Hardly three months after I had taken a tender and affectionate farewell from my Uncle Dion a newspaper item informed me of his death. My prediction that a fit of indigestion would prove fatal to him had come true. His confidence in St. John of Nepomuc had been greater than his prudence, and it was a mercy that the stroke of apoplexy had killed him outright, instead of making a living corpse of him, as is so often the case.

About a fortnight after I had read of the death of the celebrated Slav King, I received a package by mail, containing an official and a private letter. The official letter informed me that the Honourable Dionysius Dumany had recorded a last will and testament in the county archives, in which last will and testament he nominated me, Dr. Kornel Dumany, as his sole heir, upon condition that I should take possession of the property and live in Dumany Castle. But if I should stubbornly refuse to fulfil that condition, lands, goods, and chattels should forthwith pass over to the "Maticza" (Slavic and ecclesiastical literary fund, employed for Panslavonic ends).

The private letter came from the Governor of the county, and referred to the same subject. The Governor declared that it was my unmistakable duty, as a Dumany and a son of Hungary, to take possession of the home of my ancestors, and not to allow such an anti-patriotic and dangerous institution as the "Maticza" to do her a mischief on the strength of Hungarian funds, and to turn the ancient halls of my patriotic forefathers into a meeting-place of daring conspirators.

I shrugged my shoulders, but had not the faintest notion of accepting. I did not care for politics, and knew of the "Maticza" as a purely Slavonic literary society. If this society was to hold future meetings in my uncle's museums, I could bear it; there was very little of Chauvinism or even patriotism left in me. I was rather cosmopolitan in tendency; and as to giving up my profession and becoming a country squire, that was simply ridiculous.

This happened to be the very period when, after years of degradation and suffering, the Hungarian national spirit was first allowed to lift its head and show its colours. Germans and Bohemians, who for many years had filled all the public offices in Hungary, were compelled either to learn the Hungarian language or surrender their places to natives. In most cases the latter was unavoidable, and these aliens, furious at being driven from their prescriptive sinecures, went up to Vienna and did their best to make it hot for the Hungarians. As every war has its origin in an inkstand, students are, naturally, the greatest Chauvinists, and I was to find that out with a vengeance. All my friends and colleagues became more and more averse to me, and even went so far as to take my patients from me by incensing them against me in every possible manner. Soon they began to drag my name into professional polemics, into professional newspapers; and when I had defeated and silenced them in one place, they began to annoy me in another. At home, in Hungary, the reorganisation of the counties was begun. For twenty years constitutional life in Hungary had been extinct, and now it had to be resuscitated. This was a hard task, and at first it was not even known who were entitled to vote at the meetings.

And now I received another letter from the Governor, again reminding me of my duty, clearly describing the situation of affairs, and telling me how much good every honest and right-minded man could effect, and how much mischief I should be able to prevent. "But," he closed, "if you stubbornly and positively adhere to your unpatriotic resolution, and finally decline to accept your deceased uncle's legacy, I must trouble you to come down in person and give a definite renunciation, with the necessary affidavit, such being your uncle's strict demand."

There was no help. I had to go to get rid of the annoyance. Arriving at the county seat, I paid my respects to the Vice-Governor, the same dignitary to whom I had given the letter which my uncle had entrusted to my care, and which, as I now learned, proved to be the very will in question. I announced my firm resolution to adhere to my principles, and the magistrate replied that that was all right, but before we talked further on the subject, I had better go to the county meeting, which was to be held that day.

"But what right have I to be there?" I asked.

"Why, as the present head of the ancient Dumany family, of course," was the reply. "There is not one of us provided with a better claim."

So I let myself be persuaded, and went. The great Hall of Meetings was crowded to suffocation, and among the local celebrities I recognised a few of those compatriots who had kindly assisted my poor father to get rid of his money by feeding them and keeping their pockets full. There were others who were quite young men, old schoolfellows of mine; somewhat bad students at the time, but, since Providence had furnished them with strong voices, they had taken advantage of the gift so as to make a noise in the world, and played the rÔle of leading partisans. One of them in particular, a good-for-nothing sort of fellow who had never come near his degree in any school, was recognised as a bright particular star, and quite too smart for anything. If I remember rightly, he was the head of the Radical wing.

After much deliberation and a good deal of talk, of which I did not comprehend anything, it was decided to read the names of the present county members. A long list was handed to an official, who was instructed to pronounce each name clearly; and each name, as it was read, was followed by a loud cheer "Éljen!" All at once there came, instead of the "Éljen!" after one of the names, the unanimous shout "Dead!" and the person named had to rise from his seat and leave the room, and his name was erased from the list. This was repeated a number of times, and behind me stood a Slav nobleman, who after each of these utterances of "Dead," added the Slavonic word "Smrt"[2]—a beautiful word, as bony as the spectre "death" itself.

There was a priest, with a broad red sash, who made himself especially obnoxious to me; for, as often as the "dead" sentence was pronounced, he laughed, and pointed conspicuously with his fat fingers at the expelled man, who, with bent head, made his way to the door. I inquired the reason of these demonstrations, and was told that these men were traitors, who had filled offices under the absolutist government of the Austrians.

Immediately after one of these shouts of "Dead," an old gentleman who sat just in front of me, and of whom I had up to this moment seen nothing but his bald head, which showed an immense scar, evidently an old sword-cut, got up from his seat at the green-covered table, and as he turned I beheld an aged and careworn but honest face, with two big tears slowly rolling down the furrowed cheeks. "That is for the seven wounds I received at Nagy SarlÓ!" said he, with choking voice; and raising his trembling hand to his eyes, he moved away.

"Seven children the poor fellow has at home, and he had to earn daily bread for them, somehow, so he served as surveyor, and that was his treachery," said one of my neighbours in an undertone. As the banished man passed out, I sat down on the seat he quitted. "It is ill luck to sit in a traitor's chair," said a well-meaning man at my elbow; but I smiled and kept my seat.

"Who may that smooth-faced stranger be? and how comes it that he is here?" I heard some of the bystanders ask, referring, of course, to my clean-shaven visage. Nobody in the whole congregation knew or recognised me, except the Vice-Governor, and the fellow-student of whom I have spoken. But, of course, he kept at a distance. Presently my own name, "Dumany Kornel," was pronounced, and "Dead! Dead! Smrt!" was the shout of all around. I had caught the infection, and as the red-sashed priest smilingly and playfully raised a threatening fat finger at me and said, "He is turned into a German, an Austrian," down came my fist upon the green cloth of the table. Philosophy, sang-froid, and political indifference were blown to the winds, carrying forethought and resolution with them. I jumped up, pushed the chair away from behind me, and shouted—

"He is not dead! He is here! And what is more, here he shall stay! I am a landed gentleman, as well as the best of you, and as pure a Hungarian as any in this meeting, or in this country either. I am that Dumany Kornel whose name has been read, and I am not dead, but alive, as you shall soon find out!"

There was a dead silence at these words, and some heads were nodded in acknowledgment that I was right. Then there was a whispering and consulting and questioning, until the honourable Vice-Governor said, "Silence, gentlemen! the honourable Dumany Kornel has the floor upon a personal question."

"Hear! hear!" shouted all, some in good earnest, some in order to embarrass me, and the red-sashed parson said, maliciously, "If you are a Hungarian, sir, as you claim, where is your moustache?"

"Out hunting for yours, your reverence," said I, with a grin.

"I am a priest!" was the haughty reply; but that was just what I expected, and looking around at the portraits upon the walls of the room, portraits representing the most celebrated heroes of our national history, I gave them then and there such a barbological sermon, ex tripode, that they listened to me in mute astonishment. I told them that the great national high-priests and patriots, Peter PÁzmÁny, Prince Cardinal EsterhÁzy, and Thomas BakÁcs, there portrayed, had worn moustaches, although they were priests; whereas Mathias Corvinus, our glorious, never-to-be-forgotten hero-king, wore a clean-shaven face like mine. The famous Palatinus IllÉshÁzy had pronounced Hungary free and independent with smooth hairless lips, and Thomas NÁdasdy had carried the Hungarian tricolour to immortal triumphs although his face was as beardless as mine, as everybody might see by his portrait there present. I told them that I did not speak for myself, as I did not care a straw for their opinion, and felt sufficiently strong in my own self-respect and clear conscience, which, perhaps, was more than a good many present could say of themselves. But I was not going to look on when patriotism was made the monopoly of certain people, whereas decent and deserving men were hooted at because they had dared to earn their own bread and that of their family, instead of living upon the bounty of friends and driving them to ruin and death. And then I told them that it was not a time to inaugurate a policy of jealousy and persecution. We had had enough of that under the absolutist government; what we wanted was honest, energetic co-operation for a common purpose, the welfare of country and nation.

I had spoken with all the bravery of a simpleton, who has no idea that if he throws a glowing tinder into a barrel of gunpowder he may blow the house up and himself also. For some seconds I ran the risk of being thrown out of doors, or of getting my hands full of private quarrels and duels, but the concluding sentences met with such unanimous applause that I was heartily congratulated on the success of my maiden speech, and had the additional satisfaction of seeing the majority of those formerly pronounced "dead" restored to the list again, and I was able to give back the seat which I occupied to its former owner, the old gentleman with the seven scars and as many children.

Among those who had congratulated me was one conspicuously handsome and distinguished-looking young man. He fairly embraced me, and said, "You are the man we wanted! Let me welcome you, and consider me your friend; I am Count VernÖczy. Siegfried VernÖczy is my name!"

The Vice-Governor invited me to dinner, and just as we were pushing our way out of the hall, I heard the red-sashed priest and the Slav nobleman, who had always added his "Smrt" to the cry of "Dead!" speaking together in Slav, of which language they supposed me ignorant. The nobleman said to the priest—

"What folly it was of you to vex and excite this blockhead by pronouncing him dead! Had you left him alone, he would have gone off, and left the Maticza in possession of the old miser's fortune. Now we may go and hunt for other fools; this one has escaped us for ever."

"Well, how could I know that the milksop had turned into a fighting bull?" was the reply.

The reverend gentleman was wrong. I was not a bull, but an ox; and a moment's excitement had made me give up fame and ambition, profession and independence, and here I was in the kingdom of Swatopluk, taking possession of my Uncle Diogenes's legacy. It was very foolish, but if I had to do it again—why, I should do it. I was a Hungarian and a Dumany, in spite of my cosmopolitan tendencies and in spite of modern equality.