St. Peter's Umbrella: A Novel

They evidently considered them the foundation of the future chemist's store.

Gyuri told the Jew what he wanted; that he was interested in his father's favorite umbrella, and would buy it if he could find it. Did Móricz know anything about it?

"Yes, I do," was the disappointed answer, for now he knew what a trifle it was, he saw the price fall in proportion.

"I will give you fifty florins for any information that will lead to its discovery."

Móricz quickly took off his cap, which until now he had not considered it necessary to remove. Fifty florins for an old umbrella! Why, this young man must be the Prince of Coburg himself from Szent-Antal! Now he noticed for the first time how very elegantly he was dressed.

"The umbrella can be found," he said; and then added more doubtfully, "I think."

"Tell me all you know."

"Let me see, where shall I begin? It is now about fourteen years since my father disappeared, and I have forgotten most of the details, but this much I remember, that I started to look for him with my brother Sámi, and in Podhrágy I found the first trace of him, and following this up, I was told that when there he was still quite in his right mind, had sold a few trifles to the villagers, slept at the inn, and had bought a very old seal from a certain Raksányi for two florins. He must have had all his senses about him then, for when we took him out of the Garam, he had the seal in his coat pocket, and we sold it for fifty florins to an antiquary, as it turned out to be the seal of Vid Mohorai, of the time of King Arpád."

"Yes, but these particulars have nothing to do with the subject in question," interrupted the young man.

"You will see, sir, that they will be useful to you."

"Well, perhaps so; but I don't see what they have to do with the umbrella."

"You will see in time, if you will listen to the rest of my tale. I heard in Podhrágy that he went from there to Abelova, so I went there too. From what I heard, I began to fear that my father was beginning to lose his senses, for he had always inclined toward melancholy. Here they told us that he had bought a lot of 'Angel Kreutzers' (small coins, on which the crown of Hungary is represented, held by two angels; they were issued in 1867, and many people wear them as amulets, and believe they bring luck) from the villagers for four kreutzers each; but later on I found I was mistaken in my surmise."

"How was that? Was he not yet mad?"

"No, for a few days later, two young Jews appeared in Abelova, each bringing a bag of 'angel kreutzers,' which they sold to the villagers for three kreutzers each, though they are really worth four."

"So it is possible ..."

"Not only possible, but certain, that the two young cheats had been told by the old man to buy up all the 'angel kreutzers' they could, and he thus became their confederate without knowing it. So it is very probable he may have been mad then, or he would have had nothing to do with the whole affair. From Abelova he went through the Viszoka Hor forest to Dólinka, but we could find out nothing about his doings, though he spent two days there. But in the next village, Sztrecsnyó, the children ran after him, and made fun of him, like of the prophet Elijah, and he, unfastening his pack (not the prophet Elijah, but my poor father), began throwing the various articles he had for sale at them. In fifty years' time they will still remember that day in Sztrecsnyó, when soap, penknives, and pencils fell among them like manna from heaven. Since then it is a very common saying there: 'There was once a mad Jew in Sztrecsnyó.'"

"Bother Sztrecsnyó, let us return to our subject."

"I have nearly done now. In Kobolnyik my poor old father was seen without his pack; in one hand he had his stick, in the other his umbrella, with which he drove off the dogs which barked at him. So in Kobolnyik he still had his umbrella you see."

Tears were rolling down Móricz's pock-marked face, his heart was quite softened at the remembrance of all these incidents.

"After that we looked for a long time for traces of him, but only heard of him again in Lehota. One stormy summer night he knocked at the door of the watchman's house, the last in the village, but when they saw he was a Jew, they drove him away. They told me he had neither a hat nor an umbrella then, only the heavy, rough stick he used to beat us with when we were children."

"Now I begin to understand the drift of your remarks. You want to show that the umbrella was lost between Kobolnyik and Lehota."

"Yes."

"But that proves nothing, for your father may have lost it in the wood, or among the rocks, and if any one found it, they would probably make use of it to put in the arms of a scarecrow."

"No, that is not it, I know what happened. I heard it by chance, for I was not looking for the umbrella; what did I care for that! I wanted to find my father. Well, among the Kvet mountains I met a tinker walking beside his cart, a very chatty man he seemed to be. I asked him, as I did every one we met, if he had not seen an old Jew about there lately. 'Yes,' he answered, 'I saw him a few weeks ago in Glogova during a downpour of rain; he was spreading an umbrella over a child on the veranda of a small house, and when he had done so he moved on.'"

The lawyer sprang up hastily.

"Go on," he cried.

"There is nothing more to tell, sir. But from the description the tinker gave me, I am sure it was my father, and, besides, Glogova lies just between Lehota and Kobolnyik."

"Well, you have given me valuable information," exclaimed the lawyer, and, taking a fifty-florin note out of his pocketbook, he added: "Accept this as a slight return for your kindness. Good-by."

And off he went like a hound which has just found the scent; over some palings he vaulted, in order to get to his cart as quickly as possible. On he raced, but as he passed the gingerbread stall, Móricz Müncz stood before him again.

"Excuse me for running after you," he exclaimed breathlessly, "but it suddenly occurred to me that I might give you a word of advice, which is this. There are a good many people from Glogova here at the fair, so you really might get the crier to go round and find out if they know anything of the umbrella. If you would promise a reward for any information, in an hour's time you will have plenty, I am sure. In a small village like Glogova, every one knows everything."

"It is quite unnecessary," replied the lawyer, "for I am going to Glogova myself. Thanks all the same."

"Oh, sir, it is I who have to thank you; you have behaved in a princely fashion. Fifty florins for such a trifle! Why, I would have done it for one florin."

The lawyer smiled.

"And I would willingly have given a thousand, Mr. Müncz."

And with that he walked away, past the stall where they were selling nuts, and onions tied up in strings. Móricz stood gazing after him till he was out of sight.

"A thousand florins!" he repeated, shaking his head. "If I had only known!"

And off he went, driving his cow before him.

CHAPTER IV.
THE EARRING.

But curiosity is even stronger than their love of dancing, and all at once the general hopping and skipping ceases, as János Fiala, the town-servant and crier, appears on the scene, his drum hung round his neck and his pipe in his mouth. He stops in front of the "hotel," and begins to beat his drum with might and main. What can have happened? Perhaps the mayor's geese have strayed? Ten or twelve bystanders begin to ply him with questions, but Fiala would not for the world take his beloved pipe out of his mouth, nor would he divulge state secrets before the right moment came. So he first of all beat his drum the required number of times, and then with stentorian voice, shouted the following:

"Be it known to all whom it may interest, that a gold earring, with a green stone in it (how was he to know it was called an emerald?), has been lost, somewhere between the brickfield and the church. Whoever will bring the same to the Town Hall will be handsomely rewarded."

Gyuri paused a moment at the sound of the drum, listened to the crier's words, and then smiled at the look of excitement on the peasant girls' faces.

"I wouldn't give it back if I found it," said one.

"I'd have a hairpin made of it," said another.

"Heaven grant me luck!" said a third, turning her eyes piously heavenward.

"Don't look at the sky, you stupid," said another; "if you want to find it look at the ground."

But as chance would have it, some one found it who would rather not have done so, and that some one was Gyuri Wibra. He had only walked a few steps, when a green eye seemed to smile up at him from the dust under his feet. He stooped and picked it up; it was the lost earring with the emerald in it. How tiresome, when he was in such a hurry! Why could not one of those hundreds of people at the fair have found it? But the green eye looked so reproachfully at him, that he felt he could not give way to his first impulse and throw it back into the dust, to be trampled on by the cattle from the fair. Who wore such fine jewelry here? Well, whoever it belonged to, he must take it to the Town Hall; it was only a few steps from there after all.

He turned in at the entrance to the Town Hall, where some watering-cans hung from the walls, and a few old rusty implements of torture were exhibited (sic transit gloria mundi!), went up the staircase, and entered a room where the Senators were all assembled round a green baize-covered table, discussing a serious and difficult question.

A most unpleasant thing had happened. One of the watchmen in the Liskovina wood (the property of the town) had arrived there breathlessly not long before, with the news that a well-dressed man had been found hanging on a tree in the wood; what was to be done with the body?

This was what was troubling the worthy Senators, and causing them to frown and pucker their foreheads. Senator Konopka declared that the correct thing to do was to bring the body to the mortuary chapel, and at the same time give notice of the fact to the magistrate, Mr. Mihály Géry, so that he could tell the district doctor to dissect the body.

Galba shook his head. He was nothing if not a diplomat, as he showed in the present instance. He said he considered it would be best to say nothing about it, but to remove the body by night a little further on, to the so-called Kvaka Wood, which was in the Travnik district, and let them find the body. Mravucsán was undecided which of the two propositions to accept. He hummed and hawed and shook his head, and then complained it was hot enough to stifle one, that he had gout in his hand, and that one leg of the Senators' table was shorter than the others. This latter was soon remedied by putting some old deeds under the short leg. Then they waited to see which side would have the majority, and as it turned out it was on Galba's side. But the Galba party was again subdivided into two factions. The strict Galba faction wanted the dead man's body transported to the Travnik district. The moderated Galba faction, headed by András Kozsehuba, would have been contented with merely taking down the body, and burying it under the tree; they wanted, at all costs, to prevent its being carried through the village to the cemetery, which would certainly be the case if the magistrate were informed of the circumstances. For if a suicide were carried through a place, that place was threatened with damage by hail!

"Superstitious rubbish!" burst out Konopka.

"Of course, of course, Mr. Konopka, but who is to help it if the people are so superstitious?" asked Senator Fajka, of the Kozsehuba faction.

Konopka wildly banged the table with his fat, be-ringed hand, upon which every one was quiet.

"It is sad enough to hear a Senator say such a thing! I can assure you, gentlemen, that the Lord will not send His thunder-clouds in our direction just on account of that poor dead body. He will not punish a thousand just men because one unfortunate man has given himself to the devil, especially as the dead man himself would be the only one not hurt by the hail!"

Mravucsán breathed freely again at these wise words, which certainly raised one's opinion of the magistrates; he hastened to make use of the opportunity, and as once the tiny wren, sitting on the eagle's wings, tried to soar higher than the eagle, so did Mravucsán try to rise above the Senators.

"What is true is true," he said, "and I herewith beg to call your attention to the fact that there is nothing to be feared from hail if we bring the body through the town."

Up sprang Mr. Fajka at these words.

"That is all the same to us," he said; "if matters stand so, let us have hail by all means, for when once all the villagers are insured by the Trieste Insurance Company, I see no difference whether there is hail or not. In fact, it would be better if there were some, for, if I know the villagers well, they will immediately go and insure the harvest far beyond its worth if the dead body is taken through the village. So the hail would not be such a great misfortune, but the carriage of the corpse through the village would be."

He was a grand debater after all, that Senator Fajka, for he had again hit the right nail on the head, and at the same time enlightened the Galba and the Kozsehuba factions.

"What a brain!" they exclaimed.

The word brain reminded Galba of the dissecting part of the business—per associationem idearum—and he at once began to discuss the point.

"Why dissect the man? We know who he is, for it is as plain as pie-crust that he is an agent for some Insurance Company, and has hanged himself here in our neighborhood in order to make people insure their harvest. It's as clear as day!"

"You are mad, Galba," said Konopka crossly.

Upon which the Senators all jumped up from their places, and then the noise broke forth, or, as Fiala, the town-servant and crier, used to say, "they began to boil the town saucepan," and every eye was fixed on the mayor, the spoon which was to skim the superfluous froth. But the mayor drew his head down into the dark blue collar of his coat, and seemed quite to disappear in it; he gnawed his mustache, and stood there helplessly, wondering what he was to say and do now, when all at once the door opened, and Gyuri Wibra stood before them. In spite of all folks may say, the powers above always send help at the right moment.

At sight of the stranger, who, an hour or two before, had wanted to buy an old umbrella of Mrs. Müncz, the mayor suddenly pushed back his chair and hurried toward him (let the Senators think he had some important business to transact with the new arrival).

"Ah, sir," he said hurriedly, "you were looking for me, I suppose?"

"If you are the mayor, yes."

"Of course, of course!" (Who else could be mayor in Bábaszék but Mravucsán, he wondered?)

"They have been crying the loss of an earring, and I have found it. Here it is."

The mayor's face beamed with delight.

"Now that is real honesty, sir. That is what I like. This is the first earring that has been lost since I have been in office, and even that is found. That's what I call order in the district."

Then turning to the Senators, he went on:

"It is only an hour since I sent the crier round the town, and here we have the earring. They couldn't manage that in Budapest!"

Just then he noticed that the stranger was preparing to leave.

"Why, you surely don't mean to leave us already, sir? There is a reward offered for the finding of this earring."

"I do not want the reward, thank you."

"Oh, come, don't talk like that, young man, don't run away from luck when it comes in your way. You know the story of the poor man who gave his luck away to the devil without knowing it, and how sorry he was for it afterward?"

"Yes, he was sorry for it," answered the lawyer, smiling, as he remembered the fable, "but I don't think we can compare this case with that."

"I am sure you have no idea to whom the earring belongs?"

"Not the slightest. Whose is it?"

"It belongs to the sister of the Glogova priest."

Gyuri screwed up his mouth doubtfully.

"Don't be too quick in your conclusions; just come here a minute; you won't repent it."

"Where am I to go?"

"Come into the next room."

The mayor wanted to keep him there at any cost, so as to gain time before deciding as to the dead man's future.

"But, my dear sir, I have important business to get through."

"Never mind, you must come in for a minute," and with that he opened the door and all but pushed the young man into the other room.

"My dear young lady," he called out over Gyuri's shoulder, "I have brought you your earring!"

At these words a young girl turned from her occupation of putting cold-water bandages on the shoulder of an elderly lady, lying on a sofa. Gyuri was not prepared for this apparition, and felt as confused and uncomfortable as though he had committed some indiscretion. The elder woman, partly undressed, was lying on a sofa, her wounded right shoulder (a remarkably bony one) was bare. The young man at the door stammered some apology, and turned to go, but Mravucsán held him back.

"Don't go," he said, "they won't bite you!"

The young girl, who had a very pretty attractive face, hastened to throw a cloak over her companion, and sprang up from her kneeling position beside the lady. What a figure she had! It seemed to Gyuri as though a lily, in all its simple grandeur, had risen before him.

"This gentleman has found your earring, and brought it you back, my dear."

A smile broke over her face (it was as though a ray of sunlight had found its way into the mayor's dark office), she blushed a little, and then made a courtesy, a real schoolgirl courtesy, awkward, and yet with something of grace in it.

"Thank you, sir, for your kindness. I am doubly glad to have found it, for I had given up all idea of ever seeing it again."

And taking it in her hand she gazed at it lovingly. She was a child still, you could see it in every movement. Gyuri felt he ought to say something, but found no suitable words.

This child disconcerted him, but there was something delightful in her artless manner which quite charmed him. There he stood, helpless and speechless, as though he were waiting for something. Was it the reward he wanted? The silence was getting painful, and the position awkward. At last the girl saw that the young man did not move, so she broke the silence.

"Oh dear! I had nearly forgotten in my delight that I had offered ... I mean ... how am I to say it?"

It now occurred to Gyuri that she was offering him the reward, so he thought it time to make known his name.

"I am Dr. Wibra," he said, "from Besztercebánya."

"Oh, how lucky!" exclaimed the girl, clapping her hands gleefully. "We are just in want of a doctor for poor madame."

This little misunderstanding was just what was wanted. Gyuri smiled.

"I am very sorry, my dear young lady; I am not a doctor of medicine, but a doctor of law."

The young girl looked disappointed at this announcement, and blushed a little at her mistake; but Mravucsán was quite excited.

"What's that I hear? You are young Wibra, the noted lawyer? Well, that is nice! Who would have thought it? Now I understand. Of course, you are here to try and find out particulars about one of your cases. I might have thought of it when I met you at Mrs. Müncz's. Of course a gentleman like you must have some special reason for buying an old umbrella. Well, the fates must have sent you here now, for we are discussing such a very difficult question in the next room, that our minds are too small for it. How strange, Miss Veronica, that your earring should be found by such a renowned lawyer."

Veronica stole a look at the "renowned lawyer," and noticed for the first time how handsome he was, and how gentlemanly, and her heart began to beat at the thought that she had nearly offered him the five florins reward.

Mravucsán hastened to offer the lawyer a chair, and cast an anxious look round his office, and remarked with horror what an untidy state it was in; deeds lying about everywhere, coats and cloaks, belonging to the Senators, empty glasses and bottles, for they were in the habit of drinking a glass now and then when they had settled some particularly important business, which was quite right of them, for the truth that emanated from them must be replaced by a fresh supply, and as the Hungarians say: "There is truth in wine."

The sight of that office would really have discouraged Mr. Mravucsán if his eye had not at that moment fallen on the portrait of Baron Radvánszky, the lord lieutenant of the county, hanging on the wall in front of him. That, after all, lent some distinction to the room. He wished from his heart that the baron were there in person to see what an illustrious guest they were harboring. But as the baron was not present, he felt it devolved on him to express his satisfaction at the fact.

"I am a poor man," he said, "but I would not accept a hundred florins in place of the honor that is done to my poor office to-day. It is worth something to have the most renowned lawyer in the county, and the prettiest young lady ..."

"Oh, Mr. Mravucsán!" exclaimed Veronica, blushing furiously.

"Well," said Mravucsán, "what's true is true. One need not be ashamed of being pretty. I was good-looking myself once, but I was never ashamed of it. Besides, a pretty face is of great use to one, isn't it, Mr. Wibra?"

"Yes, it is a very lucky thing," answered Gyuri quickly.

Mravucsán shook his head.

"Let us simply say it is a great help, for luck can easily turn to misfortune, and misfortune to luck, as was the case now, for if it had not been for to-day's accident, I should not now have the pleasure of seeing you all here."

"What is that?" asked Gyuri. "An accident?"

Veronica was going to answer, but that talkative mayor put in his word again.

"Yes, there was an accident, but in a short time there will be no traces of it, for the earring is here, madame's shoulder is here, it will be blue for some days, but what the devil does that matter, it is not the color makes the shoulder. And the carriage will be all right, too, when the smith has mended it."

"So those horses that were running away with a broken carriage...?"

"Were ours," said Veronica. "They took fright near the brickfield, the coachman lost his hold of the reins, and when he stooped to gather them up, he was thrown out of the carriage. In our fright we jumped out too. I did not hurt myself, but poor madame struck her shoulder on something. I hope it will be nothing serious. Does it hurt very much, Madame Krisbay?"

Madame opened her small yellow eyes, which till then had been closed, and the first sight that met them was Veronica's untidy hair.

"Smooth your hair," she said in French in a low voice, then groaned once or twice, and closed her eyes again.

Veronica, greatly alarmed, raised her hand to her head, and found that one of her plaits was partly undone.

"Oh, my hair!" she exclaimed. "The hairpins must have fallen out when I jumped out of the carriage. What am I to do?"

"Let down the other plait," advised Mravucsán. "That's it, my dear; it is much prettier so, isn't it, Wibra?"

"Much prettier," answered Gyuri, casting an admiring glance at the two black, velvety plaits, with a lovely dark bluish tinge on them, which hung nearly down to the edge of her millefleurs skirt.

So that was the priest's sister. He could hardly believe it, for he had imagined a fat, waddling, red-faced woman, smelling of pomade. That is what parish priests' sisters are generally like. The lawyer thought it was time to start a conversation.

"I suppose you were very frightened?"

"Not very; in fact, I don't think I was startled at all. But now I begin to fear my brother will be anxious about me."

"The priest of Glogova?"

"Yes. He is very fond of me, and will be so anxious if we do not return. And yet I hardly know how we are to manage it."

"Well," said Mravucsán, consolingly, "we have the horses, and we will borrow a cart from some one."

Veronica shuddered and shook her head.

"With those horses? Never again!"

"But, my dear young lady, you must never take horses seriously, they have no real character. You see, this is how it was. Near the brickfield there is that immense windmill, for of course every town must have one. The world is making progress, in spite of all Senator Fajka says. Well, as I said, there is the windmill. I had it built, for every one made fun of us because we had no water in the neighborhood. So I make use of the wind. Of course, the horses don't understand that; they are good mountain horses, and had never seen a beast with such enormous wings, turning in the air, so of course they were frightened and ran away. You can't wonder at it. But that is all over now, and they will take you quietly home."

"No, no, I'm afraid of them. Oh, how dreadful they were! If you had only seen them! I won't go a step with them. As far as I am concerned, I could walk home, but poor Madame Krisbay ..."

"Now that would be a nice sort of thing to do," remarked Mravucsán. "Fancy my allowing my best friend's little sister to walk all the way home with those tiny feet of hers! How she would stumble and trip over the sharp stones in the mountain paths! And his reverence would say: 'My friend Mravucsán is a nice sort of fellow to let my sister walk home, after all the good dinners and suppers I have given him.' Why, I would rather take you home on my own back, my dear, right into Glogova parish!"

Veronica looked gratefully at Mravucsán, and Gyuri wondered, if it came to the point, would Mravucsán be able to carry out his plan, or would he have to be carried himself. The mayor was an elderly man, and looked as though he were breaking up. He found himself glancing curiously at the old gentleman, measuring his strength, the breadth of his chest, and of his shoulders, as though the most important fact now were, who was to take Veronica on his back. He decided that Mravucsán was too weak to do it, and smiled to himself when he discovered how glad this thought made him.

Mravucsán's voice broke in upon his musings.

"Well, my dear," he was saying, "don't you worry yourself about it; take a rest first, and then we will see what is to be done. Of course it would be better to have other horses, but where are we to get them from? No one in Bábaszék keeps horses, we only need oxen. I myself only keep oxen. For a mountain is a mountain, and horses are of no use there, for they can, after all, only do what an ox can, namely, walk slowly. You can't make a grand show here with horses, and let them gallop and prance about, and toss their manes. This is a serious part, yes, I repeat it, a serious part. The chief thing is to pull, and that is the work of an ox. A horse gets tired of it, and when it knows the circumstances it loses all pleasure in life, and seems to say: 'I'm not such a fool as to grow for nothing, I'll be a foal all my life.' And the horses round about here are not much bigger than a dog, and are altogether wretched-looking."

He would have gone on talking all night, and running the poor horses down to the ground, if Gyuri had not interrupted him.

"But I have my dog-cart here, Miss Veronica, and will take you home with pleasure."

"Will you really," exclaimed Mravucsán. "I knew you were a gentleman. But why on earth didn't you say so before?"

"Because you gave me no chance to put in a word edgeways."

"That is true," laughed Mravucsán good-humoredly. "So you will take them?"

"Of course, even if I were not going to Glogova myself."

"Are you really going there?" asked Veronica, surprised.

"Yes."

She looked at him thoughtfully for a minute, and then said:

"Don't try to deceive us."

Gyuri smiled.

"On my word of honor, I intended going to Glogova. Shall we all go together?"

Veronica nodded her head, and was just going to clap her hands like the child she was, when madame began to move on the sofa, and gave a deep sigh.

"Oh dear," said Veronica, "I had quite forgotten madame. Perhaps after all I can't go with you."

"And why not? The carriage is big enough, there will be plenty of room."

"Yes, but may I?"

"Go home? Who is to prevent it?"

"Why, don't you know?"

"What?" asked Gyuri, surprised.

"Why, etiquette, of course," she said shyly.

(Gyuri smiled. Oh, what a little simpleton she was!)

"Yes, yes," she assured them, seeing they were laughing at her, "it says in the book on etiquette: 'You must not accept the arm of a stranger.'"

"But a carriage is not an arm," burst out Mravucsán. "How could it be? If it were, I should have two carriages myself. My dear child, leave etiquette to look after itself. In Bábaszék I decide what is etiquette, not the French mamselles. And I say a carriage is not an arm, so there's an end of it."

"Of course you are right, but all the same, I must speak to madame about it."

"Just as you like, my dear."

Veronica again knelt down by the sofa, and a whispered conversation ensued, the result of which was, as Gyuri understood from the few words he could hear, that madame quite shared Mravucsán's view of the case, that a carriage is not an arm, and that if two people have been introduced to each other, they are not strangers, and consequently, in Madame Krisbay's opinion, they ought to accept the young man's offer. Besides, in times of danger there is no such thing as etiquette. Beautiful Blanche Montmorency on the occasion of a fire was saved by the Marquis Privadière with nothing on but her nightgown, and yet the tower of Notre Dame is still standing!

Gyuri felt as impatient as a card-player when the cards are being dealt, and a large stake has been placed on one of them, until at length Veronica turned round.

"We shall be very thankful if you will take us in your carriage," she said, smiling, as she was sure Blanche Montmorency would have done under the same conditions.

Gyuri received the announcement with delight.

"I will go and see after the carriage," he said, taking up his hat. But Mravucsán stood in his way.

"Oh, no, you don't," he said. "Pro primo, even if Veronica can go, I am sure Madame Krisbay cannot start yet; it would be a sin to make her drive now; she must rest a bit first, after her fright and her bruises. If my wife puts some of her wonderful plaster on it to-night, she'll be perfectly well in the morning. Pro secundo, you can't go because I won't allow you to. Pro tertio, because it is getting dark. Please look out of the window."

He was right; the sun had disappeared behind the dark blue lines of the Zólyom Hills, and the fir-trees in front of the Town Hall cast their long shadows down the road, right up to the Mravucsán garden, where a lean cat was performing its evening ablutions among the oleanders. All the same Gyuri began to plead (it was part of his business).

"It will be a quiet, warm night," he said. "Why should we not start? After all it can make no difference to madame whether she groans in bed or in the carriage."

"But it will be dark," objected Mravucsán, "and there are some very bad bits of road between here and Glogova, and two or three precipices. In spite of my being mayor, I cannot order moonlight for you."

"We don't need it; we can light the lamps."

Veronica seemed undecided, and glanced from one to the other of the gentlemen, till at length Mravucsán put in the finishing touch.

"There will be a storm to-night, for there is the dead body of a man hanging on a tree in the wood you have to pass through."

Veronica shuddered.

"I would not go through that wood by night for anything," she exclaimed.

That settled the question. Gyuri bowed, and received a bright smile in return, and Mravucsán rushed into the next room, and told Konopka to take his place (oh, his delight at getting rid of his responsibility!), as he had visitors, and had no time to think of other things; and then he whispered in the ears of some of the Senators (those who had on the best coats) that he would be pleased to see them to supper. Then off he trotted home, to announce the arrival of visitors, and give orders for their reception. On the staircase he caught sight of Fiala, and sent him to tell Wibra's coachman, who was waiting with the dog-cart outside Mrs. Müncz's shop, to go and put up in his courtyard.

After a few minutes, Mrs. Mravucsán appeared at the Town Hall to take the ladies home with her. She was a short, stout, amiable woman, whose broad, smiling face spoke of good temper and kindheartedness. She was dressed like all women of the middle class in that part, in a dark red skirt and black silk apron, and on her head she wore a black silk frilled cap.

She entered the room noisily, as such simple village folks do.

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "Mravucsán says you are going to be our guests. Is it true? What an honor for us! But I knew it, I felt it, for last night I dreamed a white lily was growing out of my basin, and this is the fulfilment of the dream. Well, my dear, get all your things together, and I'll carry them across, for I'm as strong as a bear. But I forgot to tell you the most important thing, which I really ought to have said at the beginning: I am Mrs. Mravucsán. Oh, my dear young lady, I should never have thought you were so pretty! Holy Virgin! Now I understand her sending down an umbrella to keep the rain off your pretty face! So the poor lady is ill, has hurt her shoulder? Well, I've got a capital plaster we'll put on it; come along. Don't give way, my dear, it has to be borne. Why, I had a similar accident once, Mravucsán was driving too. We fell into a ditch, and two of my ribs were broken, and I've had trouble with my liver ever since. Such things will happen now and then. Does it hurt you very much?"

"The lady does not speak Slovak," said Veronica, "nor Hungarian."

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Mravucsán, clasping her hands. "So old, and can't even speak Hungarian! How is that?"

And Veronica was obliged to explain that madame had come direct from Munich to be her companion, and had never yet been in Hungary; she was the widow of a French officer, she added, for Mrs. Mravucsán insisted on having full particulars. They had received a letter from her the day before yesterday, saying she was coming, and Veronica had wanted to meet her at the station.

"So that is how it is. And she can't even speak Slovak nor Hungarian! Poor unhappy woman! And what am I to do with her?—whom am I to put next her at table?—how am I to offer her anything? Well, it will be a nice muddle! Luckily the schoolmaster can speak German, and perhaps the young gentleman can too?"

"Don't you worry about that, Mrs. Mravucsán, I'll amuse her at supper, and look after her wants," answered Gyuri.

With great difficulty they got ready to go, Madame Krisbay moaning and groaning as they tried to dress her, after having sent Gyuri into the passage. Mrs. Mravucsán collected all the shawls, rugs, and cloaks, and hung them over her arm.

"We will send the servant for the lady's box," she said.

Then she made madame lean on her, and they managed to get her downstairs. Madame was complaining, half in French, half in German, and the mayor's wife chatted continually, sometimes to the young couple walking in front, sometimes to madame, who, with her untidy hair, looked something like a poor sick cockatoo.

"This way, this way, my dear young lady. That is our house over there. Only a few more steps, my dear madame. Oh, the dog won't bite you. Go away, Garam! We shall be there directly. You will see what a good bed I will give you to sleep in to-night; such pillows, the softest you can imagine!"

It made no difference to her that Madame Krisbay did not understand a word of what she was saying. Many women talk for the sake of talking. Why should they not? They are probably afraid a spider might spin its web before their mouth.

"It hurts you, does it not? But it will hurt still more to-morrow; that is always the way with a bruise of that kind. Why, you will feel it in two weeks' time."

Then, casting a sly glance at the pair walking in front:

"They make a handsome couple, don't they?"

It was not far to the Mravucsáns' house, and it would have been nearer still if there had not been an immense pool of water just in front of the Town Hall, to avoid which they had to go a good bit out of their way. But this pool was a necessity, for all the geese and ducks in the village swam on it, the pigs came and wallowed in the mud round it, and last, but not least, the firemen took their water from here in case of fire. Oh, I forgot to say that all the frogs from the whole neighborhood had taken up their abode in it, and gave splendid concerts to the villagers.

So, as I said before, they needed the pool and gladly put up with its presence, and it was considered common property. Once a civil engineer had been sent there by the county authorities, and he had called their attention to the fact that the pool ought to be filled up; but they just laughed at him, and left it as it was.

So now they had to go right round the pool to the "hotel," which strangers always named the "Frozen Sheep," in reference to the story I mentioned before. The gypsies were still playing inside, and outside several couples were turning in time to music, and some peasants were standing about drinking their glass of "pálinka" (a kind of brandy), while a wagoner from Zólyom sat alone at a table drinking as hard as he could. He was already rather drunk, and was keeping up a lively conversation all by himself, gazing now and then with loving eyes at the lean horse harnessed to his cart, and which, with drooping head, was awaiting his master's pleasure to move on.

"My neighbor says," philosophized the wagoner aloud, "that my horse is not a horse. And why is it not a horse, pray? It was a horse in the time of Kossuth! What? It can't draw a load? Of course not, if the load is too heavy. It is thin, is it? Of course it is thin, for I don't give it any oats. Why don't I give it any? Why, because I have none, of course. What's that you say? The other day it couldn't drag my cart? No, because the wheel was stuck in the mud. My neighbor is a great donkey, isn't he?"

Upon which, up he got, and stumbled over to the dancers, requesting them to give their opinion as to whether his neighbor was a donkey or not. They got out of his way, so, like a mad dog, which sees and hears nothing, the wagoner rushed upon Madame Krisbay.

"Is mine a horse, or is it not?"

Madame was frightened, and the smell of brandy, which emanated from the good man, made her feel faint.

"Mon Dieu!" she murmured, "what a country I have come to!"

But Mrs. Mravucsán, gentle as she was generally, could also be energetic if necessary.

"I don't know if yours is a horse or not," she said, "but I can tell you you're a drunken beast!"

And with that she gave him a push which sent him rolling over on his back. He lay there murmuring:

"My neighbor says my horse is blind in one eye. Nonsense! He can see the road just as well with one eye as with two."

Then up he got, and began to follow them, and Madame Krisbay, leaving go of Mrs. Mravucsán's arm, and in her fright forgetting her wounded shoulder, took to her heels and ran. The dancers seeing her went into fits of laughter at the pair of thin legs she showed.

"How on earth can she run so fast with such thin legs?" they asked each other.

Still more surprised were Veronica and Gyuri (who had seen nothing of the incident with the wagoner); they could not imagine why the sick woman was running at the top of her speed.

"Madame! madame! What is the matter?"

She gave no answer, only rushed to the Mravucsáns' house, where she again had a fright at the sight of three enormous watch-dogs, who received her with furious barks. She would have fallen in a faint on the floor, but at that moment Mravucsán appeared on the scene to receive his guests, so she fell into his arms instead. The good mayor just held her quietly, with astonished looks, for he had never yet seen a fainting woman, though he had heard they ought to be sprinkled with water, but how was he to go for water? Then he remembered he had heard that pinching was a good remedy, that it would, in fact, wake a dead woman; but in order to pinch a person, she must have some flesh, and Madame Krisbay had nothing but bones. So he waited with Christian patience till the others arrived on the scene, and then gave her up to their tender mercies.

"Phew!" he breathed, "what a relief!"

Intellectual Society in Bábaszék

PART IV

CHAPTER I.
THE SUPPER AT THE MRAVUCSÁNS'

Then it occurred to her to offer her some of her preserved fruit, and to this madame seemed to take a fancy, for she finished up the dish, and in proportion as her hunger was appeased, her liking for her surroundings increased.

She had the Lutheran clergyman, Sámuel Rafanidesz, on her right, and the schoolmaster, Teofil Klempa, on her left, and to them was deputed the task of entertaining the unfortunate foreigner. Their invitations had been put in this form:

"You must come, for there is to be a German lady at supper, whom you are to entertain."

And they did all they could to prove to the rest of the company how much at ease they were in good German society.

Madame Krisbay seemed very contented with her neighbors, especially when she discovered that the Rev. Sámuel Rafanidesz was a bachelor. What! did clergymen marry there? (Perhaps, after all, she had not come to such a bad country!)

The schoolmaster was a much handsomer man, but he was older, and was, besides, married. He had an intelligent face, and a long, flowing black beard; he had, too, a certain amount of wit, which he dealt out in small portions. Madame Krisbay smiled at his sallies. Poor woman! She would have liked to have laughed at them, but did not dare to, for her throat was still burning from the effects of that horrid paprika. Now and then her face (which was otherwise like yellow wax) got quite red from the efforts she made to keep from coughing, which, besides being the forerunner of old age, she also considered very demeaning.

"Don't mind us, my dear," called out the mayor's wife, "cough away as much as you like. A cough and poverty cannot be hidden."

Madame began to feel more and more at home, for, as it turned out, the clergyman had been at school at Munich, and could tell a lot of anecdotes of his life there, in the Munich dialect, much to madame's delight. The Rev. Sámuel Rafanidesz did not belong to the stiff, unpleasant order of clergymen, and there was a Slovak sentence composed by Teofil Klempa, often repeated by the good people of Bábaszék, which bore reference to him, and which, if read backward, gave his name: "Szedi na fare, Rafanidesz" ("Stay in your parish, Rafanidesz".) But he never took this advice, and had already been sent away from one living (somewhere in Nográd) because of an entanglement with some lady in the parish. Mrs. Mravucsán knew the whole story, and even the lady, a certain Mrs. Bahó. She must have been a silly woman, for it was she herself who let the cat out of the bag, to her own husband too; and she was not a beauty either, as we can see from Mrs. Mravucsán's words:

"Rafanidesz was a fool. You should never ask a kiss from an ugly woman, nor a loan from a poor man, for they immediately go and boast of it."

Thus Mrs. Mravucsán. It is true she added:

"But if any one were to call me as a witness, I should deny the whole thing."

So you see, I can't stand good for the truth of it either. But that is neither here nor there.

Madame Krisbay certainly enjoyed the company of her two neighbors, and those gentlemen soon raised the whole country in her estimation. But it was lucky she understood no Slovak, and could not hear the conversation carried on by the intelligence of Bábaszék. Of course they were clever people too, in their way, and Veronica often smiled at the jokes made, for they were all new to her, though the natives of Bábaszék knew them all by heart; for instance, the rich butcher, Pál Kukucska, always got up when the third course was on the table, and drank to his own health, saying:

"Long life to my wife's husband!"

It would really be waste of time to try and describe the supper, for nothing of any real importance happened. They ate, they drank, and then they went home. Perhaps they spoke of important matters? Not they! Only a thousand trifles were discussed, which it would be a pity to put in print; and yet the incidents of that supper were the talk of Bábaszék for weeks after. For instance, Mr. Mravucsán upset a glass of wine with the sleeve of his coat, and while they were wiping it up, and strewing salt on the stain, Senator Konopka, turning to the lady of the house, exclaimed:

"That means a christening, madam!"

Of course Mrs. Mravucsán blushed, but Veronica asked in a most innocent tone:

"How can you know that?" (She was either a goose, that young girl, or she was a good actress.)

Now who was to answer her with a face as innocent as the Blessed Virgin's must have been when she was a girl in short frocks? They all looked at each other, but luckily the forester's wife, Mrs. Wladimir Szliminszky, came to the rescue with this explanation:

"You see, my dear, the stork which brings the children generally lets one know beforehand, and the knocking over a glass is one of the signs it gives."

Veronica thought for a bit, and then shook her head unbelievingly.

"But I saw the gentleman knock the glass over himself," she objected.

To this Mrs. Szliminszky had no answer ready, so, according to her usual custom, she turned to her husband and began worrying him.

"Wladin, cut the fat off that meat."

Wladin frowned.

"But, my dear, that is just the best bit."

"Never mind, Wladin, I can't allow it. Your health is the first consideration."

And Wladin obediently cut off the fat bits.

"Why is your coat unbuttoned? Don't you feel how cold it is? Button it up at once, Wladin."

The forester did as he was told, and with the pleasant feeling of having done his duty, turned his attention to his plate again.

"Not another bit, Wladin, you've had enough. We don't want you to dream of bulls to-night."

Wladin obediently put down his knife and fork, and prepared to drink a glass of water.

"Give it me first," cried his wife excitedly. "I want to see that it is not too cold."

Wladin handed over his glass of water.

"You may drink a little of it, but not too much. Stop, stop, that will do!"

Poor Wladin! He was a martyr to conjugal love! For sixteen years he had suffered under this constant thoughtfulness, and though he was a strong man when he married, and had never been ill since, yet every minute of his life he expected some catastrophe; for, through constant warnings, the unfortunate Pole had worked himself up to the belief that a current of air or a drop of water could be disastrous to him. He felt that Nature had bad intentions toward him.

"Take care, Wladin, or the dog will bite your foot!"

One of the watch-dogs was under the table gnawing at a bone he had possessed himself of, and a little farther off the cat was looking on, longingly, as much as to say: "Give me some of that superfluous food."

Now began the so-called "amabilis confusio." Every one spoke at once, and every one about a different subject. The Senators had returned to the important question of the corpse hanging in the wood; Mrs. Mravucsán complained that no one was eating anything, and looked as wretched as she could.

Each one drank to the other's health, and during the quiet moment that followed, a voice was heard:

"Oh, Wladin, Wladin!"

It was Mrs. Szliminszky's voice; she evidently objected to her husband drinking, and her neighbor, Mr. Mokry, the lawyer's clerk, objected to her constant distractions, in spite of the interesting theme they were discussing.

"That strong cigar will harm you, Wladin; you had better put it down. Well, and why did you go to Besztercebánya, Mr. Mokry?"

"I had a lot to do there, but, above all, I bought the suit I have on."

He looked admiringly at his dark blue suit for about the hundredth time that evening.

"It is a very nice suit. What did you pay for it?"

"I had it made to measure at Klener's, and went to try it on myself."

"What was the price?"

"It is real Gács cloth, and quite impervious to rain; you should see it by daylight!"

"Yes, of course, but what did it cost?" asked the Polish lady, her thoughts still occupied with her husband.

"I saw the piece of cloth myself; this was the first length cut off it. It has a peculiar look in the sunlight."

"Yes, yes; but I asked the price of it."

But it was difficult to bring Mokry to think of other things when he was once launched on the subject of his new suit.

"Klener has a tailor working for him, a certain Kupek, who used to work at one of the court tailors' in Vienna, and he said to me: 'Don't grudge the money, Mr. Mokry, for this is such a durable stuff that your own skin will wear out first.' Please feel it."

"It's as soft as silk. Wladin, my dear, I think you had better change places with me. You are in a draught there each time the door is opened. What are you making such a face for? You surely don't mean to argue with me? Over you come now!"

The beloved martyr changed places with his wife, and now Mrs. Szliminszky was on the opposite side of the table, next to Wibra; but he was entirely taken up with Veronica, who was chattering to her heart's content. The clever young man, of whom it was said he would once be the first lawyer in Besztercebánya, was listening to the girl with as much attention as though a bishop were speaking, and would not for a moment have taken his eyes off her.

They spoke quietly, as though they were discussing very important questions, though they were in reality speaking of the most innocent things. What did Veronica do at home? She read a good deal, and took long walks. What did she read, and where did she walk? And Veronica gave the titles of some books. Gyuri had read them all too, and they began exchanging notes regarding some of them, such as "Elemér the Eagle," "Iván Berend," "Aranka Béldi." Gyuri considered Pál Béldi very stupid for not accepting the title of prince when it was offered him. Veronica thought it was better he had not done so, for if he had, the novel would never have been written.

Then Gyuri began to question her about Glogova. Was it very dull? Veronica looked at him, surprised. How could Glogova be dull? It was as though some ignorant person had asked if Paris were dull.

"Is there a wood there?"

"A beautiful one."

"Do you ever go there?"

"Of course."

"Are you not afraid?"

"Afraid of what?"

"Well, you know, woods sometimes have inhabitants one might be afraid of."

"Oh, but the inhabitants of our woods are more afraid of me than I of them."

"Can any one be afraid of you?"

"Oh, yes they are, because I catch them."

"The robbers?"

"Don't be so silly, or I shall be cross!"

"I should like to see what you look like when you are cross."

"Well, I shall be if you talk such rubbish again. I catch butterflies in the wood."

"Are there pretty butterflies there? I had a collection when I was a student; I believe I have it still."

At this a desire for rivalry seized hold of Veronica.

"You should see my collection," she said. "I have all kinds. Tigers, Admirals, Apollos; only, it is such a pity, my Apollo has lost one of its wings."

"Have you a Hebe?"

"Oh, yes, it is nearly as big as the palm of my hand."

"And how big is that? Let me see it."

Veronica spread out her hand on the table; it was not so very big after all, but fine and pink as a roseleaf. Gyuri took a match and began to measure it, and in doing so, accidentally touched her hand with his finger, upon which she hastily drew it away and blushed furiously.

"It is very hot," she said, putting up her hand to her hot face, as though she had drawn it away for that purpose.

"Yes, the room has got quite hot," broke in Mrs. Szliminszky. "Unbutton your coat, Wladin!"

Wladin heaved a sigh of relief, and undid his coat.

Veronica returned to the subject of the butterflies.

"I think butterfly catching must be the same to me as hunting is to a man."

"I am very fond of butterflies," answered Gyuri, "because they only love once."

"Oh, I have another reason for liking them."

"Perhaps because of their mustaches?"

Veronica turned her head away impatiently.

"Mr. Wibra, you are beginning to be unpleasant."

"Thank you for the compliment."

"What compliment?"

"You say I am beginning to be unpleasant, which is as much as to say I was pleasant till now."

"I see it is dangerous to talk with you, for you put words into my mouth I never intended saying. I shall not speak again."

"I'll never do it again, never, I assure you. Only do talk," pleaded Gyuri.

"Do the butterflies really interest you?"

"Upon my honor, they interest one more at this moment than lions and tigers."

"I think butterflies are so pretty—like a beautifully dressed woman. And what tasteful combinations of color! I always look at their wings as though they were so many patterns of materials. For instance, look at a Hebe, with its black and red under-wings, do not they match beautifully with the yellow and blue-top wings! And then the Tiger, with its brown and yellow-spotted dress! Believe me, the renowned Worth might with advantage take a walk in the woods, and learn the art of combining shades from the butterflies."

"Gently, Wladin!" called out Mrs. Szliminszky at this moment. "How many lungs have you? A three-kreutzer stamp is sufficient for local letters."

Wladin and Senator Fajka were wondering how matters would stand if they were both very deaf, and Wladin was talking so loudly that his loving spouse felt bound to put in a word of remonstrance, and request him to have some respect for his lungs.

"They are quite close to each other, and yet they shout as though they were trying to persuade some one not to put a fifteen-kreutzer stamp on a local letter. Oh dear! When will people be more sensible?"

At that moment, Senator Konopka rose and drank to the health of the host, the "regenerator" of Bábaszék. He spoke in exactly the same thin, piping voice as Mr. Mravucsán; when the guests closed their eyes, they really believed the master of the house himself was speaking, and sounding his own praises; of course this caused great amusement. Upon that up sprang the mayor, and answered the toast in Konopka's voice, with just the same grimaces and movements he always made, and the merriment rose in proportion. Kings do this too in another form, for at meetings and banquets they pay each other the compliment of dressing up in each other's uniforms; and yet no one thinks of laughing at them.

Toast succeeded toast.

"You have let the dogs loose now," whispered Fajka to Konopka.

Mokry drank to the health of the lady of the house, and then Mravucsán stood up a second time to return thanks in his wife's name. He remarked that, to their great disappointment, one of those invited had been unable to come, namely, Mrs. Müncz, who had at the last moment had an attack of gout in her foot, which was no wonder, considering the amount of standing and running about she did when there was a fair in their town. Then they all emptied their glasses to the health of the old Jewess.

After the shouts of acclamation had died away, Wladin Szliminszky called out:

"Now it is my turn!"

"Wladin, don't make a speech!" cried his wife. "You know it is bad for your lungs to speak so loud."

But she could do nothing now to prevent him; a henpecked husband is capable of everything; he will button or unbutton his coat, eat or drink to order, but refrain from making the speech his brain has conceived he will not; at least, it has never yet been heard of in the annals of Hungarian history.

"I take up my glass, gentlemen, to drink to the fairest flower of the company, beloved by God, Who on one occasion sent down His servant from Heaven, saying: 'Go down at once, Peter, with an umbrella; don't let the child get wet.' Long life to Miss Veronica Bélyi!"

Veronica was as red as a rose, especially when the guests all got up one after the other, and went and kissed her hand; some of them even knelt to do it, and pious Mrs. Mravucsán bent down and kissed the hem of her dress.

Gyuri thought at first on hearing Wladin's peculiar speech that the good man had gone mad, and now seeing every one following his example, was more surprised than ever, and a strange feeling crept over him.

"What miracle is it your husband is referring to?" he asked, turning to Mrs. Szliminszky.

That good lady looked at him surprised.

"What! Don't you know the story? Why, it is impossible. It is even printed in Slovak verse."

"What is printed?"

"Why, the story of the umbrella ... Wladin, you are very hot, your face is the color of a boiled lobster. Shall I give you my fan?"

"What about the umbrella?" queried Gyuri impatiently.

"It is really strange you have never heard anything about it. Well, the story runs, that when your fair neighbor was a little child, they once left her out on the veranda of the priest's house. Her brother, the priest of Glogova, was in the church praying. A storm came on, it poured in torrents, and the child would have been wet through and have got inflammation of the lungs, or something of the kind, if a miracle had not taken place. An old man appeared on the scene, no one knows from where; he seemed to have fallen from heaven, and he spread an umbrella over the child's head."

"My umbrella!" burst unconsciously from the lawyer.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing, nothing."

His blood coursed more quickly through his veins, his heart beat faster, he raised his head quickly, with the result that he also knocked his glass over.

"A christening, another christening!" called out every one.

"My best wishes," said Mr. Rafanidesz, turning to Mrs. Szliminszky, who blushed becomingly and told him not to talk nonsense.

But the young lawyer would not let her continue the conversation; he drew his chair nearer to hers, and said:

"Please go on."

"Well, the gray-haired man disappeared, no one knew how nor where, and those who saw him for a moment swore it was St. Peter."

"It was Müncz!"

"Did you speak?"

Gyuri bit his lip, and saw that he had spoken his thoughts aloud.

"Nothing, nothing; please go on."

"Well, St. Peter disappeared, and left the umbrella behind him."

"And does it still exist?"

"I should think it does indeed. They keep it as a relic in the church of Glogova."

"Thank God!"

He drew a deep breath, as though a great weight had fallen from him.