They Were Divided - Miklos Banffy [138]
‘Death! Death! Death to the horrid criminal!’ cried the guests on the terrace; and from down below, amid guffaws of laughter, the crowd echoed, ‘Death!’
‘And so, you horrible scoundrel, you see your last hour has come. But, so that no one can say you had no chance to defend yourself, I now invite you to offer your excuses. If you have anything to say, speak now!’
Pityu’s manner of shouting at the accused was so stern and convincing that everyone was struck dumb and waited expectantly for the jug to reply. They listened in vain.
Then Pityu spoke again. ‘Nothing to say? All right. Then I will proceed to sentence. Brandy is hereby condemned to death by firing squad for the manifold crimes he has committed against honest Peter Kendy, who from henceforth will only drink wine!’
Great jubilation. Cheers, hand-clapping, hats thrown in the air and another flourish from the gypsy bands. Then above the hubbub came another shout from Pityu:
‘To the scaffold with him!’
A procession formed up. First went the gypsy band from the village, immediately followed by Pityu’s footman and valet pushing a small cart in which they had placed the condemned Brandy on a bed of straw. On each side walked the young Laczoks with drawn sabres and behind it, proudly erect, stalked Pityu, who in turn was followed by the chief guests, the gypsy band from the county town and the older generation of farmers. The boys and children ran forwards on both sides, eager to be first at the place of execution.
The procession rounded the house to the strains of a funeral march, and then wended its way up the sloping garden until it reached a giant oak-tree standing close to the surrounding wall. This was the appointed place.
The music stopped and the jug was lifted up and placed against the tree-trunk. The spectators formed a semi-circle with the two Laczoks at each end. Pityu stepped forward until he was about five paces away from the condemned. Then he took out his revolved, released the safety-catch, and called out, ‘Now I shall send your guilty soul to Hell!’
Uncle Ambrus, who, the older he got, liked less and less for anyone else to steal the limelight, tried to spoil the effect by muttering, ‘What rubbish! How can a jug have a soul?’
Pityu laughed back, ‘But it can … the spirit of cherries!’ and fired straight at the wooden jug.
The force of the bullet made the jug wobble twice on its little wooden legs before falling forwards on its belly. From beneath it spread streams of red liquid which collected in little puddles between the massive roots of the old tree.
Everyone now crowded round Pityu, cheering and applauding him while the gypsy band struck up the well-known aria ‘The intriguer is no more!’ from the opera Laszlo Hunyady. Old Daniel Kendy, oblivious of everything else, shuffled up to the toppled wooden jug, crouched down slowly and painfully and dipped his fingers in the spreading crimson stream. Then he licked his fingers twice and, with the air of a great connoisseur, said quietly to himself:
‘Kirsch! Kirsch! Quel dommage – what a pity! Such a noble kirsch!’
Accompanied by the town band, who were now playing a selection of joyful tunes, the guests walked slowly back to the house and crowded once more into the big dining-room. The villagers were taken round to the farmyard by the estate overseer and his assistants and there they found meat roasting on spits and cauldrons bubbling away. The local gypsies struck up and soon all the younger people were dancing. Wine flowed from a barrel that had been tapped in the entrance to the barn and they could all knock back as much as they