Chapter III: Pal Gregorics's Death and Will

No signification was attached to the above-mentioned incident till years after, when every one had forgotten all about it, Gyuri included. As for Kupeczky, he could not remember it, for as soon as the news came from Besztercebanya that old Gregorics was dead, he took to his bed and never rose from it again.

"I am dying, Gyuri," he said to his sobbing pupil, "I feel it. It was only Gregorics kept me alive, or rather I kept myself alive for his sake. But now I'm done for. I don't know if he has provided for your future, my poor boy, but it's all over with me, I'm dying, I wouldn't mind betting it."

And he would have won his bet too. Gyuri went home for Gregorics's funeral, and a week later the landlady sent word that the old professor was dead, and he was to send money for the funeral.

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 Pal 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 Boldizsar 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, Janos 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. Pivak (old Pivak 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 Matyko'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 Matyko 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 Matyko out to the gate. But the sick man got more and more restless.

"Anna," he said, "take the horn out, and tell Matyko 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 Matyko 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 Pal 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.

Boldizsar was soon on the spot, also his brother Gaspar with all his family. Mrs. Panyoki, 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!"

Gaspar 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 Matyko'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. Panyoki muttered, when the nine ladies' names were read out: "Dear me, how very strange!"

Boldizsar, who was of opinion it was not worth while worrying over such trifles (after all, Pal 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 Gaspar.

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

"Yes, of course," answered Gaspar, "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 Gaspar, "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. Panyoki said nothing, only looked suspiciously at her two brothers.