. The two boatmen smiled, and the elder one, slowly removing his pipe from his mouth, remarked laconically:

"No great loss that, sir; it was only fit to put in the hands of a scarecrow."

"One hundred florins to the one who brings it me back," groaned the old gentleman.

The boatmen, astonished, gazed at one another, then the younger man began to pull off his boots.

"Are you joking, sir, or do you mean it?"

"Here are the hundred florins," said Gregorics, taking a bank-note from his pocket-book.

The young man, a fine specimen of a Szeged fisherman, turned to Kupeczky.

"Is the old chap mad?" he asked in his lackadaisical way, while the umbrella quietly floated down the stream.

"Oh dear no," answered Kupeczky, who, however, was himself surprised at Gregorics's strange behavior.

"It's not worth it, domine spectabilis," he added, turning to the old gentleman.

"Quick, quick!" gasped Gregorics.

Another doubt had arisen in the boatman's mind.

"Is the bank-note a real one, sir?" he asked.

"Of course it is. Make haste!"

The man, who had by this time taken off both his boots and his jacket, now sprang into the water like a frog, and began to swim after the umbrella, the old boatman shouting after him:

"You're a fool, Jankó; come back, don't exert yourself for nothing."

Gregorics, afraid the warning would take effect, flew at the old man and seized hold of his tie.

"Hold your tongue or I'll murder you. Do you want to ruin me?"

"Well, what would that matter? Do you want to throttle me? Leave go of my neck-tie."

"Well, let the boy go after my umbrella."

"After all, what is the hen good for if not to look after the chickens?" muttered the old boatman. "The current just here is very strong, and he won't be able to reach the umbrella. And what's the good of it, when it will come back of itself when the tide turns in half an hour's time, to the other side of the 'Yellow.' In half an hour the fishermen will spread their nets, and the gentleman's umbrella will be sure to be caught in them; even if a big fish swallows it we can cut it open."

And as the old fisherman had said, so it came to pass; the umbrella was caught in one of the fishing nets, and great was the joy of old Gregorics when he once more held his treasure in his hand. He willingly paid the young fisherman the promised one hundred florins, though it was not really he who had brought the umbrella back; and in addition he rewarded the fishermen handsomely, who, the next day, spread the tale through the whole town of the old madman, who had given one hundred florins for the recovery of an old torn red umbrella. They had never before caught such a big fish in the Tisza.

"Perhaps the handle of the umbrella was of gold?"

"Not a bit of it; it was only of wood."

"Perhaps the linen was particularly fine?"

"Rubbish! Is there any linen in the world worth one hundred florins? It was plain red linen, and even that was torn and ragged."

"Then you have not told us the tale properly."

"I've told you the whole truth."

Kupeczky remarked to Gyuri:

"I would not mind betting the old gentleman has a tile loose."

"A strange man, but a good one," answered Gyuri. "Who knows what memories are attached to that umbrella!"

CHAPTER III.
PÁL GREGORICS'S DEATH AND WILL.

But what was Kupeczky's death to that of Gregorics? The poor old fellow was quite right to take his departure, for no one wanted him, no one took any notice of him. He slipped quietly into the next world, just as one ought to do; even during his life he caused no disturbance; he was here, he went, and there was an end of it. But Pál Gregorics went to work in quite a different style. He was taken ill with cramp on the Thursday in Holy Week, and went to bed in great pain. After a time the cramp ceased, but left him very weak, and he fell asleep toward evening. Some hours after he opened his eyes and said:

"Anna, bring me my umbrella, and put it here, near my bed. That's it! Now I feel better!"

He turned over and went to sleep again, but soon woke up with a start.

"Anna," he said, "I have had a fearful dream. I thought I was a horse, and was being taken to a fair to be sold. My step-brothers and nephews appeared on the scene, and began to bid for me, and I stood trembling there, wondering which of them I was to belong to. My brother Boldizsár pulled open my mouth, examined my teeth, and then said, 'He is not worth anything, we could only get five florins for his skin.' As he was speaking, up came a man with a scythe. He poked me in the ribs (it hurts me still), and exclaimed, 'The horse is mine, I'll buy it.' I turned and looked at him, and was horrified to see it was Death himself. 'But I will not give the halter with the horse,' said my owner. 'It does not matter,' answered the man with the scythe, 'I can get one from the shop round the corner; wait a minute, I'll be back directly.' And then I awoke. Oh, it was dreadful!"

His red hair stood on end, and beads of perspiration rolled down his face, which Anna wiped with a handkerchief.

"Nonsense," she said, "you must not believe in dreams; they do not come from Heaven, but from indigestion."

"No, no," said the sick man, "I'm going, I feel it. My time will be up when they bring the halter. Don't waste words trying to console me, but bring me pen and paper, I want to send a telegram to the boy; he must come home at once. I'll wait for his arrival, yes, I'll wait till then."

They brought a table to his bed, and he wrote the following words:

"Come at once, uncle is dying and wants to give you something.—Mother."

"Send the servant with this at once."

He was very restless while the man was away, and asked three times if he had returned. At length he came back, but with bad news; the telegraph office was closed for the night.

"Well, it does not matter," said Anna, "we will send it in the morning. The master is not really so bad, it is half imagination; but he is so nervous we must not excite him, so go in and tell him the telegram is sent."

He was quieter after that, and began to reckon at what time the boy would arrive, and decided he might be there by the afternoon of the second day.

He slept quietly all night, and got up the next morning very pale and weak, but went about putting things straight and turning out drawers.

"It is unnecessary to send the telegram," thought Anna to herself. "He seems nearly himself again, and will be all right in a day or two."

The whole day he pottered about, and in the afternoon shut himself up in his study and drank a small bottle of Tokay wine, and wrote a great deal. Anna only went in once to see if he wanted anything. No, he wanted nothing.

"Have you any pain?"

"My side hurts me, just where the man with the scythe touched me. There is something wrong inside."

"Does it hurt very much?"

"Yes, very much!"

"Shall I send for a doctor?"

"No."

In the evening he sent for his lawyer, János Sztolarik. He was quite lively when he came, made him sit down, and sent for another bottle of Tokay.

"The February vintage, Anna," he called after her.

The wine had been left him by his father, and dated from the year when there had been two vintages in Tokay in twelve months, one in February, and one in October. Only kings can drink the like of it. On account of the mildness of the winter the vines had been left uncovered, had flowered and borne fruit, so that in February they were able to have a vintage, and you can imagine what a flavor those grapes had. There was never anything like it before nor after. Old Gregorics's father used to call it the "Life-giver," and often said:

"If a man intending to commit suicide were to drink a thimbleful of it beforehand, he would, if unmarried, go and look up a 'best man,' or, if married, would go and sue for a divorce; but kill himself he would not."

The two friends drank to each other's health, and Gregorics smacked his lips.

"It's devilish good," he said.

Then he gave the lawyer a sealed packet.

"In that you will find my will," he said. "I sent for you in order to give it you."

He rubbed his hands and smiled.

"There will be some surprises in that."

"Why are you in such a hurry with it? There is plenty of time," said Sztolarik, taking the packet.

Gregorics smiled.

"I know more about that than you, Sztolarik. But take a drop more, and don't let us talk of death. And now I'll tell you how my father got this wine. Well, he was a very sly customer, and if he couldn't get a thing by fair means, he got it by foul, and I have inherited some of his slyness from him. But mine is not the genuine article; however, that does not matter. In Zemplin there lived a very, very rich man, a count, and an ass into the bargain; at least he was a good-hearted man, and liked to give pleasure to others, thus proving that he was an ass. My father used to buy his wine of him, and if they had struck a good bargain the count used to give him a glass of this nectar. Being an assiduous wine merchant, of course my father was always worrying him to sell him some of the wine, but the count would not hear of it, and said, 'The Emperor Ferdinand has not enough money to buy it!' Well, once when they were drinking a small glass of the 'Life-giver,' my father began sighing deeply: 'If my poor wife could only drink a thimbleful of this every day for two months, I am sure she would get quite well again.' Upon which the count's heart softened, and he called up his major-domo and said: 'Fill Mr. Gregorics's cask with the "Life-giver."' A few days later several visitors arrived at the castle, and the count ordered some of the wine to be brought. 'There is none left, sir,' said the butler. 'Why, what has become of it?' asked the count. 'Mr. Gregorics took it with him, there was not even enough to fill his cask!' It was true, for my father had ordered an enormous cask of Mr. Pivák (old Pivák is still alive and remembers the whole story), took the cask in a cart to Zemplin, and, after filling it with the wine, brought it home. Not bad, was it? Drink another glass before you go, Sztolarik."

When the lawyer had gone, Gregorics called his man-servant in.

"Go at once to the ironmonger's and buy a large caldron; then find me two masons and bring them here; but don't speak to a soul about it."

Now that was Matykó's weak point, but if he had not been told to hold his tongue he might have managed to do so later on, when the opportunity for speaking came.

"Off you go, and mind you are back in double quick time!"

Before dark the masons had arrived, and the caldron too. Gregorics took the two men into his room, and carefully shut the door.

"Can you keep silence?" he asked.

The masons looked at each other surprised, and the elder one answered.

"Why, of course we can keep silence, that is the first thing a man does on his arrival in this world."

"Yes, until he has learnt to talk," answered Gregorics.

"And even afterward you can make the trial if it is worth your while," said the younger man slyly.

"It will be worth your while, for you shall have fifty florins each if you will make a hole in a wall large enough to put this caldron in, and then close it again so that no one can see where it was put."

"Is that all?"

"That is all. But besides that you will receive fifty florins each from the owner of this house every year, as long as you keep silence."

The masons again exchanged glances, and the elder said:

"We will do it. Where is it to be done?"

"I will show you."

Gregorics took down a rusty key from a nail, and went out with the men into the courtyard.

"Now follow me," he said, and led them through the garden to an orchard, in which was a small house built of stone. The most delicious apples grew here, and that had induced old Gregorics to buy the orchard and house from the widow of the clergyman; he had made a present of both to little Gyuri, and it was entered in his name. When the boy was at home he used to study there with Kupeczky, but since he left it had been quite deserted.

Gregorics led the masons to this little house, and showed them the wall in which he wished an opening made large enough to receive the caldron, and told them when they were ready to come and tell him, as he wished to be present when they walled it in. By midnight the hole was ready, and the masons came and tapped at the window. Gregorics let them in, and they saw the caldron in the middle of the room. The top was covered with sawdust, so that they could not see what was in it, but it was so heavy the two masons could hardly carry it. Gregorics followed them step for step, and did not move until they had built up the wall again.

"If you have it whitewashed to-morrow, sir, no one will find the place."

"I am quite satisfied with the work," said Gregorics. "Here is the promised reward, and now you may go."

The elder of the two masons was surprised at being let off so easily.

"I've heard and read of this sort of thing," he said, "but they did things differently then. They used to put the masons' eyes out, so that even they could not find the place again, but of course they got a hundred times as much as we do."

"Ah, that was in the good old times," sighed the other.

Gregorics troubled his head no more about them, but closed the heavy oaken door of the house, and went home to bed.

The next morning the cramp returned, and was only partially relieved by the medicine Anna gave him. He was frightfully weak, and only now and then showed interest in what was going on around him.

"Give us a good dinner, Anna," he said once, "and make dumplings, the boy likes them."

And half an hour afterward:

"Make the dumplings with jam, Anna, the boy likes them best so."

The only thing he would take himself was mineral water. Toward afternoon the cramp was much worse, and he began to spit blood. Anna was frightened, and began to cry, and ask if he would not have a doctor or a priest. Gregorics shook his head.

"No, no, I am quite ready to die, everything is in order. I am only waiting for Gyuri. What time is it?"

The church clock just then struck twelve.

"It is time the coach arrived. Go and tell Matykó to wait outside by the gate, and carry Gyuri's bag in when he comes."

Anna wrung her hands in despair. Should she own she had not sent off the telegram? No, she dare not tell him; she would carry on the deception, and send Matykó out to the gate. But the sick man got more and more restless.

"Anna," he said, "take the horn out, and tell Matykó to blow it when the boy arrives, so that I may know at once."

So Anna took down the horn, and had less courage than ever to own the truth.

The sick man was quieter after that, and listened attentively, raising his head at every sound, and feeling for his umbrella every now and then.

"Open the window, Anna, or I shan't hear Matykó blow the horn."

The sunlight streamed in through the open window, and the perfume of acacia blossoms was borne in on the breeze.

"Put your hand on my forehead, Anna."

She did as she was told, and found his skin cold and dry. The sick man sighed.

"Your hand is too rough, Anna. The boy's is so soft and warm."

He smiled faintly, then opened his eyes.

"Did you not hear anything? Listen! Was that the horn?"

"I don't think so. I heard nothing."

Gregorics pointed to a clock in the next room.

"Stop it," he said. "I can't hear anything. Quick, quick!"

Anna got on a chair, and stopped the clock. In that moment she heard a sound in the next room, something like a groan, then the muttered words: "I hear the horn!" then another groan.

Anna jumped off the chair, and ran into the next room. There all was still; on the bed were large spots of blood, and Gregorics lay there dead, his face white, his eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling. One hand hung down by his side, the other firmly held the umbrella.

Thus died poor Pál Gregorics, and the news of his death soon spread among his relations and his neighbors. The doctor said he had died of some illness with a long Latin name, which no one had ever heard, and said that if he had been called sooner he might have saved him.

Boldizsár was soon on the spot, also his brother Gáspár with all his family. Mrs. Panyóki, the eldest sister, was in the country at the time, and on receipt of the news late the same evening, exclaimed despairingly:

"What a deception! Here have I been praying all my life for him to die in the winter, and he must needs go and die in the summer. Is there any use in praying nowadays? What a deception! Those two thieves will take everything they can lay their hands on."

She ordered the horses to be harnessed, and drove off as fast as she could, arriving about midnight, by which time the two brothers were in possession of everything, had even taken up their abode in the house, and driven Anna out in spite of her protests that the house was hers, and she was mistress there.

"Only the four walls are yours, and those you shall have. The rest is ours, and a good-for-nothing creature like you has no right here. So off you go!"

Gáspár was a lawyer, and understood things; how was poor Anna to take her stand against him. She could only cry, put on her hat, pack up her box, and limp over the road to Matykó's mother. But before she went the two brothers turned her box out, to see she took nothing with her to which she had no right.

The funeral took place on the third day. It was not a grand one by any means; no one shed a tear except poor Anna, who did not dare go near the coffin for fear of being sent off by the relations. The boy had not yet arrived from Szeged, and it was better so, for he would probably have been turned out of the courtyard by the two brothers of the dead man. But even though Anna did not walk with the mourners, she was the centre of all eyes, for did not that big house outside the town belong to her now? And when she dropped her handkerchief wet with her tears, did not all the unmarried men, one of them even a lawyer, rush to pick it up for her?

This incident went to prove how much she had risen in people's estimation. After the funeral, there was a general gathering of all the family at Sztolarik's in order to hear the will read. Well, it was a rather strange one on the whole.

The old gentleman had left 2000 florins to the Academy of Arts and Sciences, and 2000 florins to each of the ladies at whose houses he had visited years before, and to those who had refused to marry him. Nine ladies were mentioned by name, and the legacy had been placed in the hands of Sztolarik to be paid at once to the legatees.

The relations listened with bated breath, every now and then throwing in a remark, such as, "Very good. Quite right of him," etc. Only Mrs. Panyóki muttered, when the nine ladies' names were read out: "Dear me, how very strange!"

Boldizsár, who was of opinion it was not worth while worrying over such trifles (after all, Pál had been slightly mad all his life), said grandly:

"Please continue, Mr. Sztolarik."

The lawyer answered shortly: "There is no more!"

Their surprise was great, and there was a general rush to look at the will.

"Impossible!" they all exclaimed at once.

The lawyer turned his back on them repeating:

"I tell you there is not another word!"

"And the rest of his fortune, his estates in Bohemia?"

"There is no mention of them. I can only read what I see written here; you must at least understand that, gentlemen."

"It is incomprehensible," groaned Gáspár.

"The curious part of it is," remarked Boldizsár, "that there is no mention of that woman and her son."

"Yes, of course," answered Gáspár, "it does seem strange."

The lawyer hastened to reassure them.

"It can make no difference to you," he said. "Whatever fortune there may be that is not mentioned in the will falls to you in any case."

"Yes, of course," said Gáspár, "and that is only right. But the money? Where is it? There must be any amount of it. I'm afraid some wrong has been done."

Mrs. Panyóki said nothing, only looked suspiciously at her two brothers.

CHAPTER IV.
THE AVARICIOUS GREGORICS.

"After all," they said, "who knows what ties there were between them? Gregorics must have been a lively fellow in his youth."

And even those who defended Gregorics decided that after all there must have been some friendship between him and the nine ladies at some time or other, or why should he have remembered them in his will; but his behavior was not gentlemanly in any case, even if they were to believe the worst. In fact, in that case it was even more tactless.

"For such behavior he ought to be turned out of the club, I mean he ought to have been turned out; in fact, I mean, if he were alive he might be turned out. I assure you, if they write on his gravestone that he was an honorable man, I'll strike it out with my own pencil."

These were the words of the notary.

The captain of the fire-brigade looked at it from a different point of view.

"It is a cowardly trick," he declared. "Women only reckon until they are thirty-five years of age, and these are all old women. A little indiscretion of this kind cannot hurt them. If you breathe on a rusty bit of steel it leaves no mark. We only remove caterpillars from those trees which have flowers or leaves, or which will bear fruit, but on old, dried-up trees we leave them alone. But it is the husbands Gregorics has offended, for it is cowardly to affront people who cannot demand satisfaction from you. And I think I may affirm with safety that Gregorics is now incapable of giving satisfaction."

The next morning István Vozáry (whose wife was one of the nine ladies mentioned in the will) appeared at the lawyer's and informed him that as his wife had never had anything to do with the dead man, she had no intention of accepting the 2000 florins. When this was known in the town, the eight remaining ladies arrived, one after the other, at the lawyer's, in order to make known to him their refusal of the legacy, as they also had nothing to do with Gregorics.

I do not know when Sztolarik had had such a lively time of it as on that day, for it was really amusing to see those wrinkled old dames, toothless and gray-haired, coming to defend their honor.

But it was even livelier for the Gregorics family, for they thus got back the 20,000 florins they had been cheated out of—that is, with the exception of the 2000 florins left to the Academy of Arts and Sciences, for, of course, the Academy accepted the legacy, though it also had had nothing to do with Gregorics. But the Academy (the tenth old woman) was not so conscientious as the other nine.

The joy of the Gregorics soon turned to bitterness, for they could not manage to find out where the Bohemian estates were. Gáspár went off to Prague, but came back after a fruitless search. They were unable to find any papers referring to the estates; not a bill, not a receipt, not a letter was to be found.

"It was incomprehensible, such a thing had never happened before," Boldizsár said.

They were wild with anger, and threatened Matykó and Anna to have them locked up, if they would not tell them where the estates were in Bohemia; and at length they were brought before the Court and examined. Matykó at least must know all about it, for he had travelled everywhere with his master.

So Matykó had to own that his master had never been to Bohemia at all, but had always gone to Szeged or to Kolozsvár, where Gyuri had been at school.

Oh! that sly Pál Gregorics, how he had cheated his relations! Now it was as clear as day why he had turned all his possessions into money, of course he had given it all to that boy. But had he given it him? How could he have trusted hundreds of thousands to a child of that age? Then, where had he put it? to whom had he given it? That was the riddle the Gregorics were trying to solve.

The lawyer, the last person who had spoken to Gregorics, declared he had not mentioned any money, and Anna swore by Heaven and earth that she and her son had not received a kreutzer from him, and were much embittered at the fact of his leaving them without any provision. She had not a good word to say for the dead man. He had made the boy unhappy for life, spending so much on him and his education, and then leaving him totally without providing for him; so that the boy, for whom expensive professors had been kept, would now be reduced to giving lessons himself, in order to enable him to live, for the house would hardly bring in enough to pay for his keep, while attending the lectures at the University.

"Well," said Sztolarik, "if he had intended the boy to have his money, he could have given it straight into his hands, no one could prevent it."

This was quite true, and that was the very reason it seemed so strange he had not done so. The house in Vienna had been sold for 180,000 florins, the Privorec estates for 75,000, which made over a quarter of million florins. Good heavens! Where had he put it to? If he had exchanged the paper notes for gold, melted it, and eaten it by spoonfuls ever since, he could not have finished it yet.

But Gregorics had been a careful man, so the money must be in existence somewhere. It was enough to drive one mad. It did not seem likely that Anna or the boy should have the money, nor Sztolarik, who was Gyuri Wibra's guardian; so the brothers Gregorics did not despair of finding it, and they engaged detectives to keep their eyes on Anna, and looked up a sharp boy in Pest to let them know how Gyuri lived there, and to find out from his conversation whether he knew anything of the missing money. For Gyuri had gone to Pest, to attend the University lectures, and study law. The boy sent word that Gyuri lived very simply, attended every lecture, lived at the "Seven Owls," and dined at a cheap eating-house known by the name of the "First of April." This little restaurant was mostly frequented by law students. On the daily bill of fare was the picture of a fat man speaking to a very thin man, and underneath was the following conversation:

Thin man: "How well you look; where do you dine?"

Fat man: "Why here, at the 'First of April.'"

Thin man: "Really? Well, I shall dine there too for the future."

All the same, the fare was not of the best, and perhaps the above conversation was intended to make April Fools of people. For the restaurant-keepers of olden times were frank, and even if they lied, they did it so naively, that every one saw through the lie.

Gáspár Gregorics received the following particulars as to Gyuri's mode of life:

"He breakfasts at a cheap coffee-house, attends lectures all the morning, dines at the 'First of April,' the afternoon he passes at a lawyer's office, copying deeds, etc., and in the evening he buys a little bacon or fried fish for supper, then goes home and studies till midnight. Every one likes him, and he will make his way in the world."

That avaricious Gáspár Gregorics began to wish the boy had the quarter of a million after all, for he might in a few years' time marry his daughter Minka, who was just eleven.

Anna had let the house, and Sztolarik sent Gyuri thirty florins every month out of the rent.

The Gregorics divided the 18,000 florins refused by the nine ladies, among the three of them, and also the few hundreds obtained by the sale of the dead man's furniture and personal property, but the rest of the money was still missing.

The whole town was discussing the question of its whereabouts, and all sorts of silly tales were set afloat. Some said the old gentleman had sent it to Klapka, and that one day Klapka would return with it in the form of guns and cannon. Others said he had a castle, somewhere away in the woods, where he kept a very beautiful lady, and even if he had not been able to eat up his fortune in the form of melted gold, a pretty woman would soon know how to dispose of it.

But what made the most impression on every one was, that an ironmonger appeared at Gáspár's house with a bill for a large caldron Gregorics had bought the day before his death, but had not paid for.

Gáspár gave a long whistle.

"That caldron was not among the things we sold," he said. And he went through the inventory again; but no, the caldron was not there.

"I am on the right road," thought Gáspár. "He did not buy the caldron for nothing. Consequently, what did he buy it for? Why, to put something in it of course, and that something is what we are looking for!"

Boldizsár was of the same opinion, and positively beamed with delight.

"It is God's finger," he said. "Now I believe we shall find the treasure. Pál must have buried the caldron somewhere, thinking to do us out of our rights; and he would have succeeded if he had not been so stupid as not to pay for the caldron. But luckily in cases of this kind the wrongdoer generally makes some stupid mistake."

The ironmonger remembered that it was Matykó who had chosen the caldron and taken it with him; so Gáspár one day sent for the servant, gave him a good dinner with plenty of wine, and began to question him about Pál's last days, introducing the incident of the caldron, the bill for which the ironmonger had just sent him he said.

"What about it, Matykó," he asked. "Did your master really order it? I can hardly believe it, for what could he have wanted it for? I'm afraid you have been buying things for yourself, in your master's name."

That was the very way to make Matykó speak, to doubt his honor; and now he let out the whole story in order to clear himself. The day before his death, his master had told him to go and buy a caldron, and bring it him, together with two masons. He had done as he was told, and toward evening had taken the caldron into his master's bedroom; the masons had arrived at the same time, and had seen the caldron, so they could bear witness to the fact.

"Well, that's right, Matykó, you're a lucky fellow, for if you have two witnesses, your honor is as intact as ever, and you must consider my words as unspoken. Drink another glass of wine, and don't be offended at my suspicion; after all, it was only a natural conclusion; we could find no traces of the caldron, and the ironmonger wanted to be paid for it, and said you had taken it away. Where can it have got to?"

"Heaven only knows," answered Matykó.

"Did you never see it again?"

"Never."

"And what became of the masons? What did they come for?"

"I don't know."

Gáspár smiled pleasantly at the man.

"You are like 'John Don't-know' in the fairy tale. He always answered, 'I don't know' to everything that was asked him. Of course you don't know the two witnesses either who could establish your innocence? In that case, my good fellow, you're no better off than you were before."

"But I do know one of them."

"What is his name?"

"Oh, I don't know his name."

"Well, how do you know him, then?"

"He has three hairs at the end of his nose."

"Rubbish! He may have cut them off since then."

"I should know him all the same by his face; it is just like an owl's."

"And where did you pick up the two masons?"

"They were mending the wall of the parish church."