The Village Notary Part 66

"Never you mind! Who knows but you'll get off for all that? Why, you were not even twenty when you did for that Slowak; by the same token, you were a jacka.s.s to kill that fellow of all others for the miserable booty of ninepence which you found in his pockets. As for me, I've twice been under sentence of death, and you see I'm none the worse for it. But if they _will_ chop your head off, why, it's some comfort to think that they hanged your father before you. Never mind, boy, you're as likely to dance on my grave as I am on yours! When a man has lived up to ninety-three years----"

"Three and ninety years!" sighed the notary, with a shudder.

"Three and ninety years!" continued the old man, with his usual cough.

"It's a good old age, you know; and fifty-four years of that time I've lived in gaol, and I'm none the worse for it; if the Lord keeps me alive, they'll discharge me on St. Stephen's day that's coming."

"Fifty-four years?" cried the notary.

"Ay! it's a good long time, ain't it? I've been in gaol for stealing horses and other cattle, and I was a party to a murder. Twice they locked me up for arson, but, d--n me, I had no hand in it in either case; and this time I'm caged because people _will_ have it that I was the head man in the Pasht robbery--you know three men happened to be killed on the occasion. Never mind, I'm to be a free man on St.

Stephen's day; and, after all, though _I_ say it who should not, their worships were not far out when they brought that business home to me!"

"I say, father, you're an out-and-outer!" said the boyish voice. "Come, tell us of the Jew that lost his life!"

"Tell you, indeed, you abortion!" said the old man. "Don't you hear me coughing. Ask Pishta! he'll tell you how he diddled that Slowak."

"D--n Pishta! he doesn't tell stories half so well as you do, father; it gives one an appet.i.te for the business to hear you."

"Never mind, lad! you'll have your share of it, I warrant you!" laughed the old man. "The devil shall take me by ounces, if you don't kill a man before you've got a beard to your chin."

"I'll kill any one! I'll drink blood! Let me once get out of this place, and you'll see!"

"Will you, indeed! You'll get the shakes before you do it, my boy."

"Drat the shakes! I'd wish you to see me at work. I'm not the coward I was when they brought me here. Wasn't I a fine fellow, father? A knife made me _funky_. But your fine stories have set me up. I can't help dreaming of the old Jew whom they hanged in the forest. Let me once get an axe in my hand! I shan't use it for woodcutting, that's all."

"Bravo!" cried the old man. "You're a bold fellow, you are! By the bye, what's the other chap about?"

"He's asleep!"

"Is he? then box his ears, and wake him!"

And turning to Tengelyi, he added, "That boy Imri is a whapper, sir; but the other chap's a scurvy rat!"

A loud wailing cry, and the entreaties of the other child, showed that Imri had obeyed his patron's command; and though the notary was resolved not to enter into any conversation with his fellow-prisoners, that cry of pain overcame his resolution.

"Why don't you let the poor boy sleep?" said he.

"You leave my children alone, sir!" said the old robber, rather fiercely. "They ought to fight. It does them good, you know. Makes them hard, sir, as hard as nails! That little fellow, Imri, is a whapper, sir. That boy'll do me honour, that boy will; but that sleepy cove in the corner will never come to any thing. I've given them a year's schooling, sir, and that's why I ought to know them."

"You would do better to think of your death-bed, old man. You are driving these children to ruin."

"Ruin be d--d! I'll make men of them. I'll give them reason to be grateful to their worships for locking them up with me. I'll give them a bit of education, you know."

At this moment the turnkey opened the outer gate of the prison, and brought a large lamp, which he placed in the hall, so as to economise its light for three of the cells. The reddish glare of the lamp showed the notary the place to which his misfortune, and the malice of his enemies, had brought him. It was a perfect h.e.l.l of sweating walls, half-rotten straw, filth, chains, and iron bars. The old prisoner, to whom Tengelyi had spoken, squatted in a corner, with his head leaning on his knees, so as to conceal his features. But in the intervals of the conversation, he raised his head, and showed a countenance on which the crimes of nearly a century had set their mark. His was one of those faces which, once seen, are always remembered, and the very turnkey felt some awe when he approached him. His white beard, which covered the lower half of his face, the thin long silvery locks which descended to his shoulders, and his sunken eyes and temples, showed that he had reached an age which few men attain, and the sight of which is wont to fill us with respect, or at least with pity. It was not so in the case of this man. The keen look of his eyes under his bushy eyebrows impressed you with a conviction that this patriarch of the prison, though he might want the power, did not lack the will to commit any crime; and when his trembling and shrivelled hands were stretched forth towards you, it was not pity, but a feeling of comfort you had in thinking, that these hands had lost the strength to grasp the dagger or aim the blow.

At the old man's feet lay a boy of fourteen, with a withered and oldish face. His cheeks were pale, his forehead wrinkled, and his eyes dull and glazed, except when the old man called him by his name, or stroked his hair with a trembling hand. It was then that some feeling was expressed in that haggard face. It was then that the boy's eyes gleamed in wild exultation. It was the yearning of the human heart for kindness, and its grat.i.tude even to the depraved. The other boy, whose wailings induced Tengelyi to speak, had crept up to the iron railings of the door, and there he stood gazing at the light of the lamp. When the flame burnt clear and bright, the boy clapped his hands and laughed; but when it burnt low, he said he was sure the lamp was neglected, and that it would go out, as it did the other day.

"If I could but creep through the bars!" sighed he. "If they'd only let me trim it! I'd give it a large wick and plenty of oil; and I'd make it burn with a red flame, and a yellow flame, and a blue flame! Look, look!

what a bright jet of fire! Grow! grow little flame! rise to the house-top, and shine over the town and warm it! Oh, see how splendid!"

And the poor lad pressed his glowing face to the iron bars. "Oh! if they'd but let me touch it!"

"It's no go, my boy!" cried the young murderer from the furthest corner of the cell; "they won't allow you to set the prison on fire, as you did the other day. Get away from the bars, you little rascal; if you don't, I'll drag you away by the hair!"

"Bravo, Pishta! Give it him!" said the old man; "he all but killed us with his smoke. You see he's mad!"

Pishta got up and seized the boy; but Tengelyi interfered, and asked how the child could have set the prison on fire.

"That boy! There never was such a boy! He used to ask me by the hour for my steel and flint; and when he once had it, there was no getting it away from him. He would strike fire, and when he made the sparks fly he laughed and screamed like mad. And one night he prigged a piece of tinder and lighted it, and put it in the old cove's straw."

"Pull his ears for him, Pishta!" cried the old man. Even Tengelyi's interference would not have saved the lad from being beaten, had not the appearance of the turnkey, with some bottles of wine and brandy, engaged the attention of the prisoners.

"Give us the brandy, Imri; and I say, Pishta, take a bottle and let that nasty toad alone, since the man who treats us wishes to protect him. Let him stare at the flame to the end of time; only look sharp that he doesn't claw your tinder. Will you not take a drop, sir?" added the old man, addressing Tengelyi. The notary's refusal astonished him quite as much as the cleanliness and neatness of his dress and appearance.

"If you don't care, I'm sure _I_ don't!" said he; and, turning to his comrades, he added, in a whisper: "Leave him alone, for after all he pays for our brandy. To-morrow morning we'll make him send for some more. He's our cellar, you know! Drink, Imri, my boy! Stick to the brandy. You look rather queer about the eyes; but never mind, you'll get used to it, and you're a whapper for all that."

Thanks to the old man's calculations on his future generosity, Tengelyi was left to his reflections. The prison presented a scene of uproarious hilarity, which, at length subsiding, gave place to the deep and heavy breathing of its drunken inmates, when the door again opened and admitted a man, who, laying a mattress, a pillow, and a blanket at Tengelyi's feet, introduced himself as Gatzi the Vagabond, a former inmate of the cell, though at present a kitchen prisoner[29] of the recorder's. Having thus informed Mr. Tengelyi of his state and station, both in the world and in the prison of Dustbury, he produced a small basket with eatables, adding that they were sent by Mr. Volgyeshy, who wished the notary to be patient, for that he was sure to have his own private room next day. "And," added Gatzi, "I'll make you a bed fit for a king to sleep on. I've just made the recorder's bed, and he is particular, you know."

[Footnote 29: See Note I.]

Tengelyi, who had not broken his fast since the previous day, took some meat and bread, and invited the new comer to fall to.

"Thank you!" said Gatzi the Vagabond. "I've eaten as much as I can eat.

The recorder had no end of things for supper. I waited at table, and minded my own business, I can a.s.sure you. But you don't take any wine! I hope it's good; and it's I myself fetched it at the inn, and the landlord knows he can't do me, for if he did I'd go to the Lion next time, that's all."

"Try it!" said Tengelyi. "As for me, I do not mean to take any."

"I humbly thank you!" said the prisoner, seizing the bottle. "Ah, well-a-day, what wine! Bless me, if you'd give me such wine every day, I'd never wish to leave this place."

"It strikes me you are pretty well reconciled to your captivity."

"Oh I'm far more comfortable than I might be. I've been a servant ever since I was a boy; and now I'm a kitchen-prisoner. Dear me! there's no difference between the two; and when the weather's bad, and I sit by the kitchen-fire thinking how they used to set me to work, both in winter and in summer, it strikes me that I'm better off than I ever was. I've got plenty to eat, a warm jacket, and a few kreutzers now and then for an extra service. The haiduks don't bully me--in short, it's the very place for a poor fellow like myself."

"But what of liberty? Would you not like to be free and unfettered?"

"These chains of mine _are_ troublesome; yes, so they are, especially when I've to change my boots. You can't believe how awkward they are at times, though they are lighter than any in the place. But, after all, who knows when they take them off but that I must carry heavier loads to gain my bread? And as for liberty, why you see, sir, in fine weather, in a starry night, I think it would be a nice thing indeed to be racing over the heath with my fellows; but, after all, liberty's very uncomfortable: a man must work for his bread, you know."

The notary sighed.

"Cheer up, sir!" said the Vagabond, in happy unconsciousness of the real cause of the notary's sigh. "Cheer up, sir! To-morrow you'll have your own room; and since Mr. Volgyeshy's your lawyer, I am sure you'll get through the business, however ugly it may be. The devil himself could not live in this hole among a parcel of blackguards! Would you believe it, sir? there isn't a respectable man among the lot!"

"Society's none of the best in the other cells, I dare say," responded the notary, as he settled down for the night.

"Oh, but it is! It was quite a pleasure to be in the cell I once lived in. They were all men of substance, I a.s.sure you, sir, and mighty fine stories they told. There was no end of good stories. There was a woman, too--but this is a place to despair in."

"Then, I presume, this is not your own cell?"

"By no means!" said Gatzi the Vagabond, with great pride. "I'm in the habit of sleeping in the recorder's kitchen, or in the yard, and I've only come down here because Mr. Volgyeshy told me to watch lest something might happen to you, sir."

"What can he mean?"