Читать книгу Pretty Michal - Mór Jókai - Страница 9

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Contains the proper explanation of things which have hitherto remained obscure.

So his father is the vihodar of Zeb, the headsman, the man who works in blood, not the blood of sheep and oxen, but the blood of men!

This is his house, his territory.

His house is shut out from the town, the boundary of his dominion is the gallows.

Those stakes by the wayside with wheels fastened to them are his mile-posts. The robber bands are his ripe wheat, which he mows down with his sword and harrows with his wheel.

He is the judge of final appeal before whom all criminals must appear—truly a great and distinguished personage. People make haste to get out of his way whenever he walks the streets, and salute him by drawing their caps over their eyes whenever he passes by. His sway extends from the sixteen towns of Zips as far as Kassa, and letters patent from the Emperor and the King of Poland give him the right to kill and torture.

Michal spoke not a word, but closed her eyes and lay back in the sledge.

The sledge, on quitting the boggy ground and reaching the level turf, again had a smooth course before it where some progress could be made. Here Henry again mounted. Simplex and the driver also took their places on the box-seat. The horses shied at the gallows, and galloped off with the sledge as if they had broken loose altogether. The driver cried piteously, as if he were being led to execution.

"Don't disturb yourself, countryman," cried Simplex consolingly, "at home the headsman is a great personage. He regales his guests with good pottage, new milk, and old tokay. Dine with him but once, and you'll have something to talk of for the rest of your life. I know him. He is a good and honest man. I played to his singing once, and he filled my cap with thalers."

"It is indeed a dreadful house," whispered Henry in Michal's ear, "and the master of that house is an object of terror. It is an awful thing to sleep in that house, and a still more awful thing it is to speak face to face with its grim master, although I say it who am his son. Listen, and do not abhor me. Horror drove me thence in my early boyhood; I fled; my father's business filled me with loathing. I wanted to live in the world, beloved and respected by my fellow-men. I departed into a strange land; I was determined they should never hear of me again at home. Begging my way along, I hardly earned my daily bread; I suffered cold and hunger; I went about in the rags which the hand of charity bestowed upon me; I became a scholar and a slave; I learned to practice obedience and humility; in all the world I found but a single benefactor, who took me in, instructed, educated, and ennobled me; and by subtlety I've robbed this single benefactor of his most precious treasure, his only daughter. I told him not who my father was; had I told him, he would not have given me his daughter. No one knows the family name of my father; his grandfather dwelt in this very house, he took over this ghastly office from his predecessor, and this predecessor was called the vihodar. It was a name the people gave him, and so, from generation to generation, the dweller in this house has been called; but my father has not forgotten his family name, and he knows that there is one other man in the world besides himself who bears that name. Old Catsrider is a very rich man. He has pocketed many gold pieces and has hoarded them up. Why, indeed, should a hangman spend his money, or on what? In amusements? He has no time for such things. In pomp or display? He cannot acquire property. But I have not come hither because I covet his treasures; not on that account have I brought you to the door of this sad house, no, but because I deceived your father in giving out that my own father was a Catholic. That is not true; he is a Protestant. Our canons are very stringent. A marriage solemnized without the consent of the parents on both sides is invalid. I dare not run the risk of one day seeing the hangman enter the church, tug me by my surplice and say: 'I, Christian Catsrider, tear you, my son, down from this holy place, because you are living in illicit union with a woman who is not your wife.'

"I must obtain the consent of my father to our marriage, or else you and I are dishonored and our marriage is void. Do you understand now?"

At this question the young woman sprang to her feet and for an instant she was seized with the desire of springing out of this infernal vehicle as it flew along the dry grass, and flying, flying, flying, till some bottomless abyss swallowed her up; but the next moment she submitted to her fate, bowed her head, hid her hands beneath her mantle, and said:

"I will be obedient!"

"My great love for you was the cause of my crime. Will you hate me for it?"

It was with a very low voice that the young wife replied:

"I will be gentle."

"This humiliation will only last for a night," said the husband encouragingly. "Early to-morrow morning we will go on our way. No one will ever find out who was the father of the pastor of Great Leta. We will live in peace and honor and walk in the way of the Lord."

"Amen!" answered the wife, but she heaved a great sigh.

Meanwhile the sledge had arrived in front of the lonely house.