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2 3/2:?/ /5^ 30^
HARVARD
COLLEGE
LIBRARY
\
A Son of the People,
A Romance of the Hungarian Plains
By the
Baroness Orczy
Author of « The Scarlet Pimperael,** etc.
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
Zb€ ftnicfietbocfiet pte00
1906 .
Z21 :i.^. IS. ^00
COLLEBE
Copyright, 1906
3Y
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Ube fcnfcltettoclta: preea, l^ew Sotk
TO MY HUSBAND
Contents
PART I.
CHAPTXB. FAOB
I.— A VnxAGE IN THB Lowlands ... 3
IL — A Popular FavoumW 13
in.— Pridk o]? Race 18
IV.— The Money-lender 26
v.— An Old Miser 39
VI.— The Tenant o» KiS]?ALU .... 54
VII.— Principal AND Interest .... 60
vni.— First Arrivals 71
IX.— BEAUn^UL ILONKA 8o
X.— A Love Idyll ....... 91
XI.— The Gathering Storm 100
XII.— Lord AND Peasant 114
xm.— Vengeance . . • . • • .125
xrv.— Calamity 134
XV.— Reparation 150
V
•A.
vi Contents
PART IL
CHAPTER PAOR
XVI.— Easter Morn 165
XVII. — The Ruined Lord 179
XVIII.— ROSENSTEIN, THE JEW 191
XIX.— A Son oif THE Peopi^ 206
XX.— The Answer • • 220
XXI.— The Nobi^ Lady 224
XXIL— A Dream 231
XXIIL— How THE News was Received . . . 234
XXrv.— The Marriage 248
XXV.— Fata Morgana 260
XXVI.— The Peasant's Wife 263
XXVIL— The iRREPARABiA 270
PART IIL
xxvni.— Love Lies Bleeding 287
XXIX.— Honour thy Father and thy Mother . 300
XXX.— The Grave OF Love 315
[. — Love Triumphant 324
£fiix)Gue 339
A SON OF THE PEOPLE
PART I
A Son of the People
CHAPTER I
A VILI^GB IN THB LOWLANDS
Do you love the mountains, English reader ? the ro-
mantic peaks of the Rhine country, the poetic heights
of the Alps, the more gently undulating slopes of your
own South Downs ? As for me, I must confess to an
absorbing, a passionate fondness for the lowlands, the
wild, mysterious plains of Hungary, that lie, deep
down, between the Danube and the Theisz, and, when-
ever I stand on those vast pusztas,^ it always seems to
me that the mind must be more free, when the gaze can
wander untrammelled to that far-distant horizon, which
fancy can people at its own sweet will.
See how far away that horizon seems, there, where
earth and sky meet in a soft- toned line of purple, the
merging of the blue sky with the ruddy, sandy soil of
the earth. The air trembles with the intense heat, and
as the eye tries to define what lies beyond that mysteri-
ous vastness, lo ! there suddenly rises on the distant
horizon a vision of towers, minarets, and steeples, white
and cool-looking, mirrored in some fairy pond that
> The pusztas are the vast sandy plains in the lowlands of
Hnngary.
3
4 A Son of the People
mttst lie, somewhere — there — beyond where the
eye can reach. Fondly it rests on the mystic, elusive
picture, thrown on the blue canvas by the fairy
hand of the fitful Fata Morgana; entranced, fancy
pictures those towers and minarets, peopled with be-
ings of some other world, half earthly, half heavenly,
who have found birth in that immeasurable distance,
which begins where vision ends. Blinded, the eye
closes for one moment, as a respite from the golden
vision, and lo! when it gazes again, towers and minarets
have disappeared, and, far away, only a few melan-
choly weeping willows or a cluster of slender poplars
break the even purple line of the skies. Fondly then,
fancy dwells on its dreams, and hardly now dares to
call real that distant, muffled sound, the gallop of a
hundred hoofs, falling on the soft, dry earth. Perhaps
it is a fairy sound, and that herd of wild horses, thun-
dering past, their manes shaking, their tails lashing,
are some fairy beasts belonging to the ghouls who
dwell in Fata Morgana' s distant minarets. Yet the
sound is real enough; wildly the horses gallop past, fol-
lowed by the csikSs (herdsman) on his bare-backed
mare, his white lawn shirt flying out like wings, as he
passes, and cracking his lasso, as he drives his herd
before him. For a moment all seems life upon the
plain, for to the right and to the left the wild fowl rise
affrighted overhead, and, on the grotmd, bright-
coloured lizards rush nervously to and fro. Then the
gallop dies away in the distance, the herdsman's whip
has ceased to crack, the birds have gone to rest, and
the mind is left wondering whether this bit of tumult-
uous life was not another day-dream, painted, and then
erased by fancy.
Silence reigns again: a silence rendered absolute
A Village in the Lowlands 5
through the drowsiness of all animal life, in the heat
of the noonday sun. To the right and left, limitless
fields of watermelons turn their huge, emerald-green
carcases towards the burning sun; beyond them, the
golden sea of wheat, the waving plumes of maize,
tremble and nod at every passing breeze, whilst, from
everywhere, the sweet-scented rosemary throws a note
of cool grey-green on the glowing colours of the soil.
Far, very far away, a windmill stretches out its long
wings, like a gigantic bird of prey, and right across the
plain, the high-road, riddled with ruts, wanders north-
wards, towards Kecskem6t. And that is all! Nothing
more. Only sky, and earth, and vastness — immeasur-
able vastness — all one's own: to grasp, to understand,
to love!
• ••...•
Midway between the two prosperous provincial towns
of Kecskemet and Gyongyos, on the very confines of
the great N&dasdy plain, nestles the tiny village of
Arokszdll&s, with its few thatched cottages, and its old
mediaeval church, cool and grey-looking, in the glare
of the noonday sun. Near it, the presbytery, painted
a brilliant yellow, with vivid emerald-green shutters,
and surrounded by a small garden, where, amidst tall
hollyhocks and fragrant mignonette, on hot summer
afternoons, worthy old Pater Ambrosius wanders in
his threadbare, well-worn cassock, telling his beads in
a drowsy voice.
Then, there is the small csdrda (wayside inn), with
its thatched roof all on one side, for all the world like
a tipsy peasant's hat, where, in the cool of the even-
ings, after the work is done, the herdsmen from the
plain meet their friends from the village and smoke
their pipes underneath the overhanging willow tree,
6 A Son of the People
to the tune of a primitive gipsy band with their sweet-
sounding fiddles and droning bag-pipe.
Then, if the innkeeper be not within sight, and
his pretty young wife ready for a bit of flirtation
and gossip, the latest eccentricities of the lord of
Bideskiit are discussed over a draught of good red
wine.
What the peasantry of the county of Heves gos-
siped about before my lord started his craze for ma-
chinery and building, must certainly remain a puzzle;
for since the remarkable contrivances of wood and iron,
which reap the com and bind it into sheaves without
help of human hand, had first been established at
Bideskdt, they had remained the one all-absorbing
topic of conversation.
The Hungarian peasant of the dlfbld (lowland) is an
easy-going, \azy, cheerful, and usually good-tempered
individual, well content with the numerous gifts God
grants him in this land of plenty; but, in the matter
of my lord's agricultural innovations, tempers had be-
gun to run high, and, in spite of the fact that Kem^ny
Andrds, the most popular, as he was the most wealthy
peasant farmer in the county, had refused to counte-
nance such proceedings, nightly meetings were held at
the inn, wherein universal condemnation was expressed
of my lord and his misdoings.
Vas Berczi, who had once travelled on. a railway be-
tween Kecskem6t and Gyongyos, and had arrived
home again safe and sound, and who in consequence,
was looked upon as an oracle, second only to Kem6ny
Andrds himself, had brought his rough brown fist with
a crash upon the table; and, having expectorated on
the ground with every sign of superstitious horror,
had emphatically declared that it was impossible to
A Village in the Lowlands 7
grind com into flour without touch of miller's hand,
unless Satan himself did the work.
" But you don't mean to say, Berczi/* said a young
peasant, his bronzed cheek quite pale with terror,
" that that is what my lord is going to do inside the
building?-
Berczi nodded.
" I tell you, my children, that I have it from Jank6
himself, my lord's valet, that, inside that building,
which may God annihilate before it is put to such
sacrilegious use, the com of Bideskiit will all be
ground into flour, and never hand of man touch it ! "
There was dead silence for a few moments; even the
gipsies ceased to play: they were staring, horror-
struck, at the wise bearer of these extraordinary tidings.
** Then, maybe, Jank6 also told you to what use the
monstrous chimney would be put ? " hazarded a timid
voice at last.
" Jank6 must be a liar," decided the village oracle,
sententiously, '' or else a fool. What do you think he
said about that chimney ? "
No one could conjecture; they all shook their heads
sadly, filled with awe. Berczi waited, as a true orator
should, preparing for a great effect, then he leaned for-
ward on the rough, wooden table and signed to those
around to come nearer. There were certain things
which could only be mentioned in whispers.
" Jank6 declares that the huge fire, for which that
monstrously tall chimney has been built, is required
in order to set a certain machine — he called it — in
motion, which is to grind the com into flour. Jank6 is
a liar ! " he repeated, but this time with less emphasis
and with an anxious look around, altogether un-
worthy of the wisest man in Arokszdll&s. But all
8 A Son of the People
cheeks had become very pale, and no one dared to
formulate the thoughts, which were running riot in
the stolid, superstitious peasant minds.
** I don't like it at all,'* said a young herdsman at
last, as, with a trembling hand, he raised a jug of wine
to his lips.
**Who but the devil can find use for a fire big
enough to fill that tall chimney with smoke ? "
** Evil will come, sooner or later, my children ! "
concluded the village oracle, solemnly.
** And, in the meanwhile,'* said a swarthy giant,
with great, brown elbows resting on the table, '* it is a
fact that, while the work in the fields is to be done by
Satan and his agency, our lads are to remain idle and
take to drink for want of honest toil ? "
It looks uncommonly like it."
And what is to become of us ? Who will pay us
wage ? How are we going to live ? "
*'How, indeed!"
** The lord of Bidesktit has made a compact with the
devil," thundered the giant. ** How do we know,
that when our bodies are starved to death, he has not
arranged to deliver up our souls to his friend Satan ? "
Hastily the young men crossed themselves, and their
eyes, dark and full of terror, wandered superstitiously
round. The quiet little village street lay peaceful and
calm in the gathering shades of evening. Behind
them, through the open door of the inn, could be heard
the voice of the busy hostess, singing some quaint and
sweet ditty, as she busied herself with tidying up the
parlour and kitchen, after the day's work. Overhead
the cool, grey-green weeping willow softly sighed in the
gentle summer breeze. Nothing surely to disturb the
happy quietude of these simple peasant minds, and yet,
A Village in the Lowlands 9
supeistititous terror seemed to lurk in every comer, and
the eyes of none dared wander beyond the village to-
wards the horizon, where, on ahead, a large building
with its tall chimney could still be seen dimly outlined
in the west
" I am for asking Pater Ambrosius to say a special
Mass to keep the devil away,** suggested a young
herdsman at last.
** The Pater promised me he would bless plenty of
holy water next Sunday; we shall want it in our
homes,*' said Vas Berczi, with a feeble attempt at
consolation.
** There is nothing the devil hates like holy water,
I am told,** whispered the giant.
'' We might ask Pater Ambrosius to sprinkle the en-
tire building with holy water,** suggested one of the
men.
** Would it not be better if the Pater blessed the next
rainfall, so that it should rain holy water down that
chimney and put out the fire the devil has lighted ? **
"There was no rain last St. S within* s day,** said
Berczi, who was of a decidedly pessimistic turn of
mind ; * * we shall get none for at least another ten days. * *
** Time enough for the devil to settle down in the
village, and then, not the Archbishop, not the Pope in
Rome, himself, can drive him out again.**
•*I say, we are all a set of cowards,** said the swarthy
giant, suddenly jumping to his feet and pointing a
huge, muscular fist towards the west. ** We have al-
lowed my lord to enter into compact with the devil, we
have stood idly by, while brick upon brick was piled
up to construct a palace for Satan. Now, we are told
that on the day after to-morrow, all the devils in hell
will be at work in that mill of Lucifer, that, on the day
lo A Son of the People
after to-morrow, the beautiful com of Bidesktit will be
ground into flour, through no other help but that of a
huge fire and a monstrous chimney, and some contriv-
ance made of iron which I could not forge on my anvil,
though I have done some pretty tough smith's work in
my day: and do you mean to tell me, mates, that we
are going to stand by and look on while the bread is
being taken out of our mouths and our souls delivered
over to the enemy of man ? "
** No, no ! — ^Well spoken, Sdndor the smith ! — We
will not stand it!" was the universal chorus of ap-
probation, whilst Berczi, who did not approve of any
one's talk save his own, shrugged his shoulders in con-
tempt. ** We should be cowards if we put up with it.' *
The giant's peroration had helped to rouse the sink-
ing spirits. There was a general cry to the gipsies to
strike up, and the czigdny (gipsy), seeing the more
lively temper of the company, attacked with renewed
vigour an inspiriting Magyar tune.
** Here, Lotti ! more wine ! quick ! " shouted one or
two of the older men, while the others filled fresh pipes
preparatory to listening more attentively to Sdndor the
smith's vigorous diction.
After a few minutes, out came the pretty hostess,
with two or three bottles and jugs in her plump hands,
and showing a row of snow-white teetli in a merry
smile.
She was wonderfully agile in avoiding the venture-
some arms stretched out to catch her slim waist, and as
soon as she had put jugs and bottles down, she admin-
istered one or two vigorous corrections on the cheeks
of the more foolhardy of her admirers.
** What are you all making such a noise about all of
a sudden?" she said, with a toss of her tiny dark
A Village in the Lowlands 1 1
head. ** I thought you were up to some mischief, you
were so quiet just now ! **
** Great things are happening, I/Otti, my soul,** said
the smith, with the importance befitting his newly-
found popularity. ** We have important things to dis-
cuss which are not fit for women's ears to hear.'*
IrOtti looked at him while fun sparkled out of her
bright, dark eyes; she shrugged her plump shoulders
and said with a merry laugh:
** Dear me! dear me, Sdndor ! how big we talk, now
that Kem6ny Andrds * does not happen to be here. I
know what you are all concocting though I pretend I
do not hear. You know Andrds won't allow you to
say disrespectful things about my lord, or to brew mis-
chief against him, and so you wait till you know he is
well out of sight, and hatch all sorts of wickedness be-
hind his back. But, I tell you, he is not so far as you
all think. He will catch you at your tricks never fear,
and then — you know he has a devil of a temper all his
own ! "
** And I have a devil of a temper too, my pretty
Lotti," retorted the giant laughing, ** and you are very
venturesome to have roused the anger of Sdndor the
smith. Do you think we are so many children, afraid
of Andrds as of a schoolmaster ? You shall kiss me
for that piece of impudence, Lotti; ay ! you shall kiss
me three times, which will make your lord and master
so jealous that he will break his new stick across your
plump shoulders. And then, who will be frightened ?
Eh, my pretty one?"
And with true Hungarian light-heartedness, the
swarthy giant, forgetting the devil and his works, the
>In Hungarian the surname always precedes the Christian
name.
1 2 A Son of the People
lord of Bideskiit and his steam-mills, proceeded with a
merry laugh to chase the pretty woman round the
table; while the young herdsmen, delighted with the
scene — which was much more in accordance with their
lazy, sunny dispositions than talks of devil or plots
against my lord — took part, some for the smith, some
for I/Otti, by placing an obstructive arm either in her
way or in that of her pursuer, while the bronzed mu-
sicians played a merry csdrdds,^ and the village echoed
with gaiety and noise.
> The national Hungarian dance.
^ CHAPTER II
A POPULAR PAVOURIT]^
Hot, panting, and excited, the pretty hostess ran
round and round the table under the willow tree,
closely pressed by Sdndor the smith, who, however,
had previously drunk a little too much of the good
wine for which the county of Heves is famous, to be
steady enough on his legs for a successful pursuit.
She had paused on one side of the table, holding
both her hands against her heart, which was beating
very hard, with the madcap race and the laughter.
Sdndor the smith had paused on the opposite side, both
antagonists eyeing one another ready for a spring; the
young peasants were laying wagers for or against the
combatants, and encouraging both to resume the fight,
when suddenly — without any warning — two strong
arms closed round pretty Lotti's waist, from behind,
and two loud kisses were imprinted on both her dimpled
cheeks, while a laughing voice shouted across to the
giant:
"You went to work the wrong way, my friend
Sdndor. This is the way to do it, is it not, Lotti ? "
And while she struggled, the new-comer succeeded
in stealing one or two more kisses from the pretty
woman, then he lifted her bodily off her feet, and car-
ried her to her own door, and having placed her in
safety within the parlour he shut the door, and turned
13
14 A Son of the People
with a merry laugh towards the smith, who had borne
his discomfiture with a good-humoured growl.
" Have a bottle of wine with me, Sdndor, to com-
pensate you for that lost kiss. Lotti, my pigeon," he
shouted, rapping at the door, '' as soon as your little
heart has ceased to beat quite so fast, bring out ^me
more wine, enough to go round. And you, czigdny^
let us have the liveliest tune you can play, while we
all drink to good fellowship, to pretty women, and to
our beloved Magyar country, which may God bless
and protect ! **
There was no resisting the young peasant's cheerful
voice and contagious laugh. Very soon Lotti reap-
peared, pouting but tidy, with half a dozen fresh bottles
which she placed on the table, taking care to give her
burly antagonist a wide berth.
** Are you so very angry with Sdndor, Lotti ? " asked
the new-comer, with a smile; ** why, he only wanted to
kiss you, and surely you have allowed him to do that,
before now, without so much fuss."
She shrugged her shoulders and said with quite a
touch of malice in her voice :
** Ask him, Andr4s, why it was we quarrelled; why
he wanted to kiss me, and why I would not let him;
and see if he will tell you."
Then she ran back to the house, but before finally
closing the door, she turned again and added:
'' It was because they were talking a lot of nonsense
about my lord and the mill, and I would not let them,
for I knew they would not have done it if you had
been there."
And with this parting shot the triumphant lit-
tle person slammed the door of her parlour to,
and very soon her high-pitched voice was heard
A Popular Favourite 15
singing an accompaniment to the gipsies' primitive
instruments.
Outside, beneath the overhanging willow tree, there
had been silence after the young hostess's malicious
little speech. The young herdsmen and peasants, like
so many chidden children, had left their wine untasted
and were staring before them, silent and shamefaced,
while the burly giant, and even Berczi the oracle,
smoked away at their pipes, while stealing furtive
glances at the new-comer.
** Well ! and what is it all about ? " asked the latter,
looking round at the men with a good-natured smile.
There was no reply.
** That infernal steam-mill again, I suppose?" he
added with a sigh.
Again there was no reply, but presently there came a
grunt from old Berczi:
** Did you know that it was going to be started on
its godless work on the day after to-morrow, Andrds ? *'
he asked.
Andr&s nodded.
" And I suppose that from the day after to-morrow
we can all lie down and starve, for there will be no
more work for honest hands to do, when Satan turns
on his fire and his smoke, and sows, reaps, binds, and
grinds God's com on God's earth," added the village
oracle.
** And what I was saying when that little cat inter-
rupted me," said Sdndor the smith, ** was that "
But very quietly Andrds' s rough brown hand was
placed on the giant's arm, and his cheery voice inter-
rupted calmly:
** What you were saying, Sdndor, and what all the
others agreed with at once, because they knew it was
1 6 A Son of the People
quite true, was that it did not matter what the devil
and my lord did over there at Bidesktit, for there was
always Kem6ny Andr&s at Kisfalu, who would find
work for all willing hands, and whose purse is long
enough to prevent any one for leagues around to want
for anything, let alone to starve ! "
Again there was dead silence, while the look of shame
deepened on the faces of all. The gipsies were playing
a tender, appealing tune, a Hungarian folk-song that
would soften the heart of any hearer.
** You are a good sort, Andr&s,** said the village
oracle, while Sdndor the smith drank a mugful of wine
to get rid of an uncomfortable lump in his throat,
**but *'
** There is no * but,' my mates. We must stand by
one another, and, believe me, that is all nonsense about
the devil turning the machinery. I can't explain it all
to you, but Pater Ambrosius has promised me this
evening, that to-morrow, instead of a sermon, he will
make it quite clear to you, what it is that will grind
the com in my lord's new mill. Then you will under-
stand all about it, just as I think I understand it, and,
till then, I want you all to try and forget that accursed
mill, or at any rate not to brood over it. It is getting
late and I have a long ride home, but will you all
promise me that, until to-morrow after Mass you will
try not to think about the mill ? And this is to all of
you and your very good healths," he added, raising
his mug of wine. ** Have I your promise ? "
" We promise !"
The answer was unanimous. Evidentl}' the rich
young peasant was popular; his words had carried
weight. The mugs of wine were emptied, and a sigh
of relief and satisfaction escaped the lips of all. The
A Popular Favourite 17
gipsies started a livelier tune, as Andrds uttered a soft
call:
" Csillag, my beauty, where are you? **
There was the sound <rf hoofs on the dry, sandy earth,
and a lovely black mare, sleek and graceful, emerged
from out the darkness, and coming quite dose to the
table where the peasants were drinking, found her
way to her master's side, and there waited quietly for
him. She carried neither saddle, stirrup, nor bridle,
but the peasants on the Hungarian ptisztas need no
such accessories. Their horses seem almost a part of
themselves, as they ride at breakneck speed across the
sandy plains.
In a moment, Andr&s was astride across his mare,
and with a shout of ** Farewell ! " to his friends, a re-
sponsive *^ Eljenf*^ (I/Ong live!) from them, he had
galloped away into the darkness.
a
CHAPTER III
PRIDB OP RACB
Alt, was astir in the castle, in the stables, the farm-
yard, the park and garden of Bidesktit. The innumer-
able grooms, coachmen, cooks, and maids rushed hither
and thither, like so many chickens let loose, busy, each
with his or her own work, hot, panting, and excited.
The Countess, herself, accustomed as she was to the
boundless hospitality of a Hungarian nobleman, could
not quite shake oflF the electrical wave of excitement
which pervaded the whole house. The festivals in
honour of her birthday, coupled with those for the
opening of the new steam-mill, were in full prepara-
tion. To-day, still, the big house was fairly free from
guests; but to-morrow, probably, the stream of arriv-
als would commence, and would continue throughout
the day.
As to the numbers of the invaders it was wholly
problematical: it was generally known throughout the
county that the 28th of August was Countess Irma*s
birthday, that Bidesktit itself had some sixty guest
chambers, and that any Hungarian noble, far or near,
with all his family, was sure, during the few days'
gaiety by which the occasion was annually celebrated,
to find the warmest welcome, the most lavish hos-
pitality, the richest and choicest of wines, in the
time-honoured traditions of the Hungarian lowland.
z8
Pride of Race 19
Therefore Bidesktity Gyuri,* and the Countess Irma,
his wife, were at this season of the year always prepared
to receive a number of guests; oxen, sheep, and lambs
were indiscriminately slaughtered, also geese, ducks,
poultry of every kind; the whitest of bread baked, the
oldest casks of wine tapped, the finest cloths, sheets,
and napkins aired, all ready for the probable hundred
guests, their children, their coachmen and valets, their
couriers, and their maids.
In one of the old-fashioned, lofty rooms of the an-
cestral home of Bideskdt, the lord thereof and his aris-
tocratic wife sat discussing the final arrangements for
the entertainment of all the expected and unexpected
guests. Pine old oak and mahogany chairs and tables,
turned and carved by the skilful hands of a village car-
penter, furnished the room, whilst curtains of thick
unbleached linen, embroidered in exquisite designs of
many colours, hung before the small leaded windows,
and tempered the glare of the midday sun.
Bideskdty Gyuri, jovial and good-tempered, was
smoking his favourite pipe, while Countess Irma was
telling off, on her slender fingers, the row of guests she
was expecting on the morrow:
" The Egregyis are sure to come," she said, medita-
tively, ** the Kantdssys, the V^cserys, the Palotays, the
Arany, the Miskolczys, and the Bart6cz: these are all
quite certain. You cannot reckon less than four serv-
ants to each, and with their children and any friends
they may bring with them, will make no less than
seventy that we are quite sure of. Then another forty
or fifly always come, beyond those one expects. You
remember last year we sat down one hundred and
seventy to dinner."
> In Hungarian the surname precedes the Christian name.
20 A Son of the People
" Well, my dear," rejoined my lord, ** you give what
orders you like, and kill whatever you wish eaten.
Thank God there is plenty of food in Bideskdt to feed
every friend and his family for as long as they choose
to take a bite with us. If there is not enough room to
give them each a separate bed, then we can lay straw
all round the riding school, and the younger men can
sleep there, and leave the good rooms for the ladies
and children. Kill, my dear, by all means; let Panna
slaughter what poultry she will, pull up what cab-
bages and carrots she wants, there is plenty and to
spare!"
And Bideskdty, proud and secure in his fat lands,
which yielded him all that could enable him to exercise
the lavish hospitality for which his country is famous,
leaned back in his arm-chair, and pu£fed away content-
edly at his long cherry-wood pipe.
'' I wish I could have got Ilonka a new silk dress for
the occasion," said Countess Irma, a little wistfully.
** My dear," laughed her lord, jovially, ** Ilonka will
look bewitching in that bit of muslin I bought from
the Jew for her for a couple of florins, and you know
quite well that greasy bank-notes and other portraits
of our well-beloved majesty, Francis Joseph, are very
scarce in this land of ours. And I say thank God for
that ! We never want for anything we cannot have.
Why," he added with a pleasurable chuckle, *'if it
were not for my mill and my machinery I should never
wish to see a bank-note from year's end to year's
end."
"And yet you will go on spending it on that accursed
steam-mill and those reaping machines, which the
peasants fear and bate, and I must say I do not blame
them for that. God never had anything to do with
Pride of Race 21
tbose things. They are the devil's own invention,
Gyuri, and I cannot help dreading that some trouble
will come of it all."
** Why ! you talk like some of those superstitious
peasants themselves. You women cannot understand
the enormous boon and profit it will be to me and to
my land, when my steam-mill is regularly at work."
** The profit may or may not come by and by; I dare
say I do not understand these things, but I do see
that you cannot possibly go on spending money with
both hands on those inventions of Satan."
Bideskdty did not reply. He had found by long ex-
perience that it was always best to oppose silence to his
wife's voluble talk whenever the subject of his favourite
and costly fad cropped up between them.
"Gyuri," resumed Countess Irma, **it is not too
late. Will you give up this folly, and not mar the
jolly times we always have on my birthday, by starting
that mill on its ungodly work ? "
"My dear," replied her lord, driven out of his strong-
hold of silence by this direct question, ** you are sup-
posed to be an intelligent woman; therefore, you do
not imagine that I have spent close upon a milUon
florins in building a mill, and do not mean to see it at
work now that it is finished ? "
'* You have only gone on with the thing from a feel-
ing of obstinacy, Gyuri; it is not too late to give in.
There is not a soul who has not dissuaded you from
continuing these terrible new-fangled notions, which
have already made you hideously unpopular on your
own estate."
Once more her lord had entrenched himself behind
a barrier of impenetrable silence. Dreamily he went
on smoking his long-stemmed cherry-wood pipe, and
22 A Son of the People
allowed the flood of his wife*s eloquence to spend itself
over his unresisting head.
** Gyuri/* continued the Countess, ** I have noticed
that you have received lately a great many visits from
the Jews. When we were first married, never one of
them darkened our doors. You know I hate all your
machinery fads, so you tell me nothing of what you
are doing with them, but no Jew would come here, un-
less there was something to buy or sell, or money to
lend at usury. You will indeed bring shame upon us,
if you begin to sell your lands, your com, or your wine,
just like any Jew tradesman. There is plenty and to
spare, I know, you have said it yourself, but the corn
does not grow upon a Hungarian nobleman's estate
that he should dirty his fingers by taking money for
it.''
** My dear," suggested the lord of Bideskdt mildly,
** when I took over this property, after my father's
death, I found over thirty thousand measures of wheat
rotting away, without the slightest use being made of
it."
** Well ! " she said, ** why not? why should it not
rot ? If there is too much of it, even to give away ?
In my father's house in one year three thousand meas-
ures of wheat went bad, and he would have allowed
fifty thousand to go the same way sooner than sell it.
Take money for it? . . . Horrible!" she added,
with all the pride of her long line of ancestry.
Again her husband did not reply; perhaps he thought
of the fact that neither his wife nor any of her sisters
would probably have had a roof over their heads at this
moment if they had not been married; for not only
the com, but the fields, the beasts, the farms, and
even the ancestral home had long since passed into the
Pride of Race 23
hands of the Jews ; their father had not sullied his
fingers by trafficking with his corn and timber, but had
mortgaged his land, his house, his all, up to the hilt,
and left his children proud as Lucifer, but without a
groat apiece.
The Countess Irma was still a very handsome wo-
man, in spite of her forty-odd years. Her figure was
shapely, her skin still fresh, her hair as black as the
raven's wing. She had been a great beauty in her
day, and had been the acknowledged belle of the two
carnivals she spent at Budapesth. Her mother had
brought her up in the firmly-rooted principle that it
is the duty of every Hungarian aristocratic girl to be
beautiful, and to make a good marriage, and the young
Countess Irma, when she reached the age of eighteen,
was quite ready to do both. The first year of her go-
ing out she picked and chose carefully amongst her
adorers, for she had many. High lineage and vast
estates were an absolute sine qua non before any part-
ner dared even to ask her to dance the cotillon. ' ' Hu-
manity begins with the Barons, * 'was her much-repeated
statement, which virtually choked off any aspirant to
her hand who was not thus elevated in the human
scale. But alas ! the first year went by, and Countess
Irma had not found the proper parti that would suit
her own and her mother's pride, and the following
year it was vaguely whispered in the aristocratic club
of Budapesth that she had not been heard to make her
sweeping statement on the subject of humanity once
during the carnival.
The next carnival came and went, and Countess
Irma, to her horror, noted that at two balls of the
season she was obliged to have a headache before the
cotillon, for she had not secured a partner. Things
24 A Son of the People
were beginning to look absolutely tragic when sud-
denly Bideskdty Gyuri appeared upon the scene. He
was young, good-looking, owned half the county of
Heves, and professed to be violently in love with the
somewhat faded beauty; true, he was not a Baron, and
therefore a couple of years ago might have been ranked
on a level with the Countess's lapdog and pet canary;
but since then much water had flowed down the
Danube and the world was becoming more radical
throughout. Bideskdty paid his court, was duly ac-
cepted, and the Countess Irma was heard, at the great
Casino ball, to remark that humanity embraced every
Hungarian noble who owned half of any county.
They had led a very comfortable married life to-
gether, Gyuri being always willing to give way to his
wife in all matters; fortunately her tastes were very
similar to his in all but one respect; like him, she
loved the almost regal life of a Hungarian nobleman
upon his estates, and, like him, once married, she
cared nothing for Budapesth, where money was neces-
sary, of which they had very little, and where she
would perforce have to eat the meat of other people's
oxen and calves, and vegetables grown in some alien
garden; like him, she was absolutely indifferent as to
the political aspect of the country; she loved it because
it was her own country and therefore must be better
than anybody else's, and because better com and wine
grew there, fatter beasts were fed there, than in any
other country in the world; but, as to the changes of
ministry up there in Budapesth, as to parliaments,
elections, union with Austria, or complete severance,
neither she nor her lord cared anything about that; so
long as her daughter Ilonka, in her turn, made a suit-
able marriage, and her husband did not get into the
Pride of Race 25
Jews' hands through his unfortunate fondness for agri-
cultural improvements, she would just as soon have
seen Hungary in the hands of Russians, Hottentots,
or even Germans. Serenely she would have sailed
through life, satisfied that all was for the best in this
best possible world, if alas ! the crumpled roseleaf had
not troubled her, in the shape of her husband's unfor-
tunate craze for machinery, which reeked of ' 'bourgeois-
ism," and was altogether unworthy of a Hungarian
nobleman, whose duty it was to eat and drink, to live
in a lordly manner, to entertain his friends, and to leave
all other matters to people who had no ancestors, and
formed therefore no integral part of humanity.
CHAPTER IV
THE MONEY-I^ND^R
** RoSKNSTEiN the Jew is downstairs, my lord/*
announced Jank6, Bidesktity*s valet, respectfully open-
ing the door; ** he says your lordship has bid him
come this morning."
Countess Irma made no comment; before a servant,
even the most trusted, she never gainsaid or argued
with the head of the house, but invariably set the ex-
ample herself of complete respect and deference. No-
thing could be gained now by commenting on the
arrival of Rosenstein, whose shuffling steps she could
already hear in the passage.
Well! my dear,*' said Bidesktity, a little nervously,
perhaps you had better have another interview with
Panna, while I speak with Rosenstein, and, remember,
you have my permission to kill everything on the farm
you want, and to order whatever you like, so long
as you see that there is plenty to eat, and we bring no
shame on the hospitality of Bidesktit. Tell the Jew to
come in," he added, turning to his valet, ** and mind he
wipes his dirty shoes before he walks across the hall."
The next moment the Jew, with doubled spine and
obsequious bow, entered humbly into the room. As
the Countess sailed majestically past him, he tried to
stoop still lower, and to kiss the hem of her gown, but
gathering her skirts closely round her, and without
26
The Money-Lender 27
vouchsafing him the merest look, she left her husband
alone with him.
Rosenstein*s age could not be easily guessed at, not
even approximately; his scanty hair, of a dull carroty
colour, hung from beneath a faded skull-cap, in two
locks on each side of his face. His long gaberdine,
buttoned all the way down the front, hung loosely on
his spare frame, and was worn almost threadbare on
the sharp, protruding blades of his shoulders. He
rubbed his thin, claw-like hands incessantly together,
and his watery blue eyes were fixed on the floor, all
the time the noble lord deigned to converse with him.
Only from time to time, when he thought himself un-
observed, he threw a sharp, malignant look at the
Hungarian, then his thin lips almost disappeared be-
tween his teeth, and there was that in his colourless
eyes which would have taught a shrewd man to beware.
** Have you brought me the money?" asked Bide-
skdty, peremptorily.
** Well, you see, my lord, it is this way: your lord-
ship knows that I am a poor man, and cannot possibly
find so great a sum myself, and "
** I know the usual lie," interrupted Bidesktity,
laughing. ** Never mind telling me about the obliging
friend who is willing to come to the rescue, at the cost
of exorbitant interest, for which you will have to pro-
mise my best bit of land as security. Tell me quickly if
you will take Zdrda as security for the two hundred
and fifty thousand florins, and what interest you will
want for it?"
** Zdrda is very poor seairity, noble lord, for a quar-
ter of a million. There is no house, and "
** Hey ! the devil take these Jews," thundered Bide-
skdty, "they have Uved in mud huts all their lives,
28 A Son of the People
their ancestors were vermin in the gutter, and now they
want a house to live in. Z&rda will never get into
your dirty hands, never fear; I will redeem it, and all
my lands, as soon as my mill is at work, and my flour
becomes famed throughout the country."
** Your lordship speaks words of wisdom," said the
wily Jew, throwing surreptitiously a sarcastic glance at
Bideskdty, ** the steam-mill is a grand speculation, for
it will lessen labour, and therefore improve the condi-
tion of your peasantry. That is the reason why my
friends are not averse to letting me have the money,
which I am most desirous of lending to your lordship
for so noble a purpose on the not very good security of
Zdrda."
'' Hold your confounded tongue about Zdrda; it will
be ample honour for you in exchange for your cursed
money, if ever your dirty foot even treads its soil.
What about the interest? **
Rosenstein had bitten his lips hard while Bideskdty
poured out this flood of abusive language. He and his
race, patient, tenacious, thick-skinned, are used to this
accompaniment to the ever-increasing monetary trans-
actions they have with the extravagant, proud Hun-
garian nobility. They take it as part of the contract,
and charge interest accordingly.
** Oh, my lord," he said mildly, ** I was forced to
accept my friends* conditions as regards the interest; I
am a poor man myself, and after I have paid them but
little will remain for me on which to live: fortunately
I have simple tastes, and one hundred measures of
wheat out of the fifty thousand they will require a year
will be quite enough for me."
'* Fifty thousand measures of wheat ? You scoundrel!
you "
The Money-Lender 29
ti
It is not I, noble lord, I protest, it is my friends:
they say the price of wheat will be lower than ever this
year; that is why the hundred head of cattle, in
addition '*
* ' A hundred head of cattle, besides ? You low dog,
villainous usurer "
** Of which I shall only get one ox and one calf for
myself, my lord ; and how is a poor man to live ? My
friends will not let me have the money without they
have ninety-eight head of cattle, and the wheat, not to
speak of the five hundred head of sheep, and the eight
hundred poultry, of which they will only allow me
twenty-five for myself for arranging this very difficult
matter for them."
"You infernal scoundrel, if you do not hold your
tongue I will call Jank6 in to give you such a beating
as you never had in your life. Ten thousand measures
of wheat, forty oxen, twenty calves, three hundred
sheep, and five hundred poultry I will give you, but
not a grain of com, or tail of lamb beyond."
The Jew's eyes twinkled beneath their thin purple
lids, but he kept them steadily fixed on the floor, as
he shook his head doubtfully and said:
** I have spoken to my friends very clearly on the
subject, I have told your lordship their final word as
to the interest; they will not go back on it."
" And I tell you, man, that I will not pay such
usury, and if you dare stand there, and demand it, I
will have you beaten by the servants."
" Then, I much regret, my lord," said Rosenstein,
humbly, ** that we shall not be doing business to-day."
" But, you cursed, dirty Jew, may the devil get into
that wooden head of thine ! I tell you I must have
that money at once. The wages of the Budapesth
30 A Son of the People .
engineers and workpeople are in arrears, and I still
owe part of the money for the machinery, the devil
take it!"
*' If your lordship wishes, I will speak to my friends
again, but I have Uttle hope that they will give in
about the interest."
** For God's sake, stop those lies! you know I do not
believe in them; I will give you ten thousand measures
of wheat "
»9
99
** Fifty thousand, my lord-
** Twenty, I say. Sixty head of cattle
" One hundred, my lord— — "
** Eighty; and may the devil give them the plague
as soon as your dirty hands have touched them. Four
hundred sheep —
**Five hundred-
'* I said twenty thousand measures of wheat, eighty
head of cattle, four hundred sheep, and five hundred
fowls; and may I join you and your lot down in hell if
I give you anything else."
'^ And, most noble lord, I must assure you that un-
less my friends get fifty thousand measures of wheat,
one hundred head of cattle, five hundred sheep, and
eight hundred fowls, they will not advance the money."
This was decidedly exasperating. Bideskdty was
badly in want of the money, and the cursed Jew was
obstinate; it looked very much as if the nobleman would
have to give way to the usurer. A disgraceful thing,
surely, absolutely unheard of in past generations, when
these wretches were only too happy to lend their money
to the noble Barons who required it. "
** Look here, you scoundrel," decided Bideskdty at
last, ** I have told you my final word with regard to
that interest. Take what I ofiered and go in peace.
The Money-Lender 31
But if you persist in demanding your usurious percent-
age, since I must have the money, I will pay it, but
then I will hand you over to the lacqueys for a sound
beating before you leave this house. Now choose
which you will have, will you take twenty thousand
^measures of wheat, eighty head of cattle, four hundred
sheep, and five hundred fowl, or not ? '*
** I will take fifty thousand measures of wheat, your
lordship,*' repeated the Jew quietly, **one hundred
head of cattle, five hundred sheep, and eight hundred
fowls—"
• ' With the beating, then ? ' '
The Jew paused a while, and looked up one instant
at the aristocratic figure before him. Tall and power-
ful, with proud-looking eyes and noble bearing, Bide-
skdty stood as the very personification of the race
which for centuries had buffeted, tormented, oppressed
the Jews, denying them every human right, treating
them worse than any dog or gipsy. Was the worm
turning at the latter half of the nineteenth century ?
Would the oppressed, armed with their patiently
amassed wealth, turn on the squandering, improvident
oppressor, secure in the gold, which very soon would
rule even this fair Arcadia, the Hungarian lowlands ?
Dreamily the Jew rubbed the threadbare patch across
his shoulders, which plainly testified that he was not
new to these encounters with irate noblemen and their
lacqueys; then he assented quietly:
** With the beating, most noble lord."
Bidesktity laughed heartily. All his wrath had van-
ished. Since he could have the treat of seeing the Jew
well flogged, he thought he had not paid too high a
price for his pleasure. Rosenstein unbuttoned his
threadbare garment, and taking out two large sheets
32 A Son of the People
of paper from an inner pocket, spread them out upon
the table.
** What the devil is that? *' asked Bideskiity.
** Will your honour be so kind as to sign? It is
merely an acknowledgment of the debt, and a guaran-
tee that the interest will be paid.*'
Bideskdty had become purple with rage.
''You confounded dog, and is not the word of a
Hungarian nobleman enough ? What can your greasy
bits of paper compel me to do, if my own word of
honour does not bind me to it ? *'
** You see, my lord," said the Jew, with the requisite
amount of softness that tumeth away wrath, *' it is not
for myself. My friends will require some guarantee
from me. They are not used to dealing with honour-
able lords like yourself.*'
The Jew had said this with a slightly sarcastic in-
tonation, whilst his mild blue eyes rested maliciously
on Bidesktity, who, however, noted neither the tone
nor the look.
** You shall be made to eat a piece of pork for this
confounded impudence," he said, as he ptdled savagely
the papers towards him.
He did not take the trouble to read over the docu-
ments; such a proceeding, as suggesting knowledge of
business matters, would have been wholly unworthy
of so noble a descendant of the Bideskdtys who helped
to place King Mdtyds on the throne. In large, some-
what shaky schoolboy hand, he traced his name at the
bottom of both the pages without further protest. He
had caught sight of a well-filled, very greasy pocket-
book, which bulged out of Rosenstein's pocket.
" Now for the money," he said, throwing down the
pen, '' and after that for the pleasure of seeing my men
*'.
The Money-Lender 33
give you the soundest hiding you ever had in your
life.*'
The Jew read both documents over carefully, threw
the sifted sand over the august signature, then delib-
erately folded them up and placed them in his pocket.
Bideskiity was getting impatient, jerkily he puffed
away at his cherry-wood pipe, whilst his eyes travelled
longingly towards the panoply of sticks and riding-
whips which adorned his wall. Kvidently he thought
that they would lose nothing by waiting, for he did not
speak, till one by one Rosenstein counted out two
hundred and fifty notes of one thousand florins each,
which passed from his own greasy fingers into the
noble lord's aristocratic palms.
*' At any time," added the Jew, ** that your lordship
will require my services, I shall be most pleased to in-
tercede with my rich friends, who, I feel sure, will, on
my recommendation, always oblige your lordship."
But the lord of Bideskdt was not listening; he had
thrust the bank-notes into his pocket, and, opening the
door, shouted loudly for Jank6.
** Take this cursed Jew," he said jovially, ** down to
the kitchen, and see if he will sooner eat a bit of pork,
or take a hiding from some of you. Stay! " he added,
seeing that Jank6, a sturdy peasant, had already seized
the Jew by the collar, ** I want to see the fun. Come
along, old chap, you know you made your choice ; per-
haps you will find that extra bit of interest well worth
half an hour's trouble. And if they happen to kill
you, the whole of your tribe can share between them
the fifty thousand measures of wheat, and the rest of
the confounded stuff. Now then, Jank6, you can try
that new riding-whip of yours on him. Come along,
I am in a hurry I "
34 A Son of the People
Rosenstein had become livid. Perhaps at heart he
never quite believed that Bideskdty raeant to put his
threat in execution, but now there seemed no doubt
about it, for Jank6, with a vigorous kick directed
against his lean shanks, had already persuaded him to
follow his tormentor down-stairs.
Noisy talk and boisterous laughter proceeded from
the kitchen, where a number of cooks in white caps
and aprons, assisted by an army of kitchen-maids and
scullions, were busy preparing meat, bread, cakes, and
what not for the coming festivities. Silence fell all
round as the master entered, laughing joyously and
followed by sturdy Jank6 pushing the thin, trembling
figure of the Jew before him.
** Here ! Panna ! Mariska ! Zsuzsi ! all of you. Bring
a chair and table here, for I have brought you a guest,
an honoured guest, whom you must treat with respect.
You must give him the choicest piece ofiF that pig we
killed yesterday. Ha! ha!" he chuckled, looking
round at Rosenstein, who, helpless under Jank6's grip,
was looking savagely round him, like a fox caught
in a trap, and throwing deadly looks of hatred at the
noble lord before him. The merry peasant girls had
caught the spirit of the fun; Panna, Zsuzsi, Mariska,
the bright-eyed village beauties, had already bustled
round the big centre table. They had spread a dean
white doth, brought out plate, knife, and fork, and set
a chair before it.
With much laughter and cries of delight, two pow-
erful peasant lads had lifted the struggling Jew off his
feet and seated him fordbly in the chair, while they
wound some rope round him and secured him firmly
to his seat. This was rare fun; Bideskdty, astride on
a chair, was giving laughing directions to his servants.
The Money-Lender 35
while the girls from every part of the house came run-
ning in, their bright-coloured petticoats swinging round
their shapely limbs, their arms bare, their faces aglow
with excitement, and stood in the doorways, con-
vulsed with delight at seeing a Jew made to eat a bit
of pork. Suddenly a great ripple of laughter greeted
the arrival of Benko, the portly chief cook, in snow-
white jacket, trousers, and cap, with an immense apron
across his burly front, and carrying high up in tri-
umph, a gigantic leg of pork, roasted to a turn, the
crackling still spluttering, brown and delicious-looking.
" That 's splendid," said Bideskdty, whilst the girls
clapped their hands with delight, and Jank6 officiously
took a large napkin and tied it under the Jew's chin.
He could scarcely do it for Very laughter, tears were
streaming down his cheeks, and he had to stop every
now and then in order to hold his aching sides.
" Now then, old fellow, I '11 warrant you have never
had so good a feast in all your life."
Rosenstein certainly did not look as if he enjoyed the
fun, which made it all the more amusing. His face
was absolutely ghastly, his eyes rolled round and
round, more in rage than in fear. He could not move,
for he was tightly pinioned to the chair, and each of
his hands, which had been made to grip a knife and
fork, was firmly held by the steel-like grasp of a young
herdsman. But the looks which he threw at his chief
tormentor were so full of deadly hatred that perhaps
had the noble lord stopped to note them, he would have
paused, awed at the infinite depths of human passion
that lay behind those mild, colourless, watery eyes.
In the meanwhile Benko had carved two magnificent
slices of meat, and with much laughter, the two men
were gradually forcing the Jew to put one piece after
36 A Son of the People
another into his mouth. He tried to struggle, but in
vain; his tormentors had a very tight hold of him, and
when he made futile efforts not to swallow the morsels
forbidden by the laws of his race, they held his mouth
and nose in a tight grip, so that he was forced to
swallow, lest he should choke.
There never had been such laughter in the kitchen
of Bideskdt; merry peals rang right through the house,
so that the Countess and Mademoiselle Ilonka sent to
know what the fun was. All the servants had crowded
in, and for a quarter of an hour all the coming festivi-
ties were forgotten, the bread left in the oven, the huge
roast on the spits, in the joy of seeing a Jew swallow
two slices of pork. Rosenstein, after the first few
struggles for liberty, had resigned himself to his fate,
further persuaded into submission by the ominous
cracking of the herdsmen's whips in the scullery be-
yond. Bideskdty had laughed till he cried. Certainly
he had ceased to regret those last measures of corn, and
extra head of cattle and sheep, which were to pay the
exorbitant interest on the Jew's money, since they had
procured him the best fun he had had for many a day.
At last it was decided that the Jew had eaten as much
as he conveniently could; moreover, there really was
no time for any more merriment that day, if full justice
was to be done to the plenteous hospitality of Bidesktit.
The noble lord gave the signal, and the Jew was re-
leased from his bonds; trembling with rage, he tried to
make his way out of the kitchen, through the laugh-
ing groups of pretty maids, who, with mock gravity,
dropped him ironical curtsies, to speed the parting
guest.
Bideskdty evidently thought that the Jew had paid
sufficiently for his outrageous demands, for Rosenstein
The Money-Lender 37
was spared the promised beating; one or two cracks
across his lean shanks, from the long whips of the
young herdsmen, was all he had to endure. He did
not stop to rub the sore places, nor did he cast another
look at his tormentors. With all the speed his shuf-
fling feet would allow, he hurried out of the lordly abode
of his debtor; his lips tightly compressed, his fingers
nervously clutched together, he crossed the hall, the
park, and the acacia plantation. Outside the gates he
stopped, and, like Lot's wife, he looked back.
The ch&teau of Bideskdt, the ancestral home of the
Bidesktitys ever since they had helped Hunyady Mdt-
yds to the throne, was in itself not a very imposing
building, except perhaps owing to its vastness: a
low, regular, two-storied construction, built in a quad-
rangle round a courtyard in the middle. The stone
had been plastered and painted over a bright yellow,
after the fashion of the beginning of the century, and
a double row of green shutters ran like two bright-
coloured belts all round the house. The garden was
mostly laid out in quaint, conventional beds of standard
rose trees, each surmounted with a gaily-coloured glass
ball, that threw pretty patches of brightness against a
background of tall, sweet-scented acacias. A wide,
circular stone stair led from the lower to the vast upper
hall, which occupied a large portion of the main wing,
and VTBSpar excellence the great dining-hall, where two
hundred guests could dine without being crowded, at
the two huge horse-shoe tables that stood on the tiled
floor. Half-way up the stairs, in a niche in the stone
wall, a gigantic granite statue of Attila frowned down
on those who passed.
The guest-chambers formed two sides of the quad-
rangle, and opened out under a veranda on to the
38 A Son of the People
courtyard, in the middle of which there was a round
garden, bordered with dwarf acacias, and laid out with
more beds of standard rose trees and coloured glass
balls. The veranda ran round, supported by col-
umns, in the capitals of which swallows had built
their nests. The last side of the quadrangle contained
the vast kitchen, offices, and rooms for the women
and indoor servants ; the others — gardeners, grooms,
herdsmen, and shepherds — slept under the blue vault
of heaven, wrapped in their great sheepskin coats.
For full five minutes Rosenstein the Jew stood at the
gates, his thin hands clutching the iron fretwork, his
colourless eyes aglow with inward passion, the very
personification, the living statue of a deadly, revenge-
ful hatred. For full five minutes he stood there, till he
saw a graceful vision in white come wandering down
the sweet-scented alley, then he once more turned to-
wards the village and went his way.
CHAPTER V
AN OI^D MISBR
Turning his back on the great gates, Rosenstein
the Jew walked away towards the plain.
To his right and left, as he walked, the county of
Heves, with Bideskdt, Kisfalu, and Z&rda, stretched
out in all its midsummer splendour; as far as the eye
could reach, waving fields of golden wheat, the finest
the world produces, graceful plumed heads of maize,
and the glistening green of watermelons gladdened the
eye with their richness and plenty. The Jew's gaze
rested contentedly and somewhat sarcastically on all
the rich property, and every now and then he rubbed
his thin, shrivelled hands together.
The roads, as is usual during the dry season, were
lined with deep ruts and fissures, and the Jew*s feet
became sore with hard and weary walking. But he
seemed not to care. Thoughts, which evidently were
exceedingly pleasant, helped to soften the hard road
for him, and his hand wandered lovingly to the pocket,
lately filled to overflowing with bank-notes, now com-
paratively empty, save for the documents that bore the
prodigal lord's signature.
The road along which Rosenstein was walking was
bordered on either side for some distance with tall,
slender poplars, the silver-lined leaves of which
trembled at every breeze; in front, far ahead, could be
39
40 A Son of the People
dimly discerned the vast sandy plain, with its ruddy
arid soil, its deep blue sky overhead, and its quaint
tumble-down inn on the wayside.
All was silence and peace around, save for the oc-
casional distant sound of a herd of wild horses, gallop-
ing madly across the plain, or overhead the strident
cry of the stork calling to its mate; only in the heart
of the solitary human wayfarer, in the midst of this
vast peaceful immensity, there lurked passions, turbu-
lent and wild, envy, hatred, and malicious triumph.
Rosenstein seemed to feel no fatigue. He had
walked for three hours along the dreary road, and had
now at last caught sight of the quaint wayside inn,
only a kilometre beyond.
The Jew with the diffidence taught to his race by
centuries of derision had gradually come near. His
narrow, light-coloured eyes peered anxiously round,
evidently in search of some one. lyoud laughter and
mocking comments from the two sturdy young peas-
ants who were sitting, sipping their wine, and smoking
their long pipes lazily, greeted his arrival.
Rosenstein ventured a few modest raps on the table,
but as no one came in answer, he gathered up sufficient
courage to peep in at the door.
** Don't dare to enter my kitchen, you dirty Jew ! "
said a shrill voice from within.
**No! I would not for worlds, and I would not
trouble you at all, only Kem^ny Andrds from Kisfalu
has told me to meet him here.'*
'* Well ! he has not come yet, and you cannot wait
inside here ! "
The interior of the inn looked decidedly cooler than
the exterior, for through the thickly thatched roof and
walls, mostly wood and mud, the fierceness of the sun
An Old Miser 41
could hardly enter; dose to one of the windows, the
owner of the shrill voice sat; a buxom figure of a low-
land peasant woman, in multi-coloured petticoats, full-
sleeved lawn shift, and tight-fitting corselet; she was
lazily turning her spinning-wheel with one foot, while
her well-shaped fingers deftly spun the fine flax thread.
The fire in the huge earthen oven had been allowed
to die out, and on it shone the many vessels, pots, and
pans, glistening with polish, which had served to cook
the mid-day meal.
With a sigh the Jew had turned away from the door
and the inviting coolness within, and taken humbly
his seat in the very glare of the sun, for the young
peasants had disdainfully refused to make way for him
at the table under the willow tree. There he sat pa-
tiently, not daring to ask for wine or even water, for
fear his presumption might entail his banishment from
the precincts of the inn altogether, when he would per-
force have had to wait on his feet until it was Kem6ny
Andr&s's good pleasure to arrive. His ears, however,
well-trained to catch every scrap of conversation that
was not meant for them to hear, were sharply on the
alert. The two young herdsmen lazily smoking their
long pipes, and drinking deep draughts of Hungarian
wine, were whispering excitedly together. The Jew,
while seemingly overcome with fSatigue and the heat,
his eyes closed, his mouth open, lost not a word of what
they said.
The young peasants were discussing the eternal topic
of the lord of Bideskdt*s mysterious buildings and con-
trivances, that were supposed to do the work they and
their fathers before them had done with their own
hands.
" I have heard my master say," said the one, ** that
42 A Son of the People
it will grind as much com in one day as would take a
month with six windmills at work to do; and that three
men with it can do the work of twenty."
** We do not hear much about it in the kitchen," re-
plied the other, ** but my mother has learned a good bit
from Jank6, my lord's valet; and he says that my lord
sits up now till the middle of the night, with one can-
dle and some huge books in front of him, and, although
Jank6 has learned to read and to write, he could not
make head or tail of what was in those books, the
letters all seemed mixed up anyhow."
** You may be sure the devil has printed them him-
self; truly the holy Virgin can have nothing to do with
things that in some mysterious way do the work of
twenty men. Mark me, evil will come on your lord
and his house, sooner or later."
** What can come but evil, of bringing the devil into
the village ? Jank6 told my mother that the big books
came from a place called England."
**I once saw a picture," said the other, mysteriously,
** of some people, that the Pater over at Arokszdllds told
me came from England. They looked very like what
we do," he added thoughtfully.
"Only they have big teeth, and red hair, like the
Jews. England is very far from here."
*' Yes, you have to get in a boat, and go across the
sea to get there; I have heard my lady say that."
" How can you cross the sea without being
drowned?" asked the herdsman who had first
spoken.
" I do not know," said the other, shaking his head
sadly at the immensity of the problem.
" It would be better if my lord went on the sea and
got drowned, rather than make himself one with the
An Old Miser 43
devil» and bring some terrible misfortune on the vil-
lage, ay, probably on the whole county."
•' If any evil comes on the village through these con-
trivances of lyucifer, we shall have to fight the devil,
somehow. We have sisters, mothers, wives; we must
protect them from Satan."
Their whisperings had become very low, the Jew
tried in vain to catch any more snatches of their con-
versation, an awed, superstitious look was on both their
young faces; their bronzed cheeks were quite pale, and
their bright, dark eyes peered anxiously round as if ex-
pecting every moment to see the evil one appear from
out the wall. Rosenstein caught them both pointing
the first and fourth finger at him, while expectorating
three times on the ground in his direction, a sure way
of keeping Satan at a distance, should he have chosen
the disguise of a Jew usurer in which to haunt the
county of Heves.
The sun was gradually sinking lower and lower on
the horizon. The intense heat had somewhat subsided,
and the two young herdsmen, having finished their
wine, prepared to depart to rejoin their herds.
They turned into the inn to pay their few groats for
the drink, and kiss the buxom landlady, as is always
customary when she happens to be young and comely,
and her husband not within sight.
Par out on the horizon, a tiny speck had gradually
grown larger as it drew nearer, and Rosenstein, with a
sigh of contentment, noted that the speck soon assumed
the shape of a man on horseback. The two herdsmen
as they departed down the road had also looked at the
fast approaching speck, and pronounced it to be
Kem^ny Andrds on his black mare; nearer and nearer
it drew, and now Rosenstein could easily distinguish
44 A Son of the People
the broad figure and bronzed face of the rich peasant
as he rode saddleless and stirrupless at breakneck
speed, his white lawn shirt and full trousers fluttering^
in the breeze, as if they were the wings which helped
the swift-footed mare on her wild career. .
The pretty landlady came to her door to greet the
new guest, for he always had a merry jest for her, ay!
and often a bright bit of ribbon, or a shiny locket^
which he had bought from some pedlar on the way,
and gladdened her heart and her vanity with it.
Kem6ny Andrds had brought his mare to a stand-
still, and she stood calm and placid, not having turned
a hair during her mad canter, while her master dis-
mounted, and patted her sleek neck, and whipered soft
endearing words to her, to which she responded by
rubbing her nose against his hand.
The Jew did not dare approach him, until it was
Andrds's own good pleasure to notice the humble pres-
ence of the descendant of Israel. Truly a fine figure
was that typical representative of a prosperous Hun-
garian peasant. Tall, above the average of his race,
with straight, broad shoulders, his face bronzed by the
sun, his foot, small and arched, firmly planted on the
soil, Kem6ny Andrds was decidedly good to look at, as
every girl in the county of Heves had declared for the
past ten years, since it had transpired that old Kemdny
had proved himself to be the miser which every one
had always suspected him to be, and had died, leav-
ing coffers full of gold and bank-notes which made his
handsome son nearly as rich as my lord.
The old man — Andrds*s father — ^had been a curious
figure among his fellow peasants on this side of the
Tama, in his shabby bunda (huge sheepskin mantle),
and his coarse linen, and with his sharp features.
An Old Miser 45
tightly compressed lips, and bushy eyebrows, so diflfer-
ent from the merry, open countenance of a Hunga-
rian peasant.
It was vaguely whispered, that far back, some hun-
dreds of years ago, the Kem6nys had had a Jewish an-
cestress, and it was generally admitted that from that
hereditary taint — for taint it was for any peasant to
have even a drop of Jew blood in his veins — old Kem6ny
had inherited his love of money, his avarice, his greed
of gain.
Be that as it may, his life at Kisfalu — a tumble-down
thatched farm he rented from the lord of Bideskdt —
was known to be of the most parsimonious kind.
While he was young, he kept one servant to wash and
cook for him, fed himself on pumpkin, milk, and rye
bread, slept on the bare boards, and never set foot in
either inn or church, where, of necessity, he would
have had to leave some kreutzers (farthings) behind.
Gradually, year by year, he added first a field, then
another, then bits of vineyard to the farm, while his
cattle, horses, pigs, and sheep multiplied exceedingly.
But old Kem6ny never changed his mode of life. He
now had to employ a great deal of labour in his fields
and vineyards, and for this he paid as wages the few cop-
pers or the measures of wheat that were customary,
neither more nor less. He was his own overseer and
spared himself neither morning, noon, nor night. His
rents he paid in kind, as the lord of Bideskdt demanded,
but on the surplus he neither fed nor clothed himself as
all — ^peasant or noble — do in the Hungarian lowlands.
He neither ate wheaten bread, nor drank good wine,
he wore no fine linen, or warm woollen, garments; all
his produce, animal and vegetable, he sold every year
to the Jew traders, and at a high price too, for the lands
46 A Son of the People
round Kisfalu proved fatter and richer than some of
Bideskdt itself. As to what he did with the money he
amassed year after year, no one in A.rokszdllds, or the
other villages round, ever knew. He spoke to no one,
never stopped to gossip on Sunday afternoons, or at
even, when the work was done. The sowers, reapers,
grape-gatherers, and wine-pressers were never allowed
within the actual precincts of the farm; what was due
to them for their labour, in money or in kind, he gave
them, but never a word that would give anybody the
least idea of what was going on within that shrewd,
thin head of his. As for the Jew Rosenstein, who did
all his selling for him, and who was the only and very
frequent visitor at the farm, it was of course quite im-
possible to glean anything in the way of information
from him; for even had any of the shepherds or herds-
men SQ far bemeaned themselves as to gossip with a
Jew, old Rosenstein would never have spoken of any
financial transaction in which he had a hand.
Late in life old Kem£ny gave still further food for
gossip by marrying, without giving to any one for miles
around previous warning of his intention of doing so.
He had always been considered, owing to his parsi-
monious habits and eccentricities, such a confirmed
bachelor that the news that he had one day gone to
the other side of the Tama and brought home a bride,
took the village by storm. Great hopes, were at first
entertained of hearing from the new wife all that had
been a mystery in old Kemfeny*s life; but either that
the inhabitants of the opposite side of the Tama were
also a secretive and parsimonious lot, or that the wife
was drilled to obey her husband, certain it is that
Kem6ny Btelka proved as mysterious, as silent as her
lord. She went to church every Sunday, true; but she
An Old Miser 47
never stopped outside the porch for a bit of gossip; she
never placed a single copper in the plate, and though
her husband rented the biggest farm in the county of
Heves, shfs never wore anything but a cotton dress,
and always walked to church barefoot. She was a
pale, gentle creature, and many noticed that during
Mass she very frequently cried.
Two years after their marriage Andrds was bom. A
fine boy he was from the first, and much admired by
all the women, when his mother brought him to church
with her. There was absolutely no preventing his be-
ing kissed and petted, when he walked so proudly by
her side, his little dark head erect, his bright eyes
looking proudly round him. His mother had to stop
now every Sunday outside the church to hear his
praises sung by every woman in the village.
• ' Ah, the beautiful little angel! ' *
** A true Magyar! "
** The handsomest boy this side of thie Tama! "
And it was with difficulty the mother succeeded in
parrying the indiscreet questions which inevitably fol-
lowed this overflow of admiration for her boy.
As for old Kemdny, it was impossible to kindle a
spark of pride in him, by talking to him of his
boy.
** Another mouth to feed,** he would say dolefully.
** Why! you niggardly old miser, you have enough
and to sx>are, to feed a dozen sturdy lads like your little
Andrds boy. What is the use of hoarding ? He will
never want.** And one or two of the older peasants,
contemporaries of his own, would try to break through
the barrier of old Kem6ny*s impenetrable silence over
his own affairs.
** Plenty and to spare ? ** rejoined the old man crossly,
48 A Son of the People
tt
when not a groat have I got, even to buy myself a
pair of boots. Plenty, indeed, when every florin, every
ear of wheat, every blade of grass has to go into my
lord of Bideskdt's pocket in payment of rent for the
tumble-down old farm."
*' Then you are either a liar or a fool, old chap, for
if it takes every bit of a field to pay the rent of that
field, it is the work of an ass to labour it."
And loud laughter greeted this speech of undisput-
able logic.
This sort of banter angered old Kem6ny exceedingly,
and all reference to his supposed wealth drove him into
a perfect fury. As he grew older, therefore, he gradu-
ally discontinued every intercourse with his fellow-men,
avoided the village altogether, and never walked down
the main roads. The labourers all declared that dur-
ing one entire vintage time he was never once seen to
open his lips. He was soon positively hated by all,
and deep was the compassion felt for the gentle wife,
who had never known a day's pleasure, never been
allowed to dance the csdrdds, in the great barn on Sun-
day afternoons, or to join the wedding and christening
parties, as they occurred in the village.
As for Andr&s, as he grew up, life seemed indeed a
dreary thing. His father, who never spared himself,
knew no mercy for him. Every season of the year was
one of incessant toil for the fast-growing lad. He be-
came his father's overseer, his drudge, his slave ; not
one single groat did he ever get to spend in merry-
making with the young peasants of his own age in the
village inn, not one with which to buy a bit of ribbon
for the girl who had looked coquettishly at him during
Mass on Sunday. Prom morning to night it was toil
in the fields, the yards, or the vineyards, and many
An Old Miser 49
were the heavy blows that fell on his young shoulders
from his stern father's knotted stick.
Gradually the bright, sunny expression in his eyes
faded, and a kind of defiance seemed to perpetually sit
on his proud, handsome face. He was soon old enough
to notice that his father was an object of hatred
and derision, his mother and himself of contempt and
compassion; he saw how much coarser was his linen,
how much shabbier his boots than those of the shep-
herds or herdsmen who worked for wage and slept
under the blue vault of heaven; he saw that his mother
walked barefoot, whilst Zsuzsi, Panna, Mariska, wore
beautiful red boots; he saw that she never put a far-
thing in the plate for &e good old Pater ; and all that
galled him, and made him hate the tyrant, whose ec-
centric miserliness deprived him of all the pleasures
which made life bright to others as young as himself.
"Andrds! the gipsies over from Gyongyos are going
to play in the bam this afternoon. You will come ? "
asked a young lad of him one Sunday morning.
Andrds bit his lip hard. He would have loved to
go and hear his favourite tunes played by the picked
men of the county, and to show the pretty girls how
well he could step the csdrdds; but gipsy music and
pretty girls meant money, fifty kreutzers at least for
the one, and twenty for the others for a bit of ribbon
or a handkerchief, and Andrds, the rich &rmer of Kis-
falu's son, had not a copper coin in his pockets.
** I will not come," he said a little sadly.
" The gipsies will have plenty of money from all of
us," said another kindly; ** it will not matter if you do
not give them anything."
" And why should I not give them anything? " re-
torted Andrds fiercely; ** if I wanted to hear the czigdny
50 A Son of the People
I could do so. But I said I would not come. It is no
one's business to ask my reasons."
**No one did ask you, Andrds/' said one of the
herdsmen, shrugging his shoulders, whilst another
laughed and turned away.
** But I do ask you, why your hair is black and
your moustache short. And if you do not tell me why
your impudent tongue happens to be red, I will "
In that country where the sun is hot and the tempers
fierce, a quarrel often arises out of the merest banter.
A jest roughly expressed and misunderstood, a word
inadvertently spoken, and tumultuous passions rise
to the surface, like the bubbles in a glass of cham-
pagne; knives are brought out, eyes glare, lips are
compressed, and often a severe wound, sometimes even
a sudden and tragic death, is the outcome of a quarrel
of five minutes between comrades of a lifetime.
Andrds had become livid with rage, his eyes glared
round him, as if in defiance to the whole village to dare
make fun of him. His hand had sought and grasped
the heavy clasp-knife inside his belt, and the other
fell heavily on the shoulder of the daring mocker, forc-
ing him to turn and face him whom he had ventured
to deride.
** Hey ! hey ! and what do I see ? My children, the
day of the Lord will surely not be polluted by your
quarrels. Kem^ny Andrds, put back your knife! your
mother — ah ! she is a saint ! — will be waiting at the
cross-road for you; shall I go and tell her that I left
her only son with a knife in his hand, after he has
promised half an hour ago to forgive so that he may
be forgiven ? Come, come ; give me that knife, and do
not look so fiercely at me. I am only a weak old man,
and not worth quarrelling with."
An Old Miser 51
It was the good old priest who, having said his Mass,
was going home for his mid-day meal, his well-worn,
shabby old cassock held high above his lean shanks to
protect it from the mud. Quite gently he placed his
kindly hand on Andrds's wrist, and the young man let
fall to the ground the knife that he held.
Then, without a word, he turned and fled towards
the cross-road, on the way to Kisfalu, where his
mother stood waiting for him.
After that episode he, like his father, ceased to go to
church; he wished to avoid the mocking laughter and
the kindly sympathy which alike stung and wounded
his pride. With passionate devotion he poured all the
pent-up flood of his intensely aiSectionate nature on the
mother who bore her hard lot with such exemplary
patience. Worked to death almost as he often was on
field and farm, he never was too tired to try and lighten
some of his mother's tasks. For her he would wash
and cook — ay! spin and weave — for the sake of the de-
light of seeing the loved one rest peacefully for an hour
in her arm-chair.
These two, mother and son, were all in all to each
other. Their pride had shut them out from their own
little world yonder in the village, and even out in their
fields. Prom the head of the house, the father, the
husband, they had neither sympathy, nor even ordinary
kindness. His greed of money seemed to grow with
age. A kind of monomania had seized him. He
suspected his own wife and son, and kept his money
and his affairs as much hidden from them as from every
one else. They knew that he was passing rich, for
Andrds by now was an experienced farmer and knew
the value of those rich fields, those fine vineyards, those
numerous herds of sheep, but the pleasures that those
52 A Son of the People
riches could give, the plentiful fare, the merry-making,
dancing, czigdny music, abundant wine, were all denied
to them. As to the authority of him who was her lord
and master, and his father, neither wife nor son thought
for one moment to question. In that land where civil-
isation is still in its infancy, a kind of worship sur-
rounds the head of the house; he is placed there by
God himself, with divine rights over all his family;
they neither question his decisions, however unreason-
able they may seem, nor deny him their respect, how-
ever thoroughly he may have forfeited it.
And thus a few years sped on, and Andris was now
two-and- twenty: the most hard-worked, the most ro-
bust and practical tiller and reaper of the soil on the
lowlands. Prom his hard training he had learned to
work without complaint, to be content with little, to
keep his own counsel, and to despise money; from his
own heart he had learned one thing only, but that he
had learned thoroughly, namely to love his mother.
All ideas of love in another direction, the love for a be-
ing who was not his own flesh and blood, but oh, who
was so infinitely dearer, that was denied to him. If at
times thoughts of a wife and family flitted through his
mind, — for does not a hermit also dream of paradise?
— he perforce had to chase them aWay. Old Kem6ny
last year had said:
'* I married when I was fifty. When Andr&s is that
age, I shall be underground, then he can do as he
pleases; till then I cannot allow another mouth to be
fed under this roof."
And in this as in all things what could Andr&s do
but obey ? and chase far into the distance dreams of a
brighter future?
One memorable day, old Kem^ny, apparently still
An Old Miser 53
full of vigour, fell, struck as a withered oak by a sud-
den blast. After a hard day's work in the vineyards,
while Andrds had stolen half an hour's respite from
wine-pressing in order to help his mother with the
bread-baking, two sturdy lads brought the old miser
home, on a rough stretcher, put hastily together. He
seemed to know no one. His tongue babbled half-
articulate sounds, his face was distorted, all awry.
The village doctor bled him, and though floods of thick,
dark blood flowed from his arm, it seemed in no way
to bring him to consciousness. For two long days he
still breathed on; Andr4s and his mother watched him
dutifully to the last. At times they thought that
something oppressed the brain already overclouded by
death; at times the lifeless eyes would almost resus-
citate, to glower anxiously round. But whatever he
wished to say, whatever parting injunction he may
have wished to leave to his son, Andrds never knew;
he and his mother did not weep when they at last
closed the eyes of their hard taskmaster, gone to his
eternal rest. They asked the kind old priest to say a
dozen Masses for the repose of his soul, and Andrds,
with his own hand, knocked together the boards of
oak which contained his father's remains.
Old Kem6ny found his place among his kind, in the
little churchyard of Arokszdllds: his wife had twined
two wreaths of marguerites and cornflowers, which she
placed on his grave; they faded the same afternoon, as
the sun was very hot, and they were never replaced.
CHAPTER VI
TH« TENANT OF KISFAI^U
Th^ village and countryside never actually learned,
as it had hoped to do, what wealth Andrds found hid-
den away after his father's death. And, truly, though
old Kem^ny was eccentric in one way, his son bade fair
to outdo him in that respect, for his conduct after his
father's death was peculiar in the extreme. For three
consecutive years, he and his mother continued their
existence at the tumble-down old farmhouse of Kisfalu.
True, Andrds would not allow his mother to do any-
kind of work, and paid two village girls to wash and
cook for them both; otherwise their life remained the
same. He himself supervised all the labour, and con-
tinued his father's dealings with Rosenstein the Jew,
but the greater part of his time he spent with the good
priest at Arokszdllds, who, it soon transpired, taught
him to read and to write, and many other things that
a peasant lad does not usually learn. Kem6ny Andrds,
whatever his motives were, brought the same energies
to bear upon his mental work that he had done upon
physical toils. His father, he soon discovered, had,
owing to his wonderful avarice and greed of gain, left
him a very large amount of money; so large that, at
first, Andrds and his mother, accustomed to their con-
stantly empty pockets, hardly realised its full value,
54
The Tenant of Kisfalu 55
or the benefits which it would confer upon them.
Their slowly-thinking peasant minds hardly could un-
derstand that all those old wine barrels which had been
filled with gold and silver pieces by the eccentric old
miser were all absolutely theirs, and meant so much
comfort and luxury to them who, up to now, did not
know what it was to sleep in a comfortable bed, or to
eat their entire fill. Money has so very little meaning
in that land of plenty that, just for a moment, Andr£s
viewed his wealth with a feeling that was almost one of
disappointment. He hardly knew himself what he had
really expected when with his own hands he had driven
the last nails in the boards which covered him who had
been the arbitrary master of Kisfalu; hardly knew
what he used to hope for when, on hot summer nights,
after a hard day's toil, his young shoulders still sore
from the paternal correction for some real or imaginary
ofiience, he used to stroll out upon the vdiSt puszta and,
his gaze lost in the far-off immensity of the horizon,
he vaguely wondered at the meaning of the word
" happiness."
And those mountains of gold and silver, jingling
and glittering, seemed so poor, so tawdry in compari-
son with those nightly day-dreams. Presently, how-
ever, the shrewd mind, inborn in every peasant, rose
to the conception, still weak and far distant, of all that
riches might mean. He remembered chance derisive
words his father had from time to time thrown out, as
if involuntarily, on the subject of the heavy sacrifices
the lord of Bideskfit often made to get a handful of this
gold with which to gratify his every whim. If it was
not too great a sacrifice to give up bits of land one's
ancestors had owned for hundreds of years, in order to
handle some of these gold pieces, why then, since they
56 A Son of the People
had as it were dropped into his lap, he would try and
learn, study to find out, what was the best use to be
made of it. The lord of Bideskfit parted with his land
to obtain gold, why should not he, Kemdny Andrds,
the peasant, the son of the eccentric old miser of Kis-
falu, part with the gold to gain the land ? Oh ! to ab-
solutely call some of that loved soil his^ the soil which
from his childhood he had learned to coax into sdelding
to his avaricious father all the treasures it contained,
his own; that he could share all products with his
mother, and perhaps, who knows? in time to come
with some one else who would call him husband, and
some one else wee and very dear, who would learn to
say ** Father ! " Oh! for the delight of owning every
grain of wheat, the fleece of every sheep, every drop of
milk from his cows, and not to have to give of the first
and of the best to the noble lord out there at Bidesktit,
who never came to Kisfalu, who trafficked with the
devil, and allowed Satan to work the land that should
have been sacred in his eyes.
Andrds, who had in twenty years of enforced self-
restraint learned to keep his own counsels and to whis-
per to no one what was passing in his mind, never
communicated his thoughts to any one. No one knew
what treasures were found in old Kem^ny's coffers, no
one knew if the dead man had indeed been a liar or a
fool. The work in the field continued. Kem^ny An-
drds's flour was as fine and white as his father's had
been, the linen woven from his flax the softest in the
county, his wine the most delicately flavoured; no
wonder that the Jew traders from Gyongyos were al-
ways seen at Kisfalu, in every season of the year, when
there was aught to sell. As for Andrds, who never in
his life had bought, sold, or exchanged, he veiy soon
The Tenant of Kisfalu 57
learned the full value of the products which the fat
land yielded him.
For three years he learned from the good old priest
how to read, to write, and to reckon; with the patient
stolidity with which he had accepted his daily hard
tasks from his father, he fulfilled now the task his own
shrewd mind had allotted to himself. He soon found
out that the Jews played upon the credulity of the
peasants, that they presented in a distorted aspect the
value of the trifling loans they made, and the usurious
interest they received. To fathom the actual value of
the exchange, the money for the product, Andrds reso-
lutely imposed the task upon himself. The peasant
mind in Hungary is a merry one, full of love for pretty
girls, gay dancing, poetic music, but it is obstinate and
tenacious, and that tenacity Andrds — who knew little
of love or pleasure — ^applied entirely to the furtherance
of his aim.
Little by little, he employed some of his money in im-
proving the old farmhouse, he rendered it comfortable
for his mother to live in, and also — ^he could not him-
self give any reasons for doing it — he added a few
rooms, furnished them cosily with furniture he bought
at Gyongyos, and even papered the walls over the
whitewash, which, when finished, caused a veritable
procession from the two neighbouring villages to see
this hixury which had become far famed.
Gradually, as he felt more at home in his altered cir-
cumstances, and saw his mother more happy and cheer-
ful, he lost that taciturnity which his wounded pride
had as it were built round him, and began to mix more
freely among the peasants in the neighbouring villages.
Soon the sunny nature inherent in every Hungarian
reasserted itself; gradually he took up every habit
58 A Son of the People
which those of his age pursued. He again went to
church with his mother, but now they both stopped at
the porch after Mass, and Andrds ventured on looking
at the pretty girls in their Sunday finery, and on asking
them for a dance or two in the afternoon in the big
bam. He did not find them unapproachable: the be-
lief had gained ground that old Kem6ny had left
masses of money, and that Andrds was wealthy beyond
any Jew for miles round; ay ! some even asserted that
he was becoming almost as rich as the lord of Bide-
skfit himself.
A certain romanticism hung round him, owing to
his lonely childhood, his mysterious learning — which
in the minds of his neighbours had assumed boundless
proportions, — and above all owing to his manly bear-
ing, his fine eyes, which had retained a certain defiant
fierceness, only tempered by his now frequent and
cheerful smile. Soon half the village beauties were in
love with him, and many were the quarrels with jeal-
ous swains that Andrds h&d to fight out, after the Sun-
day afternoon dance. But now the venom had gone
out of his disposition; the quarrels, fierce for a moment,
always ended suddenly by Andrds' s cheerful good-
natured giving in, and by a couple of bottles of the
best wine the county of Heves produced, in which
to drown any lurking feeling of jealousy against the
handsome youth who was so liberal, and such a merry
companion.
But in spite of his attraction towards the fair sex,
Andrds was still single, and still the devoted son in
prosperity which he had been in time of trouble. He
flirted with all, made merry love to many, but not one
of the bevy of pretty girls, who trotted briskly to church
on Stmday mornings, could boast of having induced
The Tenant of Kisfalu 59
the rich Kem^ny Andr&s to think of sharing his fabu-
lous wealth with her. When the older women or men
threw chaffing hints out, as to the probable future mis-
tress of ELisfalu, Andrds would laugh and say:
** Hey ! hey ! but the pity is I love them all, and I
cannot bring the lot to Kisfalu; there is no room, and
my dear mother would not approve, and — if I choose
— ^how can I choose one among a hundred beauties —
without being very rude to the ninety-nine others that
Hove?''
If his mother gently expressed a wish to see at some
future time her grandsons round her knee, Andr&s
would throw his arms round her neck, and kiss her
rough cheeks.
** Mother,'* he would say, ** there is only one saint
in the county of Heves; you are the saint. When an
angel comes down from heaven I will ask her to marry
me; but until then I will be content to love my saint."
The mother sighed, the girls cried, and Andrds,
at five-and-thirty, was still a dutiful son in single
blessedness.
CHAPTER VII
PRINCIPAI, AND INTIBREST
Th^ hostess had drawn a measure of her oldest wine
and placed it on the table which was best shaded from
the sun; she was busy with her apron, wiping off any
particle of dust that may have remained on the table
or bench.
** Hey! but you grow prettier and prettier every day,
Zsuzsi, of my soul ! " said Andrds's hearty voice dose
to her ear, as he put an arm round her buxom waist,
and imprinted a good sound kiss on the nape of her
snow-white neck. " If I were your lord and master,
which, for many reasons, I do wish I were, I would
not know a moment's peace; he must, have a hard
time, keeping the fellows off that slim waist of
yours."
And Andr&s had drawn the pretty woman on his
knee, and was making her blush with the admiring
glances he cast at her, while drinking deep draughts
of her delicious wine.
**Ah, Andrds ! you don't know! that is just the
trouble ! " said the pretty hostess, while a tear or two
moistened her eyes, making them appear even brighter
than before.
** What is the trouble, Lotti ? Tell me. Is it a new
ribbon you want, my dove, or a new silk dress for
Sunday? Tell me what you want, my pigeon, and
60
Principal and Interest 6i
yoti shall have it; only do not cry, in Heaven's name,
for I cannot stand it."
'' No, no ! it is not a ribbon, or even a dress, An-
drds," said the pretty woman, now fairly bursting into
tears. '* What is the good of my good looks when my
husband has ceased to love me ? ' *
'' Ceased to love you, my rose ? Has Kdlmdn gone
blind ? or has he gone squinting in another direction ? ' '
'' I don't know which it is, but I know he does not
love me; Andras," she added, her voice shaking with
tears, '' he has not beaten me for three weeks ! "
Andrds gave a long whistle.
** Whew ! that is serious ! and you? "
'' Oh ! I gave him plenty of cause ! I danced the
csdrdis with Horty Rezso, for two hours, till I was
ready to faint, and actually did drop into his arms, but
when I came home, Kdlmdn, who had been there and
seen it all, and even saw Rezso kiss me after the
csdrdds, went quietly to bed, and never even as much
as boxed my ears."
And the neglected wife burst into a deluge of tears.
** It is very humiliating," she added between her
sobs. ** Panna, last Sunday, could scarcely move her
back, or lift her arm, and Lujza had quite a deep blue
mark across her shoulders. That is real love, if you
like; their husbands must have loved them deeply to
be so jealous that they beat them like that. I could
not show as much as a pinch on my arm, so I wore my
sleeves long to hide my shame."
"There! there! my pretty flower," said Andrds,
consolingly, " leave off crying, and promise to dance
every csdrdds with me next Sunday, and I will swear
that I will squeeze that slim waist of yours so tightly
and look so deeply into your bright eyes, that Kdlmdn
62 A Son of the People
will break his stick across your pretty back for jealous
rage. Come, bring out some wine for that old scare-
crow of a Jew over there; he looks hot and thirsty,
and I want some talk with him, which I cannot do
if his mouth is parched and dry. — Here, give me
another kiss — another — and another. — Why, the
devil take him ! if Kdlmdn saw me now, there would
not be a white spot left on those plimip shoul-
ders of yours, they would be black and blue, fit to
make Panna, Lujza, and the lot of them green with
envy."
Laughing, quite consoled, the buxom landlady ran
back into the cottage, and half reluctantly placed a
large jug of wine before the Jew.
Rosenstein had sat very patiently in his comer, the
last rays of the setting sun falling upon his meagre
back; he looked a comic figure, like some huge scare-
crow outlined against the sky; quietly he had waited
while Kemeny Andrds pursued his flirtation with the
hostess, but his bird-like face brightened up when he
heard the young peasant ordering a measure of wine
for him. He was not accustomed to attentions of this
sort from any one, except from good-natured Andrds,
who knew from his own earlier experiences what it
was to be very hot, very thirsty, and without a bottle
of wine before him.
"Now, my pretty pigeon, go in!" said Andrds,
giving the young woman another parting kiss. " What
I have to say to this old Jew is of no interest to those
pink ears, which are only made to hear words of
love."
" You send me away ? " she said with a pout; ** you
are going to talk secrets and affairs with that horrid
old Rosenstein. Why must I not hear ? I can keep
Principal and Interest 63
secrets — You are not going to borrow money of him,
are you?"
** No, my soul, you may be sure of that," said An-
drds, laughing, ** so run away. The secrets Rosenstein
and I are going to talk about are neither worth the
keeping, nor the gossiping."
The pretty hostess, willy-nilly, had to go; Andr4s
had learned throughout his life the lesson of obedience
so completely that he had an irresistible way of teach-
ing it to all those with whom he came in contact.
He beckoned to Rosenstein, and the Jew, hastily
finishing his wine, came near with that humble obse-
quiousness and deferential smile which those of his
race have for centuries been taught to wear.
"Well, old scarecrow! tired of waiting, eh?" said
Andrds, genially. ** Hey ! hey ! pretty women will
take up such a lot of a fellow's time, and I have wasted
so precious little of it that way in my life that I have a
great deal of love-making to do before I have my full
share of the best side of this world. Come and sit
down here in the shade. — Not too near me !" he
added, laughing, and making way for Rosenstein on
the bench close to him.
The Jew himself was in rare good humour; Andrds's
merry laugh was very infectious, and Rosenstein, be-
tween his thin lips, made a low, chuckling little noise,
which might have passed off for a laugh.
The young peasant pushed jugs and bottles to one
side. Wine is heating, and when talking to a Jew the
head must be kept very cool; a pipe only is always a
good friend and counsellor, and Andrds, throwing back
the wide lawn sleeves of his shirt, leaned both elbows
on the table, and having filled his long cherry-wood
pipe, •* I am listening," he said to the Jew.
64 A Son of the People
Rosenstein had taken out of his pocket one of the
documents signed that morning — unread — by the lord
of Bideskiit. The other reposed snugly in an inner
pocket, and evidently was not intended for any but his
own private perusal.
* * The noble lord of Bideskiit wanted 250,000 florins, ' *
he began; '^ he is starting his steam-mill on its work to-
morrow, and has to pay heavy wages to the Budapesth
workmen, whom he is bound to employ, since the
men about here will not now go within a league
of the building, for fear they should meet the
devil."
** Do you really mean to say," said Andrds, incredu-
lously, '* that that cursed mill is completed, and that
he actually means to work it? "
** Ay, most decidedly he does, in spite of every dis-
satisfied peasant on his estate, in spite of the fact that
Pater Ambrosius specially said Masses for the destruc-
tion by fires from Heaven of the building of Lucifer.
It is, in fact, to begin work to-morrow or tiie day after.
His com, all l3n[ng in magnificent stacks, is ready to
be threshed by the supernatural agency, and that which
is already threshed will be ground into finer flour than
the Bdndt has ever known, at the word of command of
the devil and his satellites."
The Jew had said this with many sarcastic intona-
tions, but Andrds, who, in spite of his learning, had
not quite shaken off all peasant superstitions, listened
to him with awe and incredulity.
** I think my lord is a fool," he said at last; ''if
there was the slightest use or good to be gained by em-
ploying three men instead of twenty, and spending the
wages of two hundred in doing so, I could understand
it. But this flour will not be any finer by it, and he
Principal and Interest 65
will enrage every peasant on his estate He is a
fool ! ''
** He certainly is under the impression that he will
become the richest man this side of the Tama, and in
the meanwhile is busy ruining himself in trying to
become rich. However, according to your wish, I
handed him over the 250,000 florins on the following
security and interest —
c<
Hold on, old man! I said I would not lend any
more. I wish to buy.**
Rosenstein shook his head.
'* I did all I could. I offered what money my lord
cared to ask. He will not sell.'*
A look of very deep disappointment clouded over the
young peasant's face, the hand which held the pipe
closed so tightly over the slender stem that it nearly
broke it in half.
** He is a fool," he repeated after a slight pause.
** The loans are not for a great number of years and,
though the interest is low, he will never be able to re-
pay the capital, which he is spending entirely on that
confounded machinery and building of his. Sooner
or later he will have to part with the land. I want it
now, to-day. I am rich. I would pay him any money
he wants. He is a fool."
** The noble lord says he will not part with a foot of
his land to a peasant or to a Jew."
** Then, by God ! — " said AndrSs, bringing his
heavy fist crashing down upon the table.
The shaft which the Jew had with wondrous cun-
ning aimed at his client had struck home. The insult
supposed to have been hurled at the peasant by brack-
eting him with one of the despised race made Andrds's
cheeks livid with rage, but the old habit of self-
66 A Son of the People
restraint got the better of him. Before this man whom
he employed he forced himself to remain calm, and re-
peated very quietly:
" He is a fool ! "
** Look," said the Jew, eagerly, ** your position is
better and better every year. Bideskiity Gyuri has
now mortgaged every foot of his land to you, with the
exception of the house and garden of Bideskiit itself,
and a few stables round. Mark my words, the money
you lent him to-day, on the security of Zdrda, will not
last him six months at the present rate at which he is
spending every florin he gets.. Six months hence he
will want some more, and then, more and more again.
You have plenty, you could let him have plenty, but
he will not have a foot of land left to mortgage. Then
you can foreclose at a small additional sacrifice; and
the land is yours.*'
** He will then try and get the money with which to
meet his debts from those whom he calls his equals,"
said Andr&s, surlily.
" They never have any ready money to spare, those
noble lords on the lowlands; they spend every kreutzer
they have in eating, drinking, and trying to outdo their
neighbours in splash and gorgeousness; moreover,
since you were willing to lend more money on the
land than it is honestly worth, no one would care to
take on the mortgages."
** No more they would if the money had been lent by
one of your tribe, and the usurious interest almost
ruined the owner of the land. What I ask is so low.
Any one can pay it and yet make a large profit for
themselves."
** I know ! I know ! " said the Jew, hastily. ** I
have often advised you to ask more reasonable interest."
Principal and Interest 67
** I cannot do usury. I must place my money since
I have got it, and I wish to buy the land, but my
mother and I will not dirty our fingers with usury.
What interest is my lord paying me for this last
250,000?"
** Five thousand measures of wheat, forty head of
cattle, and fifty sheep,*' said Rosenstein, handing the
document across to Andrds. Anxiously he watched
the young man's face, while he read.
** Yes, that is all right enough," said Andrds, folding
the paper and putting it into his pocket.
** I wonder now," he added, ** what profit you are
making out of this."
** You know best, that I make none, save what you
are good enough to give me."
** Well, I gave you two hundred florins to do this
work, are you satisfied ? "
* ' Oh, perfectly, perfectly. I am a poor man and * *
" If ever I hear that you have cheated me in any of
these dealings, I will break every bone in that shriv-
elled-up old body of yours."
" You are joking ! How could I cheat you ? even if
I wished, which I swear by Abraham I would never
think of doing. You have seen the document signed
by the lord of Bideskiit; you do not imagine he would
sign without reading ? "
" No, I don't imagine he would be quite such a fool !
but I daresay he gives you a little something for your-
self: does n't he?"
**Well — yes — he offered me one hundred florins
this morning, and," added the Jew with a peculiar
hissing sound between his teeth, ** he gave me a good
dinner."
**Ah! well then! that is all right, old scarecrow!
68 A Son of the People
is n't it ? You do not often have a good dinner ; you
are too mean to feed yourself properly. So he fed you
well, did he ? I am glad of that. I hope you thanked
him well."
" There was no time to do much thanking to-day,"
said the Jew, ** but my thanks will keep. I hope in
about two years' time to have repaid him in full, for
the good dinner he gave me this morning. He ! he !
he ! " he added, rubbing his thin hands gleefully to-
gether, " I am deeply in the debt of the most honour-
able lord ! but Moritz Rosenstein never forgets, give
him two years, and he will repay, he won't mind the
interest, he ! he ! he !. he! he will pay that too — ^in
full."
Andrds had ceased to listen to him; he had taken out
Bideskiity's note of hand, and read it through very
carefully. Evidently he was fully satisfied with its
contents, for again he folded it up, and replaced it in
the inner pocket of his jacket.
Dreamily he continued smoking, taking no heed of
Rosenstein, his gaze riveted far across the plain to-
wards that distant sunset, beyond which lay that loved
land which, from his childhood, he had tended and
tilled, in sorrow and with bitter tears, for the tyrant
who now lay underground. To aa^uire that land, and
now make it all his own, was the dream which filled
his mind, unformed, half-educated as it was. It was
a dream that had risen within him fi'om the moment
he realised that wealth was within his grasp. For
that one aim, he toiled by day and studied by night.
No labour was too hard, no task too difficult. He
knew the noble's hereditary contempt for the peasant,
guessed that it would be a hard matter to force the lord
of Bideskdt to sell his land to the despised, low-born
Principal and Interest 69
peasant, thus laying as it were the seeds of equality be-
tween them, but in time he hoped he would win, al-
ready he held heavy mortgage on that land he loved so
well. It was almost, but not quite, his own. Rosen-
stein promised that soon it would be his. Lovingly he
scanned the flat horizon, tried to look beyond the sun-
set, past the barren plain, whose soil now looked cool
and grey, in contrast to the brilliant gold of the last
rays of the setting sun. There lay Kisfalu with its rich
fields, its green vineyards, the house where he was
bom, where lived his mother, where, please God and
his own indomitable will, his son would also be bom,
live and die in peace, his own ground, his own land,
his ! his ! his I
As for Rosenstein, he was nursing pleasant dreams
of wealth coupled with vengeance. He was content to
sit quietly, and think over the time when the proud
man, who had made him the jest and jeer of his serv-
ants, would perforce be leaving his ancestral home, and
he, the despised Jew, who had received many a caning
within its walls, would buy it, under the hammer; for
beneath it, it would come; nothing could save it, con-
sidering the usurious interest Bideskiity Gyuri was
pa3dng unbeknown to the proud young peasant, who
had learned much, but not enough to be quite even
with a Jew.
** It is getting late, Andrds,'* said the pretty hostess,
coming to the door; "you have a good three hours'
ride before you, if you are going back to Kisfalu,
remember."
'^ I am going back home," said Andrds, rousing
himself from his day-dreams. ''Come and kiss me for
being such an attentive time-keeper. Here are ten
florins for the wine I have drunk, and the oats Csillag
70 A Son of the People
has eaten, and mind 3*00 have that new bit of ribbon
in your hair next Sunday, and won't we make Kdlmdn
jealous over the csdrdds ? Two hours, mind ! heigho !
Csillag, my beauty, are you rested? and has that
featherbrain of a woman given you a good measure of
oats ? Here, old scarecrow, next week I shall want to
see you about some lambs you can sell for me. I have
two hundred beauties. I shall want a heavy price for
them. You can come over to Kisfalu. We shall be
busy threshing. Good-night, my pigeon; give us a
kiss and tell Kdlmdn he is a blind fool. God be with
you ! Come, Csillag ! ''
And saddleless, stirrupless, without use of bit or rein,
Andrds jumped on his lovely mare, and waving a last
adieu to the pretty hostess, galloped away towards the
sunset, and was soon but a mere speck upon the vast
horizon.
Rosenstein looked a long time after him. His pale
eyes twinkled, his lips parted in an acid smile, his thin
hand felt coaxingly for the second document signed by
Bideskiity Gyuri, which contained some clauses that
would have cost the Jew many a broken bone at the
hands of the young man who had galloped away so
merrily. Then he too turned his back upon the inn,
and went his way.
CHAPTER VIII
FIRST ARRIVAM
**I THINK, after all, I will wear my blue sash and
bows, R6za, the pink will make me look so pale. Oh,
dear ! oh, dear ! how late it is ! I have heard the
czigdny tune up half an hour ago; I shall never get
dressed to-day.*'
And the little maid rushed hither and thither, bust-
ling round her young mistress, changing the blue sash
for the pink, then, back again to the blue, arranging
a stray golden curl, putting a stitch here and there,
eager, excited, and proud. Proud of such a mistress,
the prettiest heiress in the lowlands. Bideskiity Ilonka,
then barely seventeen, was reputed to be the beauty of
the countryside, the fairest in that land where all
women are fair, with the graceful, yet full figure of the
Hungarian race, the peach-like skin, the golden hair,
and forget-me-not eyes, that are calculated to drive any
inflammable Magyar heart to despair. Since, accord-
ing to the noble hostess of Bideskiit, it is the duty of
every aristocratic Hungarian girl to be beautiful, Ilonka
certainly fulfilled that duty to absolute perfection, and
the Countess, her mother, had little fear but that her
daughter would fulfil her other duty with equal per-
fection, and make the most suitable marriage her fond
motherly heart could desire.
Downstairs the agitation was becoming positively
71
12 A Son of the People
dectrical. The Countess herself, in the tight-fitting
silk dress that had formed part of her trousseau, and
had passed through many stages of promiscuous and
antiquated attempts at modernisation, was giving her
final look round to the gorgeously laid-out table in the
big hall. The heavy oak buffet, which stood the whole
length of the hall, almost broke down under the weight
of the huge dishes of meat and fish of every description,
that filled every available corner, whilst the two horse-
shoe tables literally creaked beneath the enormous
baskets of grapes and melons which threw a penetrat-
ing scent around.
Gigantic bottles of wine stood ready to hand, between
each of two guests, and a couple of huge casks on tall
trestles each side of the buffet were ready tapped, in
case the bottles did not prove sufficient. The valets in
their best tight-fitting Magyar frock coats, and still
tighter breeches, with boots of the shiniest leather,
lined the lower hall below, awaiting the arrivals. Out-
side a band of czigdny, the czimbalom player in the
middle, the leader well to the fore, had turned ready
to strike up the Rdk6czy march directly the distant
cracking of a whip would announce the first arrvial.
The Countess Irma expected one or two of the nearer
neighbours in time for mid-day dinner: they would
come in their own coaches all the way from either side
of the Tama. Bideskiit had supplied the relays for
those of the guests who came from a considerable dis-
tance, and already the day before carriages had gone
off in every direction from which the main road branched
off and visitors might be expected to arrive; whilst the
smartest coaches harnessed with the pick of the Bide-
sktit stables had been sent overnight to Gyongyos, to
t)rin^ from the railway statioQ there thos^ wjio fjroiij
First Arrivals 73
the still more distant counties were obliged to travel by
train. These would mostly be the younger and smarter
people, who had been to Budapesth, or even to Vienna,
and had become accustomed to those terrible inventions
of Satan, akin to Bidesktity's threshing machines, the
railway trains. All older people preferred the mode of
travelling that had been good enough for their fathers
and their grandfathers — the cumbersome but comfort-
able barouche harnessed with four sure-footed Hun-
garian horses from their own herds, who did not rush
along at devilish speed on metal tracks, which surely
never were forged anywhere but in Satan's own work-
shop.
Huzza ! Hurrah ! The distant shouts, the thunder-
ing gallop of horses, and clinking of harness, an-
nounced about eleven o'clock the first arrivals. ' * Tune
up, czigdny ! " thunders Bideskuty's voice from an up-
per window, and at a sign from the leader the czim-
balom starts the opening bars of that most inspiriting
Rdk6czy march. . . . Here they come! the Kan-
t&ssys, the nearest neighbours, who only live some
twenty leagues away, and have driven over in two
carriages full; they are a large family, and bring sev-
eral servants. Intensely Magyar in character is their
turn-out, their coachmen and grooms wearing the na-
tional costume, full white lawn trousers and sleeves that
flutter in the wind, short, gaily-embroidered leather
jacket, round cap, and shiny boots. With the most
dexterous precision the driver guides his fiery team of
five Hungarian horses, three leaders and two wheelers,
through the wide-open gates of Bidesktit, to a perfect
standstill before the door. Their brilliant red leather
harness, with their quaint tassels, and shiny brass
l^osses, glitters and jingles in th^ hot mid-day air.
74 A Son of the People
Three prettily dressed girls, two young men, the portly
Count Kantdssy, and his thin, sour-looking wife, all
step out of the big coaches, and find their way, chatter-
ing, eager, and excited, through the hall, and up the
stairs past the Hun warrior's frowning statue.
** Isten hozta / " (God has brought you), many hand-
shakes and kisses are exchanged, as Jank6 solemnly
opens the sitting-room door where Bideskuty and his
wife await their guests.
**Why, Mariska, how tall you have grown! and,
Sarolta, I would not have known you, and little Em-
mike is growing a pretty girl after all!" says the
hostess, as each of the young girls, with a little curtsey,
comes up daintily to kiss her hand.
The Countess Kantdssy's eldest daughter, and her
own Ilonka, were of an age, and decidedly likely to be
rival beauties; but Countess Irma noted with satisfac-
tion that Mariska had two pimples on her forehead,
which showed very conspicuously, though her mother
had made her bring a curl right down on purpose to
hide them.
The girls stand aside, modest and blushing, while
their parents talk; the mothers, after the first few re-
marks on the subject of the bad roads, are already
discussing the probable partis in view; the fathers ex-
patiating on the perfection of the harvest this year, and
the promise of a glorious vintage.
**I cannot tell you, my dear," whispers Countess
Kantdssy, volubly, ** how much Bart6cz Zsiga admires
Mariska; he would in every way be a suitable parti for
her, but unfortunately he is, as you know, in the dip-
lomatic, and in France and in England he has gathered
a notion that girls ought to do other things besides
looking pretty. I believe those foreign girls are ter-
First Arrivals 75
ribly forward; some of them read novels, and go out
by themselves. Thank goodness ! there is nothing of
the sort about Mariska; she is as modest and innocent
as ever I could wish."
* * She is indeed a pretty girl ! ' ' says the hostess, with
a decided want of conviction, ''and Bart6cz Zsiga
would be an excellent parH for her. Of course, you
know that we have refused him for Ilonka.''
** You surprise me, my dear/' replied the Countess,
with some acidity. " I should have thought that
Ilonka was not at all his style. Only the other day he
was saying that he thought she was too fair. Don't
you think so yourself? No? Ah, well ! perhaps you
may be fortunate in finding a man who admires that
pale complexion; I found that Mariska's pink cheeks
were immensely admired."
" Ilonka, so far, has never lacked admirers," rejoins
the hostess, sweetly; ** indeed, we find it quite an occu-
pation to refuse marriage proposals for her, she has so
many."
** Well, you see, dearest," retorts the Countess Kan-
tdssy, as a parting shot, ** she is an only child, and
men know that she will inherit the whole of £ideskiit
and Kisfalu, and that she will have Zdrda as a dowry.
. , . But where is the dear child ? " she adds, feel-
ing that, perhaps, the conversation was becoming un-
comfortable. ** Mariska, my child, I feel sure Countess
Irma will allow you to go to Ilonka, who must have
finished dressing ; you will be glad to see each
other."
"Yes, mama!"
" Sarolta and Kmmike may go too."
"Yes, mama!"
And the three girls, glad to get away from the
76 A Son of the People
overawing presence of their elders, prepared to leave
the room.
" Stay, Mariska ! you may all three take o£f your
hats and gloves, and arrange yonr hair, before you
come down again."
'•Yes, mama!"
And like little birds out of their cage, the three
girls, making an old-fashioned curtsey, fluttered out of
the room.
"They are charming!" says the hostess, conde-
scendingly.
" I think they are very well brought up," admits
the fond mother, proudly.
'' My good friend," here breaks in the stentorian
voice of the portly Count Kantdssy, ** believe me,
your craze about those absurd machines is absolutely
without common-sense. Did not your father and my
father, your grandfather and my grandfather, sow and
reap the finest com in the world, and grind it into the
whitest flour, without the help of those outlandish in-
ventions ? What do you hope to get with them ? ex-
cept to fall into the hands of the Jews; for those things
cost money, which, so far, thank God, none of us have
had any need of."
** My dear fellow, in England — " began Bideskdty
with a wise expression of face.
'' Hey ! do not talk to me about that accursed coun-
try. What do I know about it, except that it is near
the sea, that their corn is coarser than that which we
give to our pigs, and that they make wine out of goose-
berries ? I ask you what can they know about com ?
or about grapes ? Why the devil don't they produce
them with their inventions of Satan ? "
** Think of thQ labour and the fatigue it will save ! "
N
«
\
First Arrivals n
" Whose labour ? whose fatigue ? That of the lazy,
good-for-nothing peasant. You give him more leisure
to enrich himself, till he will own more land than we
do, and drive us nobles out of our homes, very much
like those cursed Jews are beginning to do. As long
as you make the peasant work for you, and give him
no wages and plenty of kicks, he will respect and fear
you. Give him time to work for himself, to bepome
rich, to own big lands, and he will begin to think that
he is your equal, and want to kneel beside you at
church in your pew, and think that his son can marry
your daughter.*'
*' There is no difficulty in keeping the peasant in his
proper place, even the rich ones; now there is Kem6ny
Andrds, who rents my farm at Kisfalu. That man is
reputed to own some four or five millions of money,
which his miserly old father is said to have left in wine
barrels, and yet he is perfectly content to rent Kisfalu
from me; and I am sure, whenever I meet him, he al-
ways most politely takes his cap off to me, as his
ground landlord.**
*' And you mean to tell me that there is a peasant on
your estate who owns millions of money? Some-
body has been stuffing you up with fairy tales, my
friend.**
''It is no fairy tale, though the amount may be a
trifle exaggerated; he certainly has a very great deal of
money, and does a good trade, I am told, with his
beasts and his wine."
'* Well, then, I call it confoundedly impudent of a
peasant to be so rich. I wonder he has not offered to
buy some of your land from you ! **
" No, he has never done that. Some people think
he does quiet money-lending on his own account, but
78 A Son of the People
that I cannot say. I have never had anything to do
with him."
** No, but I suppose you have a Jew or two with
whom you deal?" suggested Count Kantdssy, with a
loud laugh. ** Those confounded mills must have cost
a pot of money."
** Yes, they have," said poor Bideskuty, shaking his
head at the remembrance of the ruinous transaction he
concluded yesterday; ** and those confounded Jews
charge such terrible percentage. I soon shall not have
enough flour of my own to provide this house with
bread. I should not mind if that miserly Kem6ny
Andrds would buy a bit of land from me."
** Has he never asked you to sell him Kisfalu ? "
** Never, that I know of; that is the curious thing
about it all. I often wish he would, because, of course,
I cannot offer the property to him."
" He seems to be sensible enough to know his own
place," retorted the Count; " a peasant indeed ! own-
ing that beautiful Kisfalu."
** He has, in any case, plenty of money. What he
does with it I cannot imagine. After all, the dream
of every peasant ever since they were made free is to
own a bit of land all his own."
** A piece of land, his own ? " rejoins the irate Count.
** My good Bideskiity, where in the world have yon
picked up those new-fangled notions ? Do they come
across from England, together with those God-forsaken
machines? Because, if so, believe me, let the whole
lot sink to the bottom of the sea, together with that
beer-producing country, which may the devil take
away. Their own indeed ! Time was, when I was a
youngster, when let alone the land, but even their lazy,
good-for-nothing bodies belonged to the nobles, they
First Arrivals 79
and their sons, ay, and their daughters too ! And now
you talk of their owning land, their becoming rich!
Preposterous ! "
And the fat old Count, portly and apoplectic, turned
away in disgust from his friend who held such ridicu-
lous notions, in order to appeal to the lady who had
begun life by stating that '* humanity began with the
Barons," and from whom, therefore, he was always
sure of warm support. " Whom do you expect to-
day?" asked Countess Kantdssy, throwing herself
nobly in the breach. She was not quite sure whether
her husband's last remark was altogether good form,
and thought a change of conversation would be
beneficial.
** We expect most of our guests, who come by train.
The Egregyis, I think, are sure to drive, for you know
Aunt Irma has never been on the railway in her life;
they might not arrive till to-morrow, as the roads have
been very bad all the way. But the Bart6cz, the Ma-
ddchs, the Palotays, and two or three more, will be here
almost directly. I believe the train comes in some
time during the morning," she added vaguely; **it
usually has a long wait at Palota, for the Baroness is
never ready, and they always wait for her."
** I do believe here they are ! " says Bideskiity with
delight, sure now to escape another assault from his
friend on the subject of his beloved machines.
CHAPTER IX
BKAUTIFUI. II<ONKA
Thundering gallop outside, shouting, yelling, and
laughter, proclaim the arrival of the carriages farom
Gyongyos railway station. In a moment the huge
house is filled as with a crowd. Groups of young g^rls
fluttering like chickens round their mamas, portly
papas mopping their beading foreheads — for the sun is
grilling on this August day, — maids, valets, and cour-
iers seeking and finding their sweethearts they had left
last year, stealing kisses, exchanging ^^ Isten hoztas**
(God has brought you), till the hall, the stairs, and
passages would seem to a sober<minded Englishman a
very pandemonium, peopled with semi-lunatics.
The hostess has to find an amiable word for all: one
of praise for the beauty of every girl, of admiration for
the bearing of every young man; compliments to the
mamas and papas on the charms of their progeny. As
for Bideskiity, the host, he is laughingly assailed on
all sides by inquiries after his machines and his mills:
the laughing-stock of all these easy-going, prosperous,
aristocratic sons of the Hungarian soil. Surely it is
folly to talk of improving a land that produces so much
prosperity, that yields such boundless hospitality.
The young girls, with becoming shyness, keep close
to their mamas' petticoats; each comes forward in the
approved fashion to kiss the Countess Irma's hand,
80
N
Beautiful Ilonka 8i
and receive a friendly tap on the blushing cheek.
The young men dap their heels together and make the
most military of salutes. Most of them are still in the
"one year's volunteer's" uniform of some cavalry
regiment ; some show by their more serious manner
and the foreign cut of their clothes that they are
preparing for the diplomatic service; others in rough
homespuns, and tight-fitting Hungarian breeches and
shiny leather boots, intend, obviously, to serve neither
country nor government, but to stay at home, as their
fathers have done, and superintend the tilling of the
land that will become their own.
** But where is Ilonka ? " is the general question that
comes from every side; while Kantdssy, with the privi-
lege of an old friend, and a noted wag, declares that he
will go and fetch her, even if she is still in her bath.
The Countess Kantdssy has just time to protest: " In
Heaven's name, Jeno, do be careful how you speak ! "
and to note with satisfaction that the innocent ears of
her daughters have been spared their father's profligate
talk, when a merry peal of laughter is heard from the
garden below, and old Baron Palotay, who is a near
relative, playfully rushes to one of the windows, and
pulls the curtains to.
"Only for money!" he declares. "The sight is
worth a florin a-piece."
And indeed the picture outside was worth a heavy
price to see. In a simple white muslin dress, her fair
hair tied in a graceful knot at the back of her tiny
head, her wide-brimmed hat fallen down her back, thus
framing the daintiest face that ever smiled on mankind,
Ilonka was plucking a few roses, her only ornaments,
and tying them in a knot for her belt. No wonder the
younger men crowded to the windows to watch the
6
J
82 A Son of the People
dainty apparition, no wonder the mamas looked envy-
ingly at the fairest among the fair, no wonder the
Countess Irma, with characteristic pride, looked tri-
umphantly at her female guests, and musingly at the
group of men, from which she would have no difficulty
in selecting a most suitable /ar^'.
Five minutes later the radiant apparition, followed
by the three Kantdssy girls, whose by no means de-
spicable beauty acted but as a foil to her own charms,
came in fresh and rosy, as merry as a lark, conscious
of her own beauty, like a very little queen, gladdening
her courtiers with her presence.
** An old uncle's privilege, my dear," asserted old
Palotay, as he imprinted a kiss on the pretty girl's
cheeks, and all the young men looked as if they wished
their hair would suddenly turn white, and earn them
the same coveted privilege.
But Ilonka smiled and curtsied to all with equal
grace, kissed the fat or lean hands of the elder ladies,
allowed, smiling, every elderly man to kiss her pretty
cheek. Only the sharp eyes of her mother noted the
scarcely perceptible blush, the faint quiver of the deli-
cate eyelid, the softly whispered ** God has brought
you ! " when she first caught sight of Maddch Feri.
He was a young man who still wore the one year's
volunteer's uniform of a Hussar regiment; tall and
slenderly built, he looked exceedingly handsome in the
tight-fitting tunic and scarlet breeches that made a
bright patch of colour beside Ilonka' s white gown.
But his father had wasted his son's patrimony in over-
lavish hospitality; the ancestral home had fallen into
the hands of the Jews, and the Maddchs lived in a
small house at Kecskemet, and could not afford to put
their son into the diplomatic service. There had been
Beautiful Ilonka 83
some talk of his marrying the daughter of a rich Vien-
nese merchant. But, most unaccountably, the young
man seemed obstinate, and old Count Maddch appar-
ently had no influence over his son, and allowed him
to remain single when a rich marriage, which would
have retrieved the fallen fortunes and regilt the an-
cestral coronet, should have been contracted long ago.
Feri was said to have a leaning for the army, which
was not considered a very aristocratic profession for a
descendant of the ancient family of Maddch, whose an-
cestry was lost in the mazes of the Tartar invasion.
No wonder, therefore, that Countess Irma frowned
when she noted her daughter's blush, and heard the
tone of that ^* Isten kozta^' (God be with you), so
sweet and so heartfelt. Ilonka, however, unconscious
of the gathering storm, stood happy and blushing now,
laughing merrily, promising dances for this evening's
ball, and agreeing to innumerable riding, boating, and
fishing parties for the next few days.
Five minutes later, the big hall clock strikes the hour
of two, and punctual to the minute old Jank6 opens the
doors, and announces that the Countess is served.
All are equal in this hospitable house, there is no
formula of etiquette or precedence; jovially the host
and hostess show the way, and young and old, with
much laughter and pleasant anticipation, file into the
dining-hall. Already the gipsy band is stationed at
one end; as the guests come in, they start the merriest
csdrdds, and keep it up till every one has found the
place they wanted most, next to the person near whom
they would prefer to sit.
At the head of the table the good-looking face of
the host beams delighted on his guests ; whilst at the
opposite end the Countess, enthroned like a queen,
84 A Son of the People
listens to the various compliments on the beauty of her
table-decorations, the size of her fruit, the picturesque-
ness of her garden. Perhaps she is aware that half
the flattering speeches are but the usages of a flowery
language, the custom of the country; she has to do the
same when she, in her turn, visits her neighbours, al-
though she may be convinced that all her arrangements,
her household, and her cuisine are superior to those of
every other mortal in the world. Still flattery is pleas-
ant to listen to, when one is convinced that, in any
case, it falls far beneath the reality.
Well out of sight of her mother, Ilonka sits, blushing
and happy. Feri has, with wonderful tactics, secured
a seat next to her, and, with delight, the young people
can look forward to sitting side by side for at least
three hours; for surely all that food and drink will
take their elders some time to consume. With a loud
^^ J^ljen/'* (Long live!) directed with full glasses to-
wards the host and hostess, the company have fallen to;
and for fully five minutes, while the first hunger is ap-
peased with a plateful of steaming soup, nought inter-
rupts the merry music of the czigdny, save the dink of
glasses, and of silver spoons.
The servants go round briskly to fill and refill the
glasses as they become rapidly empty; and after the
first few minutes the tongues are loosened again.
Poor Bideskiity has to endure a vigorous attack from
every side on the eternal subject of his new mill and
machinery. Obstinate, he holds his ground, propounds
his theories, of which he himself is not very clear. The
entire bevy of his older guests, all in his own rank of
life, and most of them prosperous, rich landowners,
prophesy the most dire disasters, which are sure to
befall him, if he persist in his new-fangled notions
Beautiful Ilonka 85
brought from abroad, from the blowing up of the in-
fernal machine by the revengeful flames of heaven to
the revolt of the entire peasantry against these inven-
tions of the devil. The idea of any improvement in
the way in which many generations had carried on
their farming was, to these Magyar nobles, nothing
short of the ravings of a lunatic; it was an unheard-of
precedent in the history of the Hungarian lowlands.
But the lord of Bideskut had nursed his fad ever
since, a young boy, his father had first tried to drive it
out of his head; fostered by opposition, it had grown
to a conviction. He was sanguine of success. In
order to pander to his craze originally he had dipped
pretty deeply in borrowed coffers; now, like the true
gambler, he staked more and more, secure in the con-
viction that ultimately fortune would be his, a bound-
less fortune, built on the secure foundation of his
highly improved produce obtained at a minimum cost
of time and labour.
Bideskiity had with infinite patience perused a
number of heavy books which he had sent for from
Budapesth, and had persuaded himself that he was
thoroughly imbued with the progressive notions of
Western countries. In imagination he saw himself
the recognised authority on matters agricultural from
the confines of Poland to the shores of the I^jtha.
Prom the perusal of those heavy books he had gath-
ered, with an infinitesimal and somewhat addled
quantity of knowledge, a certain desire for something
different to his present mode of life; he began to dream
of riches; he who came from a race that were content
to live from the product of the soil began to have
vague, undefined longings for other luxuries besides
that of fine white bread and rich old wines; the word
86 A Son of the People
"progress" was just beginning to have a distinct
though still obscure meaning for him, and he was be-
ginning to realise that the life of a Hungarian noble on
his estate might perhaps be better filled than by watch-
ing his com grow, or breaking wild horses into harness.
Sometimes the original old man would crop up, as
when he found amusement in terrorising Rosenstein,
but, on the whole, a vague feeling of his dignity as
a man lurked in his mind beside the empty pride of
ancestry.
At the farther end of the table, Ilonka had at last
broken the happy silence.
** They told me you were not coming," she said,
after they each had eaten their soup.
** But you knew better," he rejoined.
** Well, I did not know. I heard you had been to
Budapesth for the carnival, and I thought "
** You could not have thought anything but that you
are fairer than the most beautiful girl I could meet any-
where, and that whenever I looked at a pretty face in
Budapesth I thought all the more of you."
** You thought of me?" she said with playful as-
tonishment.
**You know I did, Ilonka," said the young man
with suppressed passion, ** you know I "
** Hush ! hush ! " she said nervously, ** mama is
looking, and I am sure Madame de Kantdssy can
hear."
He had perforce to whisper very low, so low that not
even the flies could hear as they buzzed lazily overhead.
But Ilonka must have heard something, something that
made her blush, and cast her blue eyes down on her
plate. It was very pleasant to be talking thus, to be
nibbling slily at the forbidden fruit, whilst mama's eyes
Beautiful Ilonka 87
had perforce to wander everywhere, and the noise of
talk and laughter, and that of the gay czigdny band,
drowned the sound of the young man's whispered
words.
** I shall pass my officer's examination next month,
Ilonka," said Feri, tentatively.
««Yes?"
** And then I shall pray for another war against the
Prussians."
** Why ? you might have to go and get killed."
"Yes, I might," he said smiling, **that certainly
would be a most complete solution of the difficulty.
But, if I lived to do something great, enormous, which
would draw the attention of my country on my poor
self, then, perhaps "
** Yes," she said, ** then— perhaps."
They both lapsed into silence, and from Ilonka' s
eyes a tear fell down on the bunch of roses in her belt.
** Perhaps ! " They both knew what a vague word
that was; they both felt that however great their love,
however deep their sorrow, their whole fate and hap-
piness depended on that problematical ** perhaps," the
consent of the parents, without which no well-bom
girl in Hungary could marry, slave as she is to their
old-fashioned whims, their considerations of rank and
wealth, all the glitter which is necessary to the old, and
seems so paltry, so tawdry to the young.
** Ilonka, you have made me very happy," said the
young man, after a slight pause.
" Happy ? How ? " she asked innocently.
** By sajring * perhaps.* "
The servants were handing round the meat, the fruit,
tlie salads. All round them was noise, gaiety, loud
laughter, sometimes coarse jest. These two sat, like
88 A Son of the People
tiny birds hidden beneath overhanging boughs, secure
from storm and stress of weather without, content to
steal a few glances from each other's eyes, to snatch a
word of what lay nearest to their heart, in the intervals
of evading the prying eyes of their elders.
" Beautiful Ilonka is very silent over there," came in
loud, laughing accents from the farther end of the
table, and old Kantdssy, boisterous and good-hu-
moured, raised an overflowing glass of wine high
above his head.
** I drink to the prettiest girl on the lowlands," he
added rising. ** Beautiful Ilonka, to your bright eyes,
to your pink cheeks, and your merry laugh, which I
have not heard this last half-hour."
This was an excuse for refilling the glasses, and all
the young people got up, and walked round to where
Ilonka was sitting, blushing to the very roots of her
hair, and touched glasses with her, and said, ** J^ljen ! "
(Long live!); the young girls all kissed her, the young
men looked as if they wanted to, the old ones took
leave without permission; and so the hubbub lasted for
quite a long time, every one's attention being drawn to
Ilonka, so that the one topic of conversation which in-
terested her was perforce interrupted during that time.
Presently, however, young Bart6cz, who was just
out of the Oriental Academy, and was going into the
diplomatic service, rose to make an elaborate speech in
honour of the hostess' s birthday . Every one was deeply
interested, and Ilonka had occasion to whisper sadly:
'' It is not much use thinking of it; mama will never
consent."
** What do you think your father will say, Ilonka ? "
She shook her pretty head wisely.
*' Papa is too much worried with his machines and
Beautiful Ilonka 89
his arguments witti the peasants: h^; mil listen to any-
thing mama says, in order to have peace at home.'*
*' Ilonka, I wish we had lived many hundred years
ago."
'*Why?"
** Because, then, I could have come on Kop^Vs back,
in the middle of the night, and climbed the walls of
Bideskiit with the aid of a rope and carried you away
with me by force, in spite of mother and father and
everybody. Money did not matter in «hose. days, nor
family either. All were equal, and a man could marry
whom he loved."
" Yes, that must have been nice not to have had to
ask mama whom one may love."
**You cannot ask that now, Ilonka," he corrected
seriously; ** nobody can dictate to you as to whom you
should love."
** What is the use of loving," she rejoined innocently,
** if you may not marry whom you love?"
** There is much joy to me, Ilonka, in loving you,
even though "
'' Hush ! hush ! I am sure mama is looking this
way."
The young man from the Oriental Academy had
finished speaking; once more the ceremony had to be
gone through of touching glasses with the hostess, and
wishing her a happy birthday. Ilonka was obliged,
like every one else, to go up to her mother, to kiss her
hand, and speak a short speech of felicitations. Her
young heart, still only half understanding the emotions
that threatened to fill it, went out for one moment to
the mother who held her whole fate in her hands.
When she had wished her pretty birthday wish, instead
of demurely kissing her mother's hand, she threw her
go A Son of the People
arms impetuously round her neck and asked for a lov-
ing kiss.
" Ilonka, my child, you will crush your dress,*' said
the Countess Irma, reprovingly.
And Ilonka, vaguely feeling as if she had done some-
thing wrong, something she knew not what, went back
to her place quite shy and tearful.
CHAPTER X
A I,OVK IDYI.I,
Aftkr this, gaiety became decidedly more boister-
ous; the men-servants were kept constantly busy, fill-
ing and re-filling the glasses and the bottles out of the
great casks, one of these having already run dry. The
czigdny were not allowed, even for a moment, to stop
the music, and, hot and panting, they kept up the
lively csdrdds with much spirit. The good Hungarian
wine was getting into the heads of some of the noble
Hungarian barons there, and a quantity of wine in
their heads invariably produces the most passionate
fondness for the national songs of their country.
** Here, czigdny!" said G6za V6csery, a man of vast
property in the county of Zempl6n, of which he was
Lord Lieutenant, "play me that favourite song of mine,
* Kdka favfn kbit a rucza I * Play it so that you draw
every tear from my eyes, and every florin from out my
pockets."
And Binecz Mark6 began with tender tones on his
instrument to bring forth the melancholy sounds of
that sweetest of Hungarian songs.
While everybody talked as merrily as ever, G6za
V6csery had drawn a chair close to the czigdny band,
and, sitting astride upon it, with a half-empty bottle of
wine in his hand, he gave himself over to the delights
91
92 A Son of the People
of listening to his favourite tune, letting his head beat
time to the quaint rhythm. For fully half an hour he
sat there, forcing the czigdny to repeat the same tune
over and over again, while, to testify to his intense en-
joyment, tears flowed thick and fast down his cheeks,
for truly ** Sfrva vigad a Magyar/ ** (The Hungarian
weeps whilst he makes merry).
He evidently had quite forgotten the end of the din-
ner, for he took no further heed of anything round him,
his enthusiasm seemed to grow at every repetition;
his ''Ujraf (Encore!) waxed louder and more
imperative.
** Slower! *' he shrieked at times; at others ** Faster! "
or " Louder ! *' ** Do not go to sleep, you lazy dog ! '*
or '' What has happened to that cursed fiddle of thine?
It has no tone ! Ah, I understand,** he added, rising
excitedly, ''it is thirsty, it wants to drink, and this
wine is a drink fit for angels; here, czigdny, fiddle !
drink ! drink ! it will revive you I drink, I say ! "
And, not very steady on his feet, the lyord Lieutenant
rose, and taking the fiddle out of the leader's hand, he
laughingly poured the whole contents of the bottle he
was holding into its body.
Nobody took much notice of his playful antics; the
gipsy very calmly let him amuse himself with his fiddle;
he well knew that good compensation would follow the
destruction of the instrument.
** Try that now, czig&ny," said 0£za V6csery, hand-
ing the man his fiddle back; '' I am sure it will play a
great deal better for having drunk good Hungarian
wine."
Unfortunately, however, the fiddle utterly refused to
give forth any sound under the circumstances. The
gipsy, with absolute stolidity, made one or two at-
A Love Idyll 93
tempts at scraping the catgut. The sounds which he
drew from it amused the Lord Lieutenant hugely.
* * Try again, czigany ! " he roared. * ' Here, you don* t
know how to do it; let me show you ! *' and he pulled
the instrument out of the man's hand. But this time,
either his hand was more clumsy, or the swarthy mu-
sician turned the fiddle over on purpose, anyhow the
inevitable catastrophe occurred, and the wine flowed
out freely, and deluged the noble lord and the gipsy
practically from head to foot.
**Ho! what waste of good wine!" said V6csery,
laughing. ''Ah, well, it is an ungrateful fiddle.
Here, czigdny, you will want something to wipe its
mouth dry ! "
And he took several bank-notes out of his pocket,
and stuffed them into the fiddle with as much delight
as he had poured the wine into it previously; then he
allowed the gipsy to have his instrument again. He
had had enough fun for the present.
Moreover every one seemed to be rising to adjourn
to different parts of the house for smoking or for stroll-
ing in the garden.
Peri had tried to remain dose to Ilonka, but this was
distinctly not proper, for all the young men were to-
gether smoking, while all the girls, like a veritable
bevy of gay-pltunaged, chattering birds, put their pretty
heads together, and whispered of things which only
have interest for those dainty bits of femininity.
That day was perhaps the happiest one two young
people at any rate experienced. Ilonka, throwing all
prudence to the wind, and wilfully defying mama's
blackest looks, gave herself over to the delights of her
day-dreams. As a child, playing with an absolutely
novel and fascinating toy, quite unable to understand
94 A Son of the People
that it is brittle, and only made for momentary pleas-
ure, she coquetted and flirted with this pleasant emo-
tion, which a handsome young officer's ardent words
had kindled in her heart.
All day she dreamed of what she so little understood:
of a man's passion, of marriage, and blissful life with
one whom it was paradise even to listen to, when he
whispered so of ten, and, oh I so ardently, ** I love you,
Ilonka ! "
In the evening, during the long waits of the cotillon,
during the cosy moments of supper, during the inspirit-
ing hour of the csdrdd, Maddch Peri was close to her.
As he sat near her he could feel the dainty muslin frock
against his knee and, trembling, his hand would seek
the soft fabric and stroke it tenderly, or crush it nerv-
ously, as his passion grew stronger and stronger every
moment, for this exquisite type of lovely g^lhood.
And as innocently as a child she would return his
ardent gaze, not comprehending what it was that
brought a warm blush to her cheek and made her own
little hand tremble and her heart palpitate. She felt as
it were shut off from the gay world of those around
her, walking through the figures of quadrille or cotil-^
Ion, not heeding other hands she touched, other eyes
she met, or listening to other words, save those few
she had now heard so often, and yet which seemed to
gather an infinity of sweetness, as they were repeated
again and again: " I love you, Ilonka ! *'
l/ove ! What did the child know of love — of the
strength of the torrent she, with her own dainty hand,
had unchained ? She had known Maddch Peri all her
life; when, a veritable queen of four years old, she had
lorded it over, the handsome boy of some five years her
senior, he had said, " I love you, Ilonka ! " He had
A Love Idyll 95
said it then, he whispered it now, and as her heart had
responded then, it re-echoed now, childlike, sweet, and
innocent.
And the young man, though with more knowledge
of the world, a^d a dim foreshadowing of the inevitable
ending to this happy day-dream, gave himself over to
the happihess of the moment. He could not say much
to her, for there were too many there who might over-
hear the words so sweetly foolish, that love in its in-
fancy babbles to one ear alone, but he could, from
time to time, pick up her fan or handkerchief, and in
handing them back to her feel for one instant her tiny
finger against his hand. He could, when no one was
looking, and all the mamas were intent in watching
some intricate figure of the dance, lean forward and
look for a brief moment right into those blue eyes
which she had a playful habit of keeping irritatingly
cast down.
All this and more, he could and did do, talking but
a few most commonplace topics with her, forced to
avoid what lay so near his heart, but gazing at her all
the time, drinking in every line of that graceful girlish
figure, the bit of white neck that peeped out slily from
out the soft folds of white muslin, the tiny pink ear,
half veiled by stray golden curls, the heavy, drooping
lashes, that cast a glowing shadow on the soft, peach-
like cheeks.
Ah ! she was divinely pretty, this dainty product of
a rich fertile land, a bit of exquisite jewellery, set in a
framework of semi-barbaric surroundings, and hemmed
in by an impenetrable wall of conventionality, which
had cramped her budding character, and was threaten-
ing to shape this perfect work of the Creator into one
of the thoughtless, soulless dolls, that those of her kind
96 A Son of the People
•
and breeding all gradually become: a pretty ornament
to the great, hospitable castles of which they all ulti-
mately become mistress: a respectful wife to their hus-
bands — ^the head of the house: <x>ntent to follow the
traditions that have existed for hundreds of years:
dressing perhaps a little differently to what their grand-
mothers, or great-grandmothers did, decking their
dainty bodies with perhaps differently shaped gar-
ments: but allowing their minds, their souls, to remain
on the self-same level, without any attempt at cultivat-
ing mental gifts, which they persist in looking on as
bourgeois, and unworthy their long line of ancestry
who had fought and made their country great without
reading a book or writing a letter.
** I love you, Ilonka ! *' whispered the young man at
every interval between the figures of the cotillon.
And Ilonka' s ears were agreeably tickled by those
tender and passionate words that, in her youth, her in-
nocence, her warped education, she understood so little.
How could a young girl understand ? brought up, as
she had been, kept away, till she was "out** from
every society save that of her father and her mother,
never reading a line that did not pass under the rigor-
ous censorship of her mother's eyes, taught and shown
nothing which might lead her to understand the depth
of a human heart, the passions that fill a man's soul.
Poor little girl ! what did she know of love ? save
that it was so pleasant to hear about it from this one
being who danced the csdrdds so divinely, and looked
so handsome in his volunteer's uniform; she allowed
herself and him to dream this day dream, not accus-
tomed to look at the future, accepting the present,
which was so fair, never guessing that such dreams
ever ended, and that there was such a thing as a world
A Love Idyll 97
which was not made up of muslin frocks, of cotillons,
and handsome volunteer officers, where harsh words
often took the place of softly whispered * * I love you ! * *
where reality with remorseless fingers scattered the
poetic imaginings of young girls to the four winds,
leaving them often sadder, sometimes hardened, al-
ways disillusioned, for no reality, however golden, can
come up to those visions bom in the brain of a girl of
seventeen.
When every one had gone to bed, after hours of
dancing, amusement, and excitement, to dream of more
excitements, more amusements, more dancing, Ilonka
well knew that her mother's entrance into her room at
that unaccustomed hour meant a very serious lecture.
She had the whole of the day thrown prudence to the
winds, and, in spite of mama's black looks, and whis-
pered comments of the older ladies, had singled out
Maddch Feri for her most special favours.
The Countess Irma had no intention of being un-
kind. In her inmost heart she firmly believed that
she was devoted to her daughter, and only considered
her happiness, when she tried to instil into her that
love of birth and estates, in which she herself had been
brought up. She so firmly believed that every descrip-
tion of misery would be the result of poverty or of a
misalliance^ that she would have considered herself a
most unnatural and culpable mother if she did not in
good time draw a picture of those evils before Ilonka,
in such a way as to make her shun the attentions of a
** detrimental,*' and repulse them if they came her
way.
** I came to tell you, Ilonka, that I was extremely
displeased with you," she began drily.
*' With me, mama?"
7
98 A Son of the People
** Your conduct with that penniless Mad&ch is posi-
tively indecent.*'
'* Oh, mama!"
** Every one remarked on it to-night. I assure you
I blushed for you the whole evening."
**Mama!"
Poor little girl ! she was so appealing, so sorrowful ;
she felt a little guilty certainly, but she had had such
a very enjoyable day. Two great tears were already
trickling down her cheeks: mama always had the
power of making her unhappy.
And **mama" embarked on the usual lecture: of
how a young noble girl should behave, how she should
never allow one young man more than another to pay-
any attention to her unless her parents have previously
authorised her to do so; that conduct such as Ilonka's
to-night was unmaidenly, and that, if it was not
mended the next day, she would have to spend the rest
of the time that the guests were in the house, in her
own apartments, by herself.
''Mama" was exceedingly eloquent, and Ilonka
very, very unhappy. When her mother finally left
her, after half an hour's steady preaching on children's
obedience and maidenly reserve, the poor little girl
threw herself on the bed in a passionate flood of tears.
Never in all her long, seventeen-year-old life had she
been so unhappy. A most delicious bit of romance had
come in that life, and caressed her young mind with
poetic dreams, such as she hardly understood herself;
stem reality, wearing ** mama's" best silk gown, had,
with be-ringed, aristocratic fingers, chased those day-
dreams away. Hers was a child's grief who sees its
most cherished toy taken away from it, without under-
standing the reason of the cruelty; but is there any-
A I^ve Idyll 99
thing in its way more pathetically hopeless than a
child's grief? There seems such a total want of hope
in it, for the child mind only understands the present,
it cannot conceive that there may be a future, capable
of alleviating its sorrows.
Ilonka cried till she fell asleep, and in her sleep she
once more dreamed such dreams that made her forget
the realities, her stem mama, the midnight lectures,
and once more brought, floating before her mind, visions
of a handsome young face, with a pair of dark eyes
which, somehow, always made her blush when they
met her own, and to her ear the softly whispered
words, sweeter than song of birds or chorus of angels:
** I love you, Ilonka ! "
CHAPTER XI
THK GATHKRING STORM
Onk of the busiest times on the Hungarian lowlands
is this gathering in of the second harvest, which has to
be done quickly before the early autumn rains set in,
leaving plenty of margin for threshing before the vint-
age time commences. Every year at this time the
fields round Kisfalu teem with work. The hundreds
of labourers, employed by the rich Kem6ny Andrds,
have little time for gossip and rest, for the eye of the
master is everywhere, and it is pleasure to work under
it, since he has a cheery word, a merry jest for all,
whi6h is encouraging when the sun on the bare back
burns to the bone, and the muscles ache with the
wielding of the heavy scythes.
But, to-day, a curious look of general idleness seems
to pervade the atmosphere, and to have settled on the
rich peasant-farmer's fields, and he himself, riding
from group to group, vainly tries, by encouragement
or upbraiding, to keep his troop of mowers to the task.
They stand about, their scythes lying idle at their feet,
their pipes in their mouth, their gaze fixed on one par-
ticular point of the horizon the other side of the plain,
where a column of black smoke obscures the soft-toned
purple line of the sky. With arms, feet, and torso
bare, their legs encased in the loose lawn trousers of
their national attire, they quietly allow the burning
100
The Gathering Storm loi
noonday sun to frizzle their backs, and smoke, gazing
meditatively afar, or congregate in eager, excited
groups to whisper whenever the master's back is
turned.
**Hey! you lazy good-for-nothings,*' says Andrds
from time to time, ** you need my late father's heavy
stick on your shoulders this morning. Here, Rezso,
take up your scythe. Miska, throw away that pipe
directly. Come, all of you, and when I am back in
half an hour, mind I see this field as level as the
plain yonder, or I swear I will let some of you have a
taste of my new knotted stick."
Shamefacedly a group of idlers break up, thought-
fully one or two take up their scythes and draw them
slowly aslant the waving com.
** It is useless, Andrds," says one of them, with sud-
den resolution, as he once more throws his scythe
down. ** How can we toil on God's earth with our
two hands while the devil is at work not four leagues
away?"
** Hey ! " says Andrds, cheerily, ** if my lord has en-
gaged the devil to work for him, that is no reason why
you should allow my com to go to hell for want of
active cutting."
** Why, you know well, Andrds, that we will all
work for you till our backs break, if need be, but,
somehow, to-day, it is impossible. How do we know,"
added the peasant, surlily, ** that next year you will
not also let us starve and employ the devil to do the
work for you?"
** That 's well spoken, Rezso," said another, a young
athlete, with muscular arms and broad chest, that
shone in the sun like dull ivory turned brown with
age.
I02 A Son of the People
'* Yes, therc^ 's not much use toiling on the dear low-
lands, now, since the devil is to do the reaping; next
year I suppose he will do the sowing too, and we can
all lie down and wait till starvation overtakes us."
*' It is time the Tama came and flooded us all, before
the devil takes possession of our souls."
" Tut! tut! tut ! '* says Andres, impatiently, ** what
have we, at Kisfalu, to do with the devil of Bidesktit ?
I think my lord is a fool with his machinery, but I
think you are all fools to trouble your heads about
him; ay, and knaves too if you steal my day, and do
nothing for the wage I give you."
** It is all very well, Andrds, but you cannot employ
every able-bodied man this side of the Tama. I wish
you could, for then my brother would not have to work
for the lord of Bidesklit, which he does, in fear and
trembling, lest the devil should make a pick-a-back of
him, every time he stoops down to mow.
** Yes, and there are both my younger brothers, driv-
ing those devilish contrivances, that reap and bind the
com all by the turn of a wheel. The younger one,
Laczi, told me," added the peasant in an awed whisper,
'' that he distinctly saw a black man with a tail and
long pointed ears, sitting between the horns of one of
the oxen, that was, poor innocent thing, dragging the
cursed machine. I tell you I^aczi nearly fell off his
seat with fright."
** With having had a draught too much of that wine
your mother gave him before he started work in the
morning," said Andr&s, trying to laugh. But his
laughter was forced and unnatural. All Pater Am-
brosius's teaching had not quite wiped the superstitions
of his kind out of his head, and though he forced him-
self not to look that way, his eyes also instinctively
The Gathering Storm 103
wandered across his cheery fields and beyond the
sandy plain to that column of black smoke that he
knew proceeded from the lord of Bidesktit's new
building.
He had heard from Rosenstein that all the machinery
necessary for converting wheat into flour by the help
of steam was fixed ready inside the mill, and that my
lord intended to begin work this day. Of course, Pater
Ambrosius had thoroughly explained to him the uses
and powers of steam, but Kem6ny Andrds, in spite
of his riches and in spite of these teachings, was still
the peasant at heart, and he could not help shuddering
and looking behind him anxiously every time he caught
sight of the clouds of smoke which made an ugly blot
on the vast horizon, that he had learned to love and
regard as his own. He was evidently at a loss how
to quiet his workmen's fears, since he was not very free
from them himself. An anxious crowd had gathered
round the master, all eager to gain some sort of comfort
from him, for next to Pater Ambrosius, no one, not
even my lord, was thought to possess as much learning
as Andrds; young men and old crowded round him,
eager, excited, glad of a chance to pour forth their
anxiety into their master's ever-sympathising ears.
Bach had a tale to tell him of father, brother, or son,
who during the long hours of labour close to the mys-
terious building (which surely was a place of worship
dedicated to the devil) had in some guise or other felt
the presence of the £vil One, who now walked up and
down the main road and called in at farm and inn,
since my lord had invited him to earth. The women
too had given up their work of binding, and they also
had many a tale to tell. Angrily they stamped their
tiny brown feet on the earth and shook their fists at the
I04 A Son of the People
distant column of smoke, which was the first sacrifice
ofiFered to Satan on the beautiful lowlands. In gaily-
coloured cotton petticoats, and full embroidered lawn
shifts, their slim waists held in by a tight-fitting corslet,
their heads protected from the burning sun by a red or
yellow kerchief tied in a becoming knot over the brow,
they looked a very picturesque set of angry furies,
enough surely to frighten the most enterprising devil
from the neighbourhood. Andrds felt that it was use-
less now to talk about work again.
**Erzsi, my pretty one,'* he said merrily, "if you
throw such burning looks across to Bidesklit, you will
surely bring the devil straightway here; he will think
it is a spark from his own furnace.''
**Hey! leave me alone, with your jests to-day,
Andrds, my father is at work in that very mill of Satan.
My lord offered high wages for the work, and threat-
ened not to employ him at all this harvest time if he
refused to do it; so he went to confession and com-
munion this morning, and the Pater gave him a whole
litre of holy water. Btit I tell you, my mother cried
fit to break her heart when he started to the godless
work, and I do not think somehow that I shall ever
see him again. Oh! why does not the devil take my
lord away since he is so fond of his company?" and
pretty Krzsi shook a menacing fist at the distant doud
of smoke.
** My son Imre has to do some work too, right in^de
the building," said an older woman, in a voice choked
with sobs; **I declare if any harm comes to him, I
wiU "
" Hush! hush! hush! " said Andrds, ** don't let me
hear that sort of language round Kisfalu. The lord of
Bideskfit is your master, you must work for him as he
The Gathering Storm 105
commands. The devil can have no power over you if
you do your duty.*'
''It is not duty to serve one who is in league with
the devil," asserted Brzsi, hotly.
"No! that *s right! *' murmured some of the crowd.
** I will not let I^aczi work for him again," said one
of the men.
* * He has no right to give over our souls to the devil, ' '
said another.
'' I believe he has promised the devil so many souls
in exchange for the work the Evil One does for him,"
suggested an old wrinkled woman, whose sons were all
employed at Bidesklit.
*' And we do not know which of us may be carried
off next."
** It is a shame."
** The lord of Bideskdt will repent it," came in what
now had become threatening accents.
This handful of easy-going, somewhat lazy, always
merry peasantry were gradually working themselves up
to a state of hysterical excitement, caused by super-
stitious fear; and they absolutely refused to listen to
Andrds. He was doing his utmost to pacify the
women, who made matters infinitely worse by sobbing
and moaning, and calling on God to punish the mis-
creant who had brought the enemy of mankind to this
beloved land of peace and plenty.
Suddenly a loud shriek from one of the women made
all heads turn in the direction to which she was point-
ing, with long gaunt arm stretched out, and shaking
like poplar leaves in the wind.
** Look! look! " she cried with trembling lips, ** the
fires from hell! Miska! Andor! Ivan, my sons! they
will be buried in the flames the Evil One has kindled!
io6 A Son of the People
Help! help! I see them perishing before my eyes!
Curse the lord of Bidesklit! the fmy of the devil is
upon us! "
All looked horror-struck, trembling at the distant
column of smoke, through which from time to time a
shower of sparks appeared; these looked to the poor
ignorant folk as the very fires from below, in which
they and their families were about to be annihilated.
The women threw their arms up in the air, yelling^
out curses on the head of him who had brought this
evil in the land. Some had thrown themselves on the
ground, and burying their faces between their knees,
moaned and sobbed, while rocking their bodies to and
fro, in an agony of g^ief. The men raised menacing
fists at the distance, and cursed between their teeth,
though no less bitterly.
Andrds was for once in his life quite at a loss for
pleasant words or merry laugh with which to cheer up
his labourers, whom he loved as his friends and equals,
into whose feelings and thoughts he always knew so
well how to enter, since he was one of them, placed in
nowise above them through his wealth. It almost
broke his heart to see his sturdy lads standing defiant,
idle, and cursing, so diflferent to the usual, merry light-
heartedness with which they invariably worked for
him, and which is the essence of the Hungarian char-
acter. He had neither the learning, the eloquence, nor
the conviction of Pater Ambrosius, which perhaps
might have quieted these superstitious terrors, he
had only a great fondness for his fellow-men, and this
he exerted heartily, and with many a: ** Now then,
Panna, my soul! don't take it to heart,'* and ** Erzsi,
my pretty one, your father is quite safe. Come! come!
take my word for it, no harm will come to any one* I
The Gathering Storm 107
do not understand the cursed things: but believe me
the devil has nothing to do with the making of them!
. . . Why; you all must remember the workmen
coming from Budapesth to put up the machinery.
They surely did not look like devils. It is all right
. • . you will soon get used to seeing many things
done by machinery, which you used to do with your
hands. They are harmless enough, I know, and if the
lord of Bidesktit does not give you all enough wage to
last you through the winter, why I can always find
work for those extra hands who do not want to remain
idle. Now then, all of you, look me straight in the
face, instead of at that black smoke which is far away.
Will you do your duty by me, and go back to your
work? It is the best way I assure you to keep the
devil from your doors.*'
There was a long silence, while Kem^ny Andrds
stood between them, his merry brown eyes gleaming,
forcing each head, as by the magnetic current of his
own kind heart, to turn towards those frank eyes of his
so full of sympathy.
** We will try, Andrds," said one or two of the men,
while the women began to wipe away their tears and
to bend once more to their work.
The groups gradually dispersed and found their way
back to their task, whilst Andrds, with a sigh and a
shake of the head, mounted his mare and rode off to
some farther field, where he found the same idle groups
of men and women, the same superstitious terror, the
same menacing attitude. Till close upon noon he rode
hither and thither, in spite of the fact that as the sun
rose higher over his head he could less and less shake
off a feeling of dark presentiment which against his
better judgment gradually filled his mind; until at last
io8 A Son of the People
he found that instead of upbraiding and cheering the
superstitious or the discontented he was listening with
awe and in silence to the various tales of terror or of
evil his own workpeople were never weary to relate.
Tired, enervated, and anxious, he rode home at mid-
day for his meal. The farmhouse of Kisfalu was now
exceedingly homelike and comfortable. Andr&s had
built an outhouse to which he had relegated kitchen
and wash-house, whilst the main little building, with a
picturesque veranda running round it covered with
sweet-scented honeysuckle and jessamine, was kept
entirely for living-rooms. The big sitting-room cut
the house as it were in half, from the front door, which
opened on to the veranda, to the two windows opposite,
which looked out on the immeasurable puszta beyond.
Prom it right and left opened four rooms, two at each
side, which were the bedrooms, those on the left being
newly built, and beautifully papered and painted.
As Andrds entered, the room was half in darkness,
the rays of the sun being well-tempered by cool-looking
green shutters. Close to the window, getting the only
ray of daylight necessary for her work, sat old Kem^ny
Etelka at her spinning. Drowsily in the noonday
heat her bare feet turned the wheel, while in low, soft
tones she hummed to herself snatches of melancholy
Hungarian songs.
There was no beauty about the rugged face now;
whatever charm of freshness it may have possessed in
youth was obliterated during the long years of patient
slavery Btelka had undergone beneath the dreary roof
of her miserly lord. There were deep lines of humilia-
tions and sufferings patiently endured round the droop-
ing mouth, and the eyes looked dull and lustreless from
many shed and unshed tears. But at the sound of her
The Gathering Storm 109
son's heavy tread on the veranda the old face became
radiant with a happy smile, and seemed suddenly trans-
figured: the eyes sparkled and the white teeth that
peeped between the shrivelled lips gave quite a renewed
look of youth to the melancholy face.
'^Isten hozta ! [God has brought you] my son,** she
said, * * you are earlier than I expected. Sdri, Katinka, * *
she called loudly, ** bring Mfa^gulyds [stew] at once, the
master is home.'*
Andrds had entered very dejectedly; he threw his
hat on one side, then having kissed his mother:
*' I can do nothing with the fellows, mother, to-day.
They seem unable to work; hardly is my back turned
when all eyes stare straight across the puszta to where
a column of black smoke reminds them of that accursed
steam-mill. I am thankful you have closed the shut-
ters so that I can see nothing more of that invention of
the devil.*'
** I am glad to hear you call it so, my son," said
Etelka with a sigh; ** you know what I used to tell you
about it when first Rosenstein said that my lord was
going to grind his com with the help of fire and
smoke."
" Mother, dear, you are a saint, and as I am sure
you must have been in heaven some time or other in
your life you must have learned there that the devil
does not trouble himself much about our concerns."
**Ay! but my son, how can you talk like that?
Pater Ambrosius himself says the devil walks about
the earth trying to tempt souls to be wicked and to go
to hell."
" Yes, mother, but he does not get into engines and
drive them; the steam does that. I have read about it
in books. I do not understand the things, and I do not
no A Son of the People
think I want to; I am sure my flour last year fetched a
higher price than any in the country, and if it is every
year as fine and white as last I shall never want to
better my farming."
**And in the meanwhile, Andrds, it is terrible
to think that my lord's folly drags so many of
our dear friends at Bideskiit into the clutches of
Satan/'
Andrds was about to reply, when his mother placed a
warning finger on her mouth. The two pretty peasant
girls came in who did Btelka's household work, two
little orphan girls who had lost their father and mother
a few years back in the last cholera epidemic, and whom
Btelka had brought to Kisfalu, and taught to cook, to
wash, and to spin. They were bringing in the steam-
ing gulyds (stew), the roasted potatoes, and baskets of
melons and peaches for dinner, carrying the heavy
dishes on their small heads, and supporting them with
one graceful curved arm, while the other was placed
akimbo on the hip.
Andrds jumped up merrily.
''Eh! mother dear, there is nothing like a good dish
oi gulyds to make one forget one's troubles; here Sdri,
my pretty one, give me a kiss and the biggest jug you
have in your kitchen so that I may go and draw the
wine; we shall all want plenty to drink, for it is hot
out in the fields, I can tell you."
While Andrds went to draw the wine in the brick
cellar which he had built on the shady side of the
house, Sdri and Kati spread the substantial fare; on
the oak table, polished till it shone like a mirror, they
had placed the savoury stew, the potatoes, and fruit.
At the head of the table came the mistress's arm-chair
and next to it the master' s. They themselves had their
The Gathering Storm 1 1 1
places at the bottom of the table. While waiting for
her son, Btelka had distributed the gulyds in heavy
glazed earthenware plates, and as soon as Andrds came
back with the jug in his hand, all fell to with spoon
and knife, while the master poured the wine out in
mugs for everybody.
But the meal was not as merry as usual. Both
Btelka and Andrds were anxious and silent, and the
two little maids dared not chatter. They felt awed
and sad, for they had never seen the master so quiet.
One of them dropped a few tears in her plate; she
thought something dreadful must have happened.
When each had finished her mug of wine and, Btelka
having risen, the plates and dishes were removed,
Andr&s was able to speak on the subject that was so
near to his heart.
** Mother, I have been thinking the last half-hour,
while eating Hdl^ gulyds, that I am very lazy and good-
for-nothing not to try and see whether I cannot even at
this last moment persuade my lord to give up his ob-
stinate ideas about that cursed mill. I cannot help
thinking Rosenstein must have been only half-hearted
when he told my lord for me of all the evils which I
know will come if he will go on irritating the peasants
with those new-fangled notions of his."
** Rosenstein declared that my lord would not listen
to any talk. He has set his heart on those cursed
mills."
She had resumed her spinning, and the drone of the
wheel made a gentle accompaniment to their talk.
Andr&s felt enervated, still vaguely anxious; he was
walking up and down the long narrow room, and every
now and then, impatiently, he pushed aside the shutters
and gazed with a deep frown between his brows at the
112 A Son of the People
cloud of black smoke which still rose out there, far
ahead.
" I wonder if Pater Ambrosius ever spoke about it
to my lord ? " he mused aloud.
** The kind Pater would not dare say much, for fear
of irritating my lord against him, and then he would
have to leave his church of Arokszdllds where he has
been over forty years. This would break his heart.
No! no! *' added the old woman, ** the Pater would not
dare speak."
" Well, then, mother, I will dare," said Andrds reso-
lutely. '' It is not too late, and I am sure I shall find
the right words in my heart with which to persuade my
lord of all the unhappiness his folly is causing, all the
anxiety and the fright. He must be a kind man, he
will listen to me. After all," he added, throwing his
head back and standing very erect, " I employ as many
hands as he does; I have lent him enough money to
give me the right to speak to him, if I want to. I can
buy his whole cursed mill from him and then destroy
it if I choose, and I would do it whatever price he may
ask for it sooner than see all the men surly and defiant,
and hear the women cry as I did to-day. Give me
your blessing, mother; I will ride to Bideskiit at once.
It is not too late yet to drive the devil to the other side
of theTarna."
** God bless you, my son," said Etelka, but she shook
her head. ** The lord of Bidesktit is a proud man, he
will not listen to a peasant," she urged.
** A peasant! who could buy every foot of land he
owns even after he had lent him the purchase money
twice over already," retorted Andrds proudly. ** Mother,
do not discourage me. The lord of Bideskiit owes me
much; he must be grateful, if he is a man, for the loan
The Gathering Storm 113
of my money, which he has almost got as a gift, and
which keeps him out of the clutches of the Jews. He
must render me service for service and sell me his fad,
so that I may destroy it. Send word round to the fields
that the men can go quietly back to work. To-morrow
we will begin to pull down that mill of the devil, and
send the machinery back to hell.'* He was quite
happy now and his mother heard him singing all the
way to the stables, and talk merry nonsense to his
mare as he stroked her sleek neck, and whispered to
her whither he meant to take her. Two minutes after
that Btelk^, having raised the shutters, looked out on
to the plains as her handsome son galloped past,
swinging his hat in wild delight. She watched him
until he and his mare were but a mere speck on the
blue horizon, then she again shook her head, but there
was a proud look on her face, and a tear of joy in her
eye as she once more settled down to her spinning.
8
CHAPTER XII
I^RD AND PEASANT
AndrIs rode gaily and full of hope across the deso-
late puszta, his mind busy in arranging the best plan
with which to overthrow my lord's resistance, should
he prove obstinate in the nursing of his folly. The
peasant never for a moment supposed that the lord of
Bideskiit would not immediately see in their right light
all the evils which were gathering over his head, and
all the sorrows and haunting terrors his unnecessary
fads were causing among those who were to a great ex-
tent dependent upon their lord for wage. He had left
his own fields behind and to the left, and his mare gal-
loped across the plain, throwing clouds of dust round
her as her hoofs fell on the sandy soil. The sun shone
glaring overhead. The heat was intense, but Andr&s
felt neither dust nor glare of sun; his eyes were riveted
on that distant column of smoke, which he hoped to
smother by the strength of his will, exerted to its fullest
extent on behalf of his fellow-workers, his servant com-
rades. Of the lord of Bideskiit he knew nothing.
When years ago he decided to place the vast wealth
his father had left him at small interest with my lord,
a certain shyness, bom of long suppression and loneli-
ness, had induced him to employ the Jew Rosenstein as
an intermediary; and as years went on and the trans-
action continued, the inborn hatred of every Hungarian
114
Lord and Peasant 115
peasant for all money-lending business had kept him
away from the aristocratic borrower. He longed to
buy Kisfalu. This was his dream. He was willing
enough to pay double or treble its value for the hap-
piness of owning that beloved land. But Rosenstein,
who made a usurious profit out of trafficking with
Andrds's money, kept lord and peasant apart; neither
knew how willing the other would have been to con-
clude the transaction once for all. The interest, paid
in kind, Rosenstein collected for, and subsequently
bought from, Kemdny. The rents of Kisfalu AndrAs
paid entirely in money, and the noble lord, always in
want of cash, sent his bailiff every quarter-day for
the gold. Thus the game of hide-and-seek went on,
in which Rosenstein was the only winner, the other
two merely dupes. Andr&s, however, firmly believed
that though Bidesktity had repeatedly refused to sell
Kisfalu to a peasant, yet a feeling of gratitude must
exist in his heart towards that same peasant who was
willing to keep him out of the Jews* clutches by ex-
acting but a nominal interest for his money. On that
feeling of gratitude Andrds meant to rely when form-
ulating his request: he was willing enough to part
with more money if he could buy and destroy what
caused so much sorrow in the village and on the fields.
Bidesktit lay the other side of the wide plain, and to
reach the big house, Andr&s had to gallop many miles
through the lord of Bideskut's property. Here, as in
Kisfalu, the work in the fields was idle; Andrds could
see small groups of labourers talking excitedly and
pointing with menacing fists towards the steam-mill
dose by on the left. He would not stop to speak to
them, though many hailed him with a shout. He was
sick at heart with these terrors he could not alleviate.
1 1 6 A Son of the People
He kept to the main road, down the alley of poplars,
which threw narrow, gaunt shadows across, that looked
like long arms stretched menacingly towards the mill.
It was still emitting volumes of smoke through its tall
chimney, and Andrds was glad that it lay well to the
left, away from the main road, and that he was not
obliged to lead Csillag past the dreaded building.
He wished to keep his spirits up, and talked gaily to
the mare. A group of a dozen labourers barred the
way ahead, in front.
**Hey! friend Andrds! whither so quickly?" they
shouted from afar. Andrds, perforce, had to slacken
the mare's speed.
** Let me pass," he said cheerily, ** I am on my way
to Bideskiit."
** Do not go there, Andrds, the devil is at work! '*
" It is to drive the devil away that I am going."
** You cannot do it; go back."
And they all stood in a ring round horse and rider,
so that Andrds perforce had to stand.
** Do you see those stacks, Andrds ? " said one of the
men; ** that wheat is to be threshed and ground into
flour, all within a day, and never the hand of thresher
or miller is to touch it."
It was the eternal story told with blanched cheeks
and quivering lips. Oh! for wings with which to fly
to Bideskiit and stop this worship of devil's work be-
fore it be too late.
" Let me pass, Miska," said Andrds cheerily, ** we
will stop the devil and his work."
" How will you do it, friend ? "
** That is my secret; let me pass."
** You can do nothing; and if harm comes to you,
there will be nobody to look after us in winter, now
Lord and Peasant 117
that my lord employs no labour and lets Satan do his
work.**
** Hey! leave me alone about Satan,*' said Andrds,
impatiently. ** I^eave Csillag alone, or she will rear.
I tell you I am going to stop the devil and his work.
I give you my word no wheat shall be ground inside
that mill.**
"Your word?*'
"Yes, my wordl There! let Csillag go! God be
with you all.**
The men obediently stood aside, and with a merry
farewell he galloped oflF down the road towards the
great gates of Bideskdt. The peasants turned awhile
to look after him; some shook their heads, but all mur-
mured, ** God be with you, Andrds.**
At the gates Andrds brought the mare to a standstill.
He had never ridden up the majestic acacia drive, and
a certain feeling of awe, born of centuries of peasant
submission to their lord, made him dismount and start
to walk up towards the house. Csillag remained out-
side, waiting patiently for her master, as safe from
thieves* hands as she would be in her own stables.
No one could have mounted her against her will except
her master. She looked about for a shady spot, and
there she retired, content to wait till he came back.
Andrds followed the long sweet-scented alley; from
afar he could hear the sounds of gaiety within the
castle, loud peals of boisterous laughter, and lively
czigdny music, shouts oi^^ Eljen! ** and the clinking of
knives and forks against the china. The long-taught
deference of the peasant for the noble induced him to
avoid the main entrance and noble staircase. He
turned towards the left side of the building from which
proceeded laughter of no less boisterous kind, together
ii8 A Son of the People
with delicious scents of roast meats and fragrant
fruit.
Andrds pushed open the wide double doors and
found himself in the vast kitchen, where two days be-
fore Rosenstein the Jew had been made to break the
laws of his religion in order to gratify the whim of a
spendthrift lord.
As merry as ever, but busy beyond description,
the cooks, kitchen-maids, and scullions filled the vast
kitchen with laughter, chatter, and animation. A un-
iversal shout of astonishment, but of real joy, greeted
Andrds as he entered.
" God has brought you, Andrds! ** shouted Benk6,
the portly cook. ** Here Zsuzsi, bring a chair, quick!
No, not that one! the big arm-chair! Panna, wipe the
table, quickly! Miska, bring that fine piece of lamb!
Friend Andrds, you will surely honour it by tasting
it!*'
And young kitchen-maids and scullions busied them-
selves round the unexpected guest. He was a stranger
to these walls, but not indeed to any of their inmates.
Every peasant in the county knew him, loved him,
owed him gratitude for some kindness or other, whether
he were labourer or servant, man or maid.
" Thank ye! Thank ye, all! " said Andrds, putting
up his hand, to parry some of the more boisterous wel-
comes. ** I have not come to eat my lord's meat in his
kitchen, though all of you are welcome to eat mine at
my mother's table. To-day I have come to speak with
my lord."
** Ah! but I do not think you can do that," said fat
Benk6, the cook. ** My lord has company, nearly two
hundred barons and baronesses, counts and countesses
are dining up there in the great hall. Hey! if you
Lord and Peasant 119
could only taste some of the delicious things I have
dished up for the midday meal! " he sighed with pro-
fessional pride.
*' But my lord cannot stay all day at his meal, and
what I have to say to him is of the greatest importance."
** If you will wait,'* said Benk6, scratching his head,
thoughtfully, ** till Jank6 comes down, he can whisper
in my lord's ear that you would speak with him,
and then, perhaps — . And here is Jank6," he added,
as that worthy appeared at the door, ** Jank6, come
here, this is Kemdny Andrds of Kisfalu. Bow to him,
Jank6, as you would to my lord. . . . And now
listen, Jank6, Andrds wishes to speak to my lord."
" His lordship does not like being interrupted at
dinner," said Jank6, thoughtfully scratching his head.
" lyook here," says Andrds impatiently, ** you are
all very good and kind fellows, but there is a little too
much talking. I am in a hurry. Go up, Jank6,
there 's a good man, and whisper in my lord's ear that
Kemdny Andrds, from Kisfalu, wishes to speak with
him at once."
** He will reply," said Jank6 meekly, ** that Kemdny
Andrds may go to the devil."
** No! he will not say that, Jank6," said Andrds,
quietly; " but if he does, tell him that it is a matter
which may cost him very dearly, if he does not hear it
in good time."
It was a curious thing that every one always did
exactly what Kemeny Andrds wanted. There was a
great deal of familiarity between him and every peasant
for leagues around. His wealth he did not in any way
consider as having placed him above his equals, but he
had learned to command, because his will was strong
and self-centred, and having in his early youth learned
1 20 A Son of the People
implicit obedience he knew how to enforce it, now that
he was his own master. Jank6 went off shaking his
head dubiously.
Silence had fallen on the inmates of the kitchen.
Perhaps they felt that they had been a little too familiar
with the rich farmer who came to speak with my lord.
Panna shyly had dusted the big arm-chair, and stood
irresolute as to whether she should draw it near the
table. Benk6 had sent the scullions flying in every
direction, and had respectfully placed a bottle of wine
and a glass on the table.
** Won't you honour us all, Andrds, by drinking
this wine?"
** Hey! with the greatest pleasure, Benk6, my good
fellow! If it was your wine, I tell you I should drink
that bottle full, and ask for more. But till I know if
his lordship is friend or foe, I will not drink his wine.
Panna my soul, give up dusting that chair, it is almost
as smoothly polished as your own pretty cheeks. No!
I will not drink the wine of Bideskiit, but I tell you
what! I will kiss all its pretty girls.'*
And laughing Kem^ny Andrds took each pretty
kitchen-maid by the waist and since they did not
struggle very hard, he soon had made each one as pink
as a peony. This restored merriment all round.
Kemdny Andrds was not proud! Long live Kemdny
Andrds ! When Jank6 came back with the astonishing
announcement that my lord would see Kemdny Andrds
in his smoking-room, he found the latter sitting, all
smiles, in the big arm-chair, with a dozen pretty faces
beaming at him from every side of the kitchen.
To reach my lord's smoking-room Jank6 had to lead
Andrds up the great staircase and across one end of the
main hall, where the noble lord of Bideskiit was exer-
Lord and Peasant 121
cising his boundless hospitality towards his aristocratic
guests. Andrds as he hurried through behind the
czigdny, so as to pass unperceived, caught a sudden
fitful vision of bright-coloured dresses, pretty faces, and
gay uniforms that reminded him of the tangled bit of
garden where roses and lilies grew wild, and which his
mother tended, outside the house at Kisfalu.
Jank6 left him alone in the smoking-room, and
Kem^ny Andrds looked round him, astonished at what
seemed to him visions of beauty and luxury of which
he had never dreamed. He thought of his own little
low-roofed sitting-room, where his mother sat spinning
all the day, so diflferent to this place, which, simple as
it was, surpassed any ideas he may ever have had of
gorgeousness and elegance.
How long he stood waiting, planted there where
Jank6 had left him, he could not have said. Dreamily
he gazed out on to the park with its standard rose trees
and many-coloured glass balls, which glittered in the
sun, and his ears were agreeably tickled by the merry
peals of laughter from the big hall; one or two high
silvery tones struck him now and then as the prettiest
tune he had ever heard. He looked at all this luxury,
and wondered how a man could wilfully risk losing all
that, for the sake of a cursed fad, how he could risk
being forced to leave this gorgeous house, those rose-
bushes, and the sight of those gaily-decked butterflies,
who laughed so merrily in the great hall. Any man
owning all these things, calling the land on which he
stood his, was a fool to jeopardise an inch of it for the
sake of a wicked caprice. . . .
The opening and shutting of a door, and a very
stiff:
* * God has brought you, * * interrupted Andrds's medi-
122 A Son of the People
tations, and forced him to turn round to where stood
the lord of Bidesktit. He saw a merry, kindly face, a
little haughty perhaps, but still — . Andrds gazed rue-
fully at his own peasant attire, his hard brown hands,
his leather belt, and shirt-sleeves, and understood how
my lord would feel that there was, in spite of money
affairs, still a wide difference between them.
" Well, what is it ? " asked Bidesktity Gyuri, as he
sat down and took one of his long pipes from the rack.
He did not ask Andrds to sit or to smoke, and while he
filled his pipe he looked with a great deal of curiosity
at the handsome young peasant whose riches were re-
ported to be fabulous. Though he had often seen him
in the village or in the fields he never had had an op-
portunity of standing face to face with him, or of talk-
ing to him.
Andrds had lost any latent shyness. He had frowned
a little when he saw that my lord sat down and left him
to stand like one of his servants. However, he knew
that he must be patient if he wished to be listened to at
all, and quite quietly he drew a chair towards him, and
also sat down.
** What I have to say,** he began resolutely, ** will
not take long. I know your lordship is kept very
much in ignorance of many things that happen on
your property.*'
** Surely you have not come all the way firom Kisfalu
to tell me of those things which I do not know?**
laughed Bideskiity.
** I beg pardon, most noble lord,** said Andrds. ** It
would save time if your lordship would let me tell you
my errand without interrupting me. One of the things
your lordship does not know is, that there is at
the present moment terrible dissatisfaction for leagues
Lord and Peasant 123
around in the village and on the fields. The peasantry
are fiightened. They do not understand things very
clearly, and nobody has been at much pains to explain
anything to them. To-day they are in a very dejected,
terror-stricken mood, to-morrow, who knows ? they
might get infuriated, and it is not good to irritate a
lowland peasant too far. He is like the puszta, smooth
and at peace as a calm lake; but once let the winds
from heaven stir it up, and banks of sand which were
harmless enough rise like columns towards the sky,
and woe betide then, if anything happen to stand in
its way. Higher and higher the sand will rise, lashed
by the fury of the wind, and when it can rise no more,
it will sink crashing to the ground, burying beneath it
all human life that has tried to stand up and oppose it
in its wrath."
** You talk like a book, my friend," said my lord,
smiling, and puffing away at his pipe, *^ but you talked
of saving time, and I do not yet know the purpose of
your errand."
** I have come to plead for the poor, the ignorant, on
your lordship's estate. There are hundreds there who
for generations have worked God's bountiful earth for
you and your forefathers, sowing and reaping, threshing
and grinding the fine corn and flour, which is famed
throughout the world. They have toiled and you have
earned; but they are content; they want to go on
serving you, my lord; they are willing to take wage
from you, and remain poor but free from want, almost
slaves but happy on our beautiful lowland, on which
God has sent a special blessing."
" That is very good of them, I am sure, my friend,
and I certainly have no intention of getting labourers
to work for me from a neighbouring county. I shall
124 A Son of the People
not want as many hands at the mills, as I did, for, I am
thankful to say, my steam-mill is ready, and "
** Forgive me, my lord, if I interrupt. It is that mill
which is causing so much trouble. Remember, we are
not all so clever as your lordship; we do not understand
all the means by which fire and iron can be made to do
the work of our hands. It has raised great fears in the
minds of the women, the men themselves, though they
will not admit their terror, curse under their breath the
contrivance which will take the bread out of their
mouth for want of sufficient wage.'*
** But, my good man, I have spent thousands on that
mill. Surely you are not fool enough to suppose that I
am going to give up the work of years, because a lot
of superstitious old women have talked you all into
some devilish nonsense.'*
" No, not because of that,*' said Andrds, earnestly,
** I do not think your lordship will give up all that
work for the sake of some nonsense. But I do firmly
believe that you will do it in order to save all the poor
people on your estate from further sorrow and anxiety.*'
** My worthy fellow, I have said before you talk like
a book. But there is much nonsense written in books
sometimes. Did you not hear me say, that my steam-
mill, which you all will presently be grateful for on
your knees, has.cost me a quarter of a million ? — do you
think I am likely to throw that money away ? '*
** No, your lordship need not do that," said Andrds,
eagerly; ** the mill has cost a quarter of a nSiUion ? well,
I will buy it from you if you will name what money
you like; three, four hundred thousand florins.**
** Oh! that 's it, is it ? " said Bidesk6ty sarcastically,
**you take me for a bigger fool than yourself, my friend.
You want to buy the mill, do you ? and work it at your
Lord and Peasant 125
own profit! Oho ! not a bad idea ! and this pretty story
of anxious mothers, infuriated peasants, and storms on
the puszta, was very clever no doubt. But remain as-
sured, my friend, the mill is not for sale/'
** Your lordship thinks it sport to laugh at a peas-
ant," said Andrds, imperturbably, **but your honour
is deceived: I offer to buy the mill, and when you have
agreed to sell it I will destroy it/'
'* Destroy the mill!''
" Ay! all my labourers, who now stand about idly
letting the corn fall to earth for want of mowing, will
only be too happy to dig their pickaxes into the hated
building, and my quarter of a million will have been
well spent in seeing them all cheerfully at work
again."
** But man, are you made of money ? " gasped Bide-
skiity, forgetting for a moment the point at issue in his
admiration for the wealth that was unconsciously
flaunted before him.
' * My father saved all his life: he was a clever worker,
and he left me plenty," said Andrds, proudly; '* your
lordship knows that I have enough."
** How should I know? I hear many rumours, and
you live in that tumble-down old farm at Kisfalu."
** My mother loves the house, since I was born there,
and I love it, because she dwells in it. I do not have
a hundred guests at my table, but I would spend all
the money I'have to see the county of Heves beaming
with smiles."
** Insolence! " said Bideskiity, frowning, ** are you
tr3dng to preach to me ? "
** Forgive me, my lord, I have no wish to be pre-
sumptuous. See! I have brought money with me.
Plenty of it," he added, tapping his ponderous leather
1 26 A Son of the People
belt; ** will your lordship name the price, and let me
bury my pickaxe in the very top of that tall chimney ? * '
** I tell you, fellow, you are a fool. Ay! and a knave,
trying to trick me to further your own ends; I tell you
if any one is to make money out of that mill, I will. I
will not sell it, not if you were to lay out this floor with
your Jewish gold, which you had better use for other
Jewish tricks. For this one I am too sharp for you.'*
**Most noble lord! you do not understand! Oh,
God! teach me how to explain to him. The peasants
are enraged. They will do themselves or you some
terrible injury. Your honour! remember for God's
sake your own mother, your wife. The peasants think
the devil drives the machinery, they are in terror now,
they will be furious presently, and great, great harm
will come of it."
** What harm comes of it will be of your own mak-
ing, impudent peasant!" said Bideskiity, enraged, ris-
ing to his feet. ** Come now, I have had enough of this.
Get out of my house, I tell you! I will not sell my
mill. Is that enough ? "
Andrds had become very pale; he too had risen to
his feet, and he buried his finger-nails in his palms, to
force himself, by sheer physical pain, not to retort with
angry words, but for the sake of his friends and com-
rades to try, by patient and moderate talk, to break this
man's obstinacy.
** My lord! in God's name listen. The poor fellows
are all standing about in the fields, the women whose
sons, fathers, brothers are employed on the mill are
terrified of the evil that will come to them; they moan
and sob fit to break a strong man's heart. If by any
chance — such things do happen — any accident should
occur to one of them, oh, then think! how will you
Lord and Peasant 127
pacify them ? Infuriated, they will look upon you as a
murderer. They love me, they listen to me; though I
am rich, I have remained one of them, but even I could
not stop them from turning their wrath against you.
Remember you have wife and child, they might come
to harm; you never know where an ignorant man or
woman's revenge will stop."
**And I tell you, insolent peasant, that if harm
comes to me or mine, that your own hands will have
guided the blow, your lying tongue incited the deed.
I can read through your low, miserly peasant nature,
ready for any lie to gain your own ends "
** Hold on, your honour,'* said Andrds, still con-
taining himself; **Icame here in all deference, with
patience and kindness. For the sake of my comrades
I would bear much, but your lordship is forgetting
your own dignity and mine. I have in all money
transactions dealt liberally and squarely with you,
and "
((
You have paid your rents punctually, for I should
turn you out of the farm pretty soon if you did
not.'*
** But that is not all.''
** How do you mean not all ? What not all ? '
** Your lordship seems ready to forget that the inso-
lent peasant's purse has kept you out of the clutches
of the Jews for the past five years."
** Your purse? Are you in league with that blood-
sucking Rosenstein then ? "
** Your lordship surely knows that the money you
spend so freely originally came out of my purse — the
papers "
** Hey! what do I care about papers! How could I
guess that for once in a lifetime the lew's tale of some
128 A Son of the People
other person who lends the money happened to be true ?
Well, what matter ? Your beastly Jewish usury does
not give you the right to interfere with my concerns, I
pay you your interest, don't I ? *'
Bidesktity was beside himself with fury. His other-
wise good-looking face was distorted with passion.
Andrds was still apparently calm, though very pale,
the veins on his forehead swollen like cords. He tried
to remain patient with this raving lunatic, forcing him-
self to think that in his hands rested the hopes of the
poor fellows out there in the fields who were still watch-
ing the clouds of black smoke darkening the horizon
of their beloved plains.
** Your honour is trying to misunderstand," he said
quietly; ** it is not my place, I own, to interfere in your
lordship's affairs. I do not wish to interfere. I came
here with a fair offer, because for the past month I have
seen the dissatisfaction, the terrors of your peasantry
grow, as you placed brick upon brick of that unfortu-
nate structure. I did not expect your lordship to waste
all the money you have spent upon it, therefore I came
with a fair offer to buy the building and machinery so
as to have the right to destroy it. If your lordship
suspects my honesty, I am willing to leave the money
here, if you will give me your word of honour that the
mill shall be pulled down."
And Andrds drew from his belt a heavy bag which
jingled with the sound of gold and notes, and placed it
on the table.
"Ay!" roared Bideskuty, losing the last lingering
vestige of self-control, for the attack on his beloved fad
had exasperated him beyond measure, **Ay! you want
to lend me more of your accursed money, do you? to
enrich yourself more and more at my expense, to ex-
Lord and Peasant 129
tract more and more blood from me. I looked down
upon you as an impudent, low-bom peasant before, son
or grandson of a liberated serf, whose female kind, a
generation or two ago had to pay toll with their bodies
to their lord before their husbands could claim them
as their own. But now, Kem6ny Andrds, you, by your
own words have shown yourself to be but a dirty Jew
out of the gutter. I have heard that you all descend
from some bastard born of a Jewish waif. Ay! I see
you in your true light. There! take back your money,
I have no need of it; it would sully my valet's hand if
he should happen to touch it."
And with his eyes aglow with rage, cheeks purple,
lips quivering, the lord of Bideskdt picked up the
heavy bag of gold, and threw it violently in Kem6ny
Andrds's face.
The proud peasant, who had stood Bidesktity's in-
sults up to the last moment, with the determination not
to yield an inch, and not to leave the house till he had
succeeded in his mission, turned absolutely livid. The
heavy bag had grazed his forehead, leaving an ugly
red mark across it, from which two or three drops of
blood began slowly to trickle. For a moment the blow
had stunned him, but the next he had turned on
Bideskiity as some caged lion suddenly let free, his
cheeks were deathly pale, but his eyes literally blazed
with pent-up rage, and his muscular arm was lifted
high, menacing above, ready to chastise his arrogant
lord for every insult uttered, ready to exact his life for
the last deadly blow.
Bidesktity came from a race that in spite — ^perhaps
because — of its want of education, its semi-barbarous-
ness, its love of gross material pleasures, had never
known fear. He realised, by the look on Andr&s's face.
130 ' A Son of the People
that he had gone too far ; and at the same moment also
saw how completely he, past the prime of life, was at
the mercy of this young son of the soil, to whom the
heaped-up insults would give superhuman strength.
His anger cooled in an instant, his cheek turned pale,
but he never for a moment thought of calling for help.
Thus for one second only they stood face to face, the ar-
rogant noble and the deeply wounded peasant, Andris's
hand raised ready to strike what might have been a
death-blow. Suddenly a merry laugh outside seemed
to paralyse his arm. Still holding it aloft, he was now
gazing bewildered, fascinated, at the door, which had
been noisily thrown open, and at a vision all in white,
with bows of something soft and blue, and crowned
with an aureole of golden curls, from under which
peeped, half-frightened, a pair of eyes like forget-me-
nots. What was it ? A bird escaped from its cage ? or
one of those fairies who, according to the tales his
mother used to tell him long ago, dwelt inside the
petals of the roses, or within the sweet-scented corolla
of the violet ?
But the bird sang, the fairy spoke, simple words:
but they seemed to Andrds the sweetest music mortal
ears had ever heard.
**Papa, may we have a carriage, to drive down and
see the new fishes in the lake? — Why, papa dear,*'
added the snow-white vision, **how pale you are ! Are
you ill?"
Andrds's hand had dropped numb by his side. His
entranced gaze followed the flower-like vision, as it
passed close to him, to throw a pair of lovely arms, so
childlike, yet so protecting, round his enemy's neck.
Bideskdty was not a young man; the strain of the
last few moments was heavy for him to bear, and, ex-
Lord and Peasant 131
hausted, dazed, he sank in a chair. Ilonka had knelt
by his side, and, with pretty endearing ways, was
stroking the matted hair from his forehead. Andrds
gazed on; he could not see her face for her back was
turned towards him, but he could see her soft white
neck, peeping from out the folds of her gown, and
there were one or two golden curls just above that
made him think of some earthly paradise. She had
not vouchsafed another look to the peasant, who, she
vaguely guessed, had been tiresome, and had angered
''papa."
Mechanically he passed his hand across his forehead,
from which two or three drops of blood still trickled
slowly down his pale cheek; he stooped and picked up
the bag of gold, and.fastened it inside his belt; then he
looked once more at the golden vision, drank in every
line of that graceful, girlish figure,as if he wished never
to part from dreams of her again: it was a long, lin-
gering look, so ardent, so magnetic, that Ilonka must,
somehow, have felt it, for she turned half shyly round,
and her tender, forget-me-not eyes met Andrds's burn-
ing gaze.
The next moment he had left the room, the castle,
had crossed the shady acacia drive, and, calling to
Csillag, he jumped upon her back, and without look-
ing round again, had galloped away across the ptiszia.
CHAPTER XIII
VENGEANCE
AndrAs would not allow himself to think, would not
allow his mind to revert, even for one instant, to the
last awful moments he had just gone through. The
sun still shone fiercely, though it was beginning to
sink low down in the west, and the wound on his fore-
head burned at times like the newly made brand-mark
on the convict's back, the badge of shame. He avoided
the main roads and the fields, dreading to meet the
comrades who must be waiting anxiously for the ful-
filment of his promise to them, not daring to tell them
how he had failed in his trust, how he had allowed his
own pride and then a pair of forget-me-not eyes to
force him to quit the battle-field, to turn his back on the
enemy before the victory was won.
On he spurred Csillag across the desolate plain, and
her hoofs, as she thundered past, roused the rooks from
their evening rest, and the drowsy little lizards from
their sleep. As he neared Kisfalu, from every field
shouts hailed him, but he heeded them not, and never
stopped Csillag in her wild career till she reached her
own stable door foaming and panting.
With the same tender care as usual, Andr&s began
grooming the lovely creature, wiping the foam from
her quivering haunches, stroking her ears, and patting
her neck. It seemed as if Csillag understood the bitter
132.
Vengeance 133
thoughts which swelled her master's heart to bursting,
and felt that a kindly feeling of sympathy would per-
haps ease this overburdened heart. Gently she rubbed
her sleek nose against his hand, asking for a caress,
some fondling in return. Her great eyes looked so
affectionately, so sorrowfully at Andr4s, that his
wounded heart at last eased itself in a passionate out-
burst of tears. No one saw him, there was no one
who could ever record having seen this sturdy, power-
ful man for once in his life under the spell of an emotion
which completely overmastered him. That one act of
weakness seemed to take the bitterness from out the
wound. His head resting against the mare's sleek
neck, he cried as he used to do at his mother's knee,
when the stem father's blows had been more than the
child could bear; great sobs shook his powerful frame,
and one of his hands was placed across the mare's eyes,
lest she should see the stigma of shame that burned
unavenged upon his forehead.
When a quarter of an hour later he went into the
house to kiss his mother, there was no trace of tears
in his eyes, not a vestige of the torrent of emotion
which had, for a brief moment, threatened to crush this
passionate native of the Hungarian soil. But Ktelka's
keen eyes noted at once the look of dejection on his
face, and she shook her head sadly, for she understood
that her son had failed.
** Mother," said Andrds, taking a sheet of paper from
his breast pocket, and spreading it out on the table be-
fore him, "will you put aside your spinning and listen
to this a moment ? I want your advice."
Obediently, Etelka pushed the spindle aside, and,
folding her hands before her, prepared to listen. The
rays of the now rapidly setting sun found their way
134 A Son of the People
through the small windows, throwing a halo of light
round the old peasant woman. She was accustomed
to being consulted by her son about all his business.
Though she invariably approved of what he had done/
he was not happy until she had said that she was
satisfied.
*' You remember, mother, all three documents which
I hold from my lord, about the money I have lent him,
and about the interest ? "
**Yes, my boy, I remember them all.'*
**I want to xead them over to you, mother, and I
want you to weigh again very carefully in your mind
if there is anything unfair in the dealings.'*
** I know there was nothing unfair in them, Andrds,
and the interest was very low, too low, in fact, I
thought."
**Ah, but mother, this is important," said Andr&s
earnestly,** it is a matter of life and death to me. You
must listen to every word, as if you had never heard
them before."
** I am listening, Andrds."
** One of these papers is now five years old, mother;
it is dated in April, 1855. It says: * I owe you 300,000
florins in gold; for this, until I repay you in full, I will
pay you interest every year, one hundred head of cattle,
of which there will be ten bulls and ninety cows, and
five thousand measures of wheat. If in any year I fail
to pay you this interest, and on your then demanding
the repayment of the principal, I am unable to give it
to you, then the farmhouse of Kisfalu and all the fields,
vineyards, and buildings from the I^Adasdy puszta to the
town of B61a, and from the banks of the Tama to the
high-road opposite, shall belong to you absolutely and
you will then have no further daim on the 300,000
Vengeance 135
florins you have lent me.' This is signed Bideskdty
Gyuri, and below is Rosenstein's name as witness.
There is the stamp on it which the government de-
mands and for which I paid."
Andrds paused and looked anxiously at his mother.
** I remember," she said, *' you wanted to increase
your herd of cows; it is reasonable, my son, quite fair:
for each cow which you sold for money to Rosenstein
afterwards you had from 150 to 200 florins. It is not
only fair, my son, it is generous."
** The second paper, mother, is for 300,000 florins,
and it says: * I will pay you five thousand measures of
wheat, twelve thousand measures of maize, and one
hundred head of sheep, of which five shall be rams,
and if I fail to pay the interest in any one year,
and, on your demanding it, also fail to repay you the
principal, then my fields, vineyards, and dependencies
of Bidesktit, and all buildings save the house I live in
and the adjoining stables, shall become yours abso-
lutely.' This paper is dated three years later, and is
signed like the other."
** That is as generous as you could allow it, Andrds.
You know the Jews would exact ten times that amount,
and more."
" The third paper, mother, "continued Andrds,''was
signed two days ago: it is for 250,000 florins, for which
my lord has promised me in writing, five thousand
measures of wheat, and forty head of cattle, and for
which he has given me Zdrda as security, on the same
conditions as the others."
'' He is a spendthrift, and improvident man," said
the old woman, shaking her head; '' if he had borrowed
all that money from the Jews, he would by now be a
ruined man."
1 36 A Son of the People
** You do finnly believe, mother," repeated Andrds
earnestly, ** that I am doing no deed of usury, which
would cause you to blush for your son ? "
" Yes, Andrds, I firmly believe that."
'* Will you swear it, mother, on the crucifix? "
He detached a rough wooden image of the Saviour
of mankind firom the whitewashed wall, and with
trembling hand held it dose to his mother's lips.
" I swear it by our Lord Jesus Christ," she said,
reverently kissing the dumb piece of wood. A deep
sigh of relief escaped Andr&s's oppressed chest; he
placed the crucifix back in its place, then drew a chair
dose to his mother's knee.
The old woman did not quite understand what her
son was driving at, but her motherly heart fdt that he
was in some trouble, and she was content to ask
nothing, only to try and soothe her boy now, as she
had done ever since he was a wee lad, and had come to
her, after his stem father's bufietings, for comfort.
Gently she stroked the hair away from his forehead.
* * Andrds, ' ' she asked, * * where did you get this blow ?' '
** The lord of Bideskdt dealt it, mother ! " he said
impetuously, "and it has remained unavenged."
** My lord struck you, Andrds? "
** Yes, mother, and I was coward enough not to re-
turn the blow."
** Tell me, Andrds, I am anxious, I do not under-
stand."
And Andrds tried to tell her from beginning to end
his fruitless interview with the noble lord; he told her
how he had explained at first, begged from that man,
who was even then making merry with a hundred
guests, to have some pity for the weak, the ignorant
and unhappy. He told her of the noble lord's arro-
Vengeance 137
gance, his insults, his blows. It was such a relief to
tell her all. The mother's heart, ignorant, uneducated
as she was, understood and sympathised, knew how to
soothe and to make him forget. He told her all, of
how a girlish arm had placed itself protectingly round
her father's neck, making numb his own, which had
been raised ready to return blow for blow. But what
he did not tell, not even to the gentle consoler, the
fond, indulgent mother, was that, since that moment, a
fairy vision, crowned with golden curls, always danced
before his gaze, making fun of him, with smiling for-
get-me-not eyes; that he had galloped across the plain
to try and leave that vision behind, but that she fol-
lowed him, even to this simple farmhouse, which sud-
denly had begun to Andrds to look so bare, so poor,
so unworthy even to hold the flitting vision of an aris-
tocratic girl. What he did not tell was that suddenly
his peasant clothes seemed rough and dirty, his hands
hard and brown, his step heavy, that he would have
longed to stretch out his arm and grasp the en-
chanting vision, but felt how rough he was, how
far, very far, away beneath it, and that his arms
then dropped down numb by his side, and great tears
of shame and envy trickled slowly down his
cheeks.
The mother, though dimly guessing that something
else was weighing heavily on her son's soul besides
the insult and the blow, yet found in her heart plenty
of love with which to make him forget all save the
happiness of home, the joys of sitting at his mother*s
knee. The sun had quite sunk down, far out in the
west; great dark shadows collected in the comers
of the room. Sdri and Kati brought in the candles,
and the evening meal. But it was eaten in silence ;
1 38 A Son of the People
mother and son felt weighted with the presentiment
of coming evil.
The meal was cleared away. Andrds had asked that
the candles might be taken away; he longed to sit
quietly in the dark, dose to his mother, her fond,
sympathising hand resting on his burning forehead,
so as to chase away the devils of hatred and revenge
which ran riot in his brain. He longed for peace and
darkness too because he wanted to indulge in the nurs-
ing of a certain fairy vision, which in broad, prosy
light, his own common-sense told him to chase away,
but which in the gloom, became akin to a dream, from
which the awaking, perhaps, would not be so bitter.
How long mother and son sat there, in the dark,
they hardly knew; the flight of evening hours is not
counted on this spot of earth where clocks are rare.
Htelka, who had no flitting visions on which to dwell,
had closed her eyes, and her quiet breathing made a
soothing accompaniment to Andrds' s wakeful dreams.
Suddenly it seemed as if a curious light were discernible
through the open casement, out beyond the desolate
plain, on the horizon far away. Andrds had sprung
to his feet, and gazed out, not understanding at first
the lurid light which gradually illumined the sky. A
hurried, anxious knock at the outer door had also
aroused Btelka, and the two little maids had run in,
looking very frightened. Every mind, even the sim-
plest, had been on tension the whole day, and when
Sdri and Kati had first noticed the curious light which
came from neither moon nor sun, they rushed, terror-
stricken, to their master for comfort and explanation.
But Andrds had become very pale, and Btelka now
was gazing out, horrified, her cheeks blanched with fear.
"Fire!" she whispered, awe-struck, under her breath.
Vengeance 139
** Yes ! it is fire, mother, fire, on the Bideskdt estate.
The maize fields lie just there,** replied Andrds,
*'and there has been no rain for two weeks; the fields
will burn like hay."
** The fire seems to come from two or three different
pK>ints. It is God's judgment on my lord," said
Ktelka, superstitiously crossing herself.
** Mother, I am going to see if I can be of any help;
let Sdri and Kati run out and send any of our fellows
they may meet, as fast as they can. Here are the keys
of the stables; they must choose the fastest horses, and
follow at once. And you, mother dear, while I am
gone,*' he added, solemnly, "kneel down before your
crucifix, and pray to God that He may stay His ven-
geance from tiie heads of those who have planned this
murderous deed.**
And hastily kissing his mother, Andrds was once
more at the stable and soon had started off to ride to-
wards Bideskdt.
Far out ahead, the deep, red light had spread right
across the horizon. Through the absolute silence of
the night, across the vast immensity of the plain, could
be heard weird, terrified cries from afar: the frightened
lowing of cattle, the bleating of frightened sheep, the
cries of the juhdsz (shepherds) as they endeavoured to
drive their herds for safety on to the bleak and arid
plain.
Faster and faster the red light spread, and, as An-
drds galloped on, herds of wild horses thundered past
him, terrified, their manes flying, their tails lashing
out furiously.
Already he could see the flames, spreading with ter-
rible rapidity across the fields, where he knew the com
lay, stacked, the most helpless prey to the fury of the
I40 A Son of the People
flames. The plain, usually so silent and peaceful at
night, under the blue vault of heaven, beneath the
glittering stars, was now alive with terror-stricken
cries, which seemed to rise from everywhere. A slight
summer breeze fanned the flames, and spread them
eastwards over rich maize fields, wooden sheds, and
even stables. Andrds galloped on, his heart full of
dark foreboding, gazing at the fire kindled by God's
hands, his mother had said, to punish the arrogant
lord.
CHAPTER XIV
CAXAMITY
BideskCty had had a severe shock in his interview
with his wealthy tenant, and it took him some little
time to resume his cordial bonhomie^ and to restore his
animal spirits to their usual elasticity. A feeling he
could not have explained had deterred him from relat-
ing the particulars of the interview to his guests, and
thus finding solace to his wrath, by listening to their
violent abuse of the meddlesome and insolent peasant.
Somehow Bidesktity was not altogether satisfied with
himself. He felt just a little ashamed of his unwar-
rantable hastiness towards this man, whom it would
have been decidedly in his interest to conciliate, and
win over to the side of his pet hobbies. Kemeny An-
dres's prestige among the peasantry he knew to be
boundless, and a little in spite of himself he was
forced to admit that he could well understand the
handsome young peasant's cheering influence. Surely
he was a fool not to have made an ally of this man,
instead of, by insults and a blow, making a bitter and
deadly enemy of him. Never for a moment did he
regret not having sold him the mill: he was firmly
convinced that the peasant's motives in wishing to buy
it were not as disinterested as he stated them to be.
But now that he knew that the money of which he
always was in need really came from the peasant's
141
142 A Son of the People
purse, he regretted not having concluded some amic-
able treaty, by which he might have persuaded An-
dris not to charge such usurious interest on his capital
as that blood-sucking intermediary of his, Rosenstein,
demanded. By making a mortal enemy of his credi-
tor, Bideskdty foresaw every kind of hostility to which
he might in future be subjected, and probably the find-
ing of the purse strings tightly closed, when next he
would require a loan.
Most of the afternoon Bideskdty had sat silent, and
decidedly sulky, apart from his guests, and seeking
consolation for his ruffled temper in the soothing
clouds he drew from his cherry-wood pipe. As for
Ilonka, she was much too childish to understand the
terrible situation which her sudden entrance had inter-
rupted. She little guessed that it was her own uncon-
scious beauty which had averted from her father's head
what might haveproved a death-blow, and from a man*s
soul what would have been lifelong remorse. She had
only caught sight of a tall, broad-shouldered figure of
a peasant who, evidently, had much angered papa, and
who had looked at her in a way that she could not
quite understand, and certainly had not the power to
analyse. But all this she had forgotten by the time
the evening shadows had rendered the garden cool;
like her mother's curtain lecture of the night before,
she had thrown off every unpleasant sensation in order
to enjoy the present as she found it.
She and all her younger guests had devised, for the
night's entertainment, an absolutely novel form of en-
joyment. Topsy-turvy dom was called to assist in
making the walls of Bidesktit ring with laughter that
shook them to their foundations, and made stem Attila
totter on his pedestal. Truly it was a motley throng
Calamity 143
which filed up the great stone staircase and through
the vast halls of the old mansion. Pretty, laughing
faces peeped above male attire, while bearded faces
looked irresistibly comic from beneath feminine head-
gear. The order was that all the girls should appear
in men's clothes, and all the men in what articles of
feminine attire they could manage to borrow.
The lumber room had been ransacked, where genera-
tions of Bidesktitys had stored away apparel which
had become too antiquated to wear, and in great oak
chests, dainty, high-waisted dresses of the beginning of
last century, and rich brocades and hooped skirts of
grandmother's days, were found in gorgeous plenty.
Grandfather's brass-buttoned coats, with high stock
collar and sugar-loaf hat, and g^eat-grandfather's gor-
geously embroidered plum-silk coat, with satin knee-
breeches, and red-heeled shoes, were there, laid in
strong black tobacco to keep away the moth.
And, laughingly, the madcap, juvenile throng had
arrayed itself in these relics of past days. Ilonka had
borrowed her father's national costume: the blue
watered-silk "attila" (a military-shaped frock-coat)
with jewelled clasps, the black velvet doak with sable
collar and jewel buttons, the grey Hungarian breeches,
the great curved sword with heavy jewelled hilt, belt,
and sheath. She looked bewitching, with a cap set
rakishly on one side, its long heron's feather held with
a. jewelled dasp. There surely never had been a more
fascinating Hungarian magnate. Against that, her
partner, Maddch Peri, whose sentimental love for the
pretty girl never damped his spirit of fun and merri-
ment, looked irresistibly comic, in Countess Irma's
national ''pdrta," a tiara-shaped head-dress of gold
lace tied at the nape of the neck« with a large bow and
144 A Son of the People
long ends; the tight-fitting corselet with its jewelled
clasps would not dose over his manly waist, and
showed a sad breach in front, filled with the billowy
softness of the muslin shift, beneath the puffy sleeves of
which his brown arms appeared. The ample folds of
his white satin skirt, and the characteristic apron
of gold lace, hung limp to about a foot from the
ground, displaying a pair of large feet in huzzar top-
boots. His heavy, dark moustache added a generally
disreputable air to his very aristocratic costume.
Then, there was a red-cheeked, bright-eyed Kan-
t&ssy Mariska. She had elected to appear as a lowland
peasant, and the full white lawn shirt and ample trous-
ers became her very well; she had placed her round
cap with its sprig of rosemary on one side of her pretty
head, and, burying her hand in the broad leather belt
with huge brass ornaments and clasps, she mimicked
the rolling gait of the peasantry with irresistible charm.
Close to her, Bart6cz Feri as a Hungarian **menny-
ecske" (maiden), was decidedly not graceful. His
''pdrta" would not keep in the middle, and his row upon
row of coloured beads looked sadly out of place round
his hairy neck. He had a number of cotton skirts,
one over the other, each of a different colour, in truly
approved style, but he had not the art of swinging
them as he walked, to display the kaleidoscope of
colours, which the pretty Hungarian peasant girls do
to perfection.
There were the daintiest possible powdered gallants
of a hundred years ago, in satin coat and breeches, with
lace ruffles and three-cornered hats; the dainty legs in
silk stockings looked bewitching over the tiny feet
encased in scarlet-heeled shoes with paste buckles; but
their ladies, in rich patterned brocades and hooped
Calamity 145
skirts, anything but fulfilled the preconceived ideas of
the dainty coquettes of Louis XV. 's court. Ungainly
shepherdesses of Watteau's day acted as a foil to the
most charming shepherds that ever stepped out of the
artist's canvas, and heavily bearded gipsies in petti-
coats, to fascinating czigdny in picturesque rags.
As for G^za Vecsery, the boisterous Lord-Lieutenant,
he had discovered some white tarlatan skirts which
must once have belonged to a pupil of Taglioni's in
the days when dancing was stiU one of the fine arts;
on his ungainly figure the pink bodice and airy flesh-
ings and skirts looked supremely comic, and he created
the greatest sensation when, with the action of an
elephant dancing on the tight rope, he tripped shyly
into the room.
The supper was more boisterous and merry than any
meal which had ever taken place at Bidesktit; the
valets and maids had been pressed into following the
topsy-turvy rule of the evening, and grey-haired Jank6
in a scarlet corselet and pink petticoat was solemnly
pouring out wine, whilst the other valets, each of whom
wore the regulation Hungarian waxed moustache, all
entered into the spirit of the fun by donning the
gay-coloured skirts, and ribbons of national hue,
of the maids. The latter formed a charming bevy
of valets, with **attilas" decidedly too large for
their slim waists, and very shapely-looking legs en-
cased in the characteristic tight-fitting Hungarian
breeches.
Never was there so lively a csdrdds in the lowlands
as the one that was danced in the great hall of Bideskdt
that night after supper. The graceful cavaliers were
a dainty picture to behold, stepping the csdrdds with
their tiny booted feet, clapping their heels together in
zo
146 A Son of the People
most jaunty fashion, as if they never had been encum-
bered with petticoats in their lives; but their ladies,
unaccustomed to the embarras^g folds of their bro-
cade and satin skirts, managed to put an amount of
grotesqueness in the giaoeful dance which was quite
irresistible; and the older folk who had not joined in
the madcap masquerade made themselves dizzy with
laughter at the simpering manners and arch coquetry
put on by budding ambassadors and gallant young
huzzars.
The czig&ny needed no incentive to alternate dreamy
lassu (the slow movement of the dance) with the live-
liest csdrd&s, without rest or res^nte, needed no shouts
of ** Ujra! " (encore) and ** Htizd r4 czig&ny!" (play on
tsigane) to put strength into their lean arms. Some-
times they could hardly play for very laughing,
when one of the arch coquettes, in a graceful evolution,
became hopelessly mixed in the full satin gown, and
came, with scanty grace, tumbling to the ground; or
when G6za Vecsery, the acknowledged patron of every
gipsy band in the land, executed an approved pirou-
ette, which invariably ended in a catastrophe on the
floor.
No one had noticed in the midst of this boisterous
gaiety, towards the end of the long-drawn-out csdrdds,
that Jank6, still wearing the grotesque feminine trav-
esty, had slipped into the room, and had whispered a
few words in his master's ear, his face looking ghastly
pale, nor had any of the lively, thoughtless revellers
seen their host rise thereupon suddenly, his face al-
most livid, and follow his valet out of the room.
Some twenty minutes later the csdrdds came to a
crashing end, with a wild twirling and turning like
some Bacchanalian dance of classic times. The men
Calamity 147
were shouting, the girls, with flaming cheeks and eyes
aglow, made a final effort for a boisterous finale; then,
all hot and panting, the ladies most ungracefully
mopping their foreheads, the cavaliers making most
unmanly use of their fans, dispersed from the immedi-
ate vicinity of the band, to spread themselves, a laugh-
ing, boisterous crowd, in the cooler parts of the
house.
A few had strolled into the dining hall, and it was
from their awe-struck cry that all those dressed-up,
masquerading merry-makers had the first intimation
of the terrible catastrophe that even at this moment
was spreading sorrow and desolation over the head of
their genial host.
Through the windows of the hall the entire sky
appeared illumined by a lurid light, which was half
obscured by clouds of black smoke driven slanting
towards the east; whilst through the thickly-leaved
branches of the acacia trees could be caught glimpses
of flames like some gigantic distant furnace.
The air was filled with sounds of rushing and of
shouting, horses neighed with terror, while the cries of
the herdsmen sounded weird and terrifying as they
cracked their whips to drive the beasts away from the
immediate danger of the flames. The melancholy
bleating of the lambs, rushing after one another in
blind helplessness, following the wether's bell as he
guided his troop of affrighted companions right into
the very thickest of the danger, mingled with the
curses of the shepherds and the barking of the sheep
dogs trying to keep the terrified flock together.
In the grounds, rushing from every stable, every out-
house, labourers, servants and peasants, ran excitedly
down the ac^da drive, while kitchenmaids and house-
148 A Son of the People
maids stocxl in awed groaps^ whispering and gazing,
horrified, beyond. Hardly had the crowd of aristo-
cratic merry-makers realised the terrible catastrophe
which had oocnrred, than a hnge column of flames, not
half a league away to the right, rose with a distant
hissing sotmd into the air, while to the left and straight
ahead, a burning glow seemed to turn the entire land-
scape into one gigantic furnace. Terrified, they all
gazed outwards, speechless, for a moment, then the
weird whisper of* Fire! " was passed from mouth to
mouth.
Trembling, the gay revellers in fantastic masquerade
cltmg to one another, and dainty court gallants and
gaily decked-out beaux stood with blanched cheeks,
not daring to speak loudly of the terrible catastrophe
which, even now, had changed this abode of merry-
making into one of sorrow and terror. Throughout
the house there was a general stampede. The men,
forgetting their grotesque attire, had turned towards
the staircase, and were now hurrying across the great
entrance hall and down the acacia alley; others had
raided the stables, and, without pausing to find saddle
or bridle, had jumped on the horses, and galloped
across the yard and down the drive at breakneck speed,
as that race of bom horsemen are alone able to do.
And in the dismal night, illuminated from afar by
the lurid light of the glowing furnace, this cavalcade
seemed like the midnight ride of some grotesque
witches on their way to the Sabbath. Some of the
men had hastily wrenched off the cumbersome skirts
which impeded their movements, but others, in too
great a haste to try and undo the many unaccustomed
fastenings, had gathered up their petticoats, and in
their wild ride the white satin and brocade skirts,
Calamity 149
looked like witches' wings, which caught sharp lurid
lights as they fluttered in the wind. Weirdly
grotesque they looked, with dainty head-dresses fallen
to one side, bows fluttering round their bearded faces,
their brown arms emerging bare from out the puffed
muslin or lace sleeves — a scene that in a fantastic
ballet would have convulsed an audience with laughter,
but which here added a hundred-fold more horror to
the catastrophe which had fallen in the very midst
of so much madcap merry-making.
One by one the ladies, young and old, had snatched
up shawl or wrap, and, in frightened groups of three
and four, were finding their way across the roads to-
wards the burning fields. Countess Irma and Ilonka,
clinging to one another in a mutual desire for comfort,
led the way; the pretty young girl forgetting her male
attire, her thoughts paralysed by the disaster, of which,
child as she was, she could not but foresee the con-
sequences, her mother mutely upbraiding destiny for
having ventured to fall with a heavy hand upon her
aristocratic head.
Out there in the fields the scene was one of awful
weirdness and magnificence. The wheat which was
lying in stacks ready for threshing and grinding, as
well as that which was still uncut, the fields of maize,
the hay and straw, all had proved but a too easy prey
to the flames, and the fire had, in a few moments, spread
with astonishing rapidity. When the cavalcade of gro-
tesque mummers appeared upon the scene, aU as
far as the eye could reach seemed to be part of a
gigantic, seething, burning furnace, standing out in
lurid red and gold, against the dark canopy of the sky
above. Terrible, mysterious, magnificent, it rose like
a living curtain of flames, hissing and lashing, de-
1 50 A Son of the People
stroying all things, as it spread to right and left,
untrammelled and merciless. And, dotted here and
there against this fiery background, the black silhou-
ettes of men and beasts, rushing hither and thither,
frightened, like some pigmies, face to face mth an
awe-inspiring giant.
The air was full of sounds of anguish and terror :
the stampede of the beasts, as they were driven out
of the threatened stables, towards the distant puszta^
which, arid and desolate, was the only safe shelter, the
only barrier, against the fast-spreading enemy; the mel-
ancholy lowing of the oxen, the frightened bleating of
the sheep, the shouts and cries of the men, the wail of
anguish of the women, and through it all, the hissing,
roaring of the flames, as they attacked now a fresh field
of nodding wheat, now an outljring shed, whose dry
tinder crackled as it burnt. Relentlessly the enemy
moved forward. There was no terrible crash, no
sudden, loud conflagration or explosion. The ways of
a fire on the lowlands are sure, swift, and silent.
Anon a field of maize was in a blaze, and each plume,
as it was seized upon by the flames, threw out a
shower of sparks like golden dewdrops; then a stack of
straw would flare up, smokeless in the dry air, only
burning swiftly down to the ground, helping to spread
the conflagration ever on and on. And the poor fright-
ened beasts, not understanding why their sheltering
stables were closed against them, or what was the
meaning of this strange light, lurid and hot, rushed
about, panting and snorting, in a terrified circle,
always turning blindly towards that stable door which
was closed against them. The shepherds and herds-
men worked with a wiU. With relentless energy they
tried to keep their herds together, hoping to get them
Calamity 1 5 1
well out of reach before some straying spark caught
the dry thatch of the first group of stables.
It certainly, at this moment, looked as if it would be
impossible to save the farther buildings. Bideskdty,
who, with the greatest calm, had up to this point given
directions to every one of his outdoor and indoor serv-
ants to see to the beasts first and foremost, began to
notice with astonishment, and then with terror, that
there seemed to be no one else there to lend a hand in
at least parrying some of the worst consequences of the
dire catastrophe.
The conflagration must have been seen for leagues
around, and yet, though Bideskdty had sent for assist-
ance in every direction, neither firom Arokszdll&s nor
from the outlying cottages on the road to Gyongy6s
did either messenger return, or aid arrive.
It seemed terrible, the isolation of this man, standing
alone, gazing at the ruin which was fast closing in
upon him. And, sombre, he paced up and down, the
awful truth gradually breaking upon him, that the
remorseless devastation of his year's crops, his probable
complete ruin, was not the hand of God, falling with
divine justice on him, as it might have done on any of
his neighbours, but was the deliberate revengeful work
of some incendiary miscreant. And, with deep curses,
the lord of Bidesktit muttered the name of him whom
he believed to be his deadly enemy, him whom, in his
unreasoning arrogance, he had but a few hours ago so
deeply wounded.
Bideskdty knew nothing of human nature ; his care-
less disposition, his very arrogance and pride of caste,
prevented him from reading the open book of his
neighbours ' characters and feelings, which lies before
all who are willing to read. To him, Kem^ny Andrds,
152 A Son of the People
rich or poor, educated or ignorant, would always re-
main the low-bom peasant, descendant of a race of serfs,
once the very property of his own ancestors. To him
low deeds, such as he now attributed to Andr&s, were
the necessary outcome of low birth. In his mind there
was but one nobility, and that was the one which a long
line of ancestry alone could give. As he stood now
isolated, having sent off his bailiffs in every direction
to try and induce the peasantry round to give him
some help, to at least save his beasts, his house, since
his fields were irrevocably doomed, he worked himself
up to a very fever of rage against all the low-bom mis-
creants who had dared to raise their hand against
their lord.
Vainly his wife and daughter tried to pacify him ; he
was like some caged wild beast, not heeding his own
guests, who stood round him willing, eager to help, to
be directed as to where that help was most needed.
He would not listen save to his own tempestuous
passion, would not speak, save to hurl curses on the
head of his supposed enemy. And the grotesque caval-
cade of mummers stood about in fantastic groups like
an army eager to fight, but disorganised and leader-
less ; while the ladies, forgetting their masculine attire,
added to the confusion by sobs of terror, anxious ques-
tionings, and loud, wailing prayers.
*' My lord,'* suddenly said a voice dose to Bides-
kdty's elbow, **we shall have to organise, and very
quickly too, a chain of buckets from the nearest well
to those farther stables. Any flying spark may now
set them ablaze ; the poor beasts in that quarter are cut
off from the plain by the fire. They must be protected
at any cost."
It was Kem^ny Andrds on his beautiful thoroughbred
Calamity 153
mare, whose quivering neck he was quietly patting as
he spoke.
** I would have been here sooner," he added, " only
the way to Kisfalu is also cut off by the fire."
Bidesk6ty, on hearing that voice, turned, as some
long-caged wild beast, face to face at last with his prey.
His lips moved convulsively as if to speak ; his face,
livid with rage, looked almost fiendish in expression in
the lurid light that illuminated it. But the peasant
stopped the words in his mouth, by pointing quietly to
the stables.
*' After that, we will resume our quarrel," he said ;
" now let those who are willing follow me."
And the mare, encouraged by a cheering word, once
more started at a swift gallop in the direction where
the fire was more rapidly gaining ground. No one
needed twice telling ; as Andrds rode away the entire
cavalcade of grotesque figures followed with a lively
shout.
Astonished, frowning, Bidesktity looked after them,
watching with a scowl that was half wrathful, wholly
puzzled, the powerful figure on the thoroughbred as he
galloped on, his white shirt-sleeves fluttering behind
him, his cheery voice sounding above the cries of
anguish of men and beasts, above the distant stampede
of frightened herds ; and, instinctively, Bidesktity him-
self felt that quieting influence which was Andrds' s
own over every man who knew him. His muttered
curses ceased, a ray of hope seemed to have filtrated
through his heart, he managed to give an encouraging
kiss to his wife and daughter, to listen quietly to the
consoling words of those of his guests who were too
old or too slow to render much assistance.
Eagerly he watched the band of workers, headed by
1 54 A Son of the People
Andr^, as, outlined against the sky, he saw them
scaling the thatched roof of the stables, and forming a
living chain along the ladders, propped against the
side of the buildings, and as far as the nearest well ;
they passed buckets after buckets full of water from
hand to hand, and deluged the dry thatch, making it
secure against the flying sparks. Distinctly he could
hear their excited shouts as they took each building in
its turn, running up and down the ladders, grotesque in
the extreme, with their pufied muslin sleeves, their
fluttering bows of ribbon, their semi-masculine, semi-
feminine garb. They were doing their work well,
encouraged, led by one man whom Bideskdty, from
the distance, seemed to see everywhere at one and the
same time, the man whom in his heart and with many
curses he believed to be his deadly enemy, whom he
accused boldly of having perpetrated the dastardly
deed.
'' Who is that man, Gyuri,*' asked Count Elantdssy,
who also had watched the peasant for some time, with
the Hungarian's heartfelt admiration for a perfect rider
on a perfect horse.
'' That was Kem^ny Andrds, the rich farmer from
Kisfalu/'
''A man of will and energy, Gyuri; he and our
young friends will save the group of stables and all the
poor beasts, I am sure, and, moreover, give an effect-
ual check to the flames in that direction, in any case.*'
''Do you think anybody can save the house?*'
asked the Countess drearily.
Kantdssy looked sadly round. Truly the spectacle
was heart-breaking. The fire had received an effectual
check to the south and east by the arid plain, but
towards the north in a westerly direction, it seemed as
Calamity 155
if there was nothing that could prevent the flames from
spreading even as far as the house of Bidesktit itself.
Already the conflagration formed a gigantic semicircle
which appeared every moment to be closing in on the
entire property of the unfortunate lord.
It was obvious that a willing and really numerous
band of workers was wanted to accomplish the most
important salvage : that of the house and the larger
block of stables.
*' I cannot understand," said old Palotay, *' where
all those beastly, good-for-nothing lazy peasants are
sticking. It looks for all the world," he added in a
whisper, so that Bidesktity might not hear, ** as if they
had arranged it among themselves not to help in any
way."
But Bidesktity had heard.
'< They have arranged it among themselves to ruin
me," he said hopelessly ; '* it is no use fighting ; we can
do nothing while we are so short-handed."
" I will ride, if you like, across to Arokszdll&s," said
Count Kantdssy, ** and see if I cannot bring a few idle
hands with me."
** It is useless," said Bidesktity, '* nobody will come.
I have sent in every direction. It seems as if the earth
had swallowed up every peasant for leagues around.
They do not come."
*' Here comes your rich peasant, riding back. Ask
him if he cannot get help."
** I will ask him nothing," said Bidesktity surlily ; " I
would sooner see every stick of mine burnt to ashes."
His two friends had no time to reply, for the next
instant Andrds had galloped past them, shouting as he
went :
** We want more hands, my lord. I am going to
156 A Son of the People
JLrokszdllds to get them. In the meanwhile will your
Honour order every scjrthe, sickle, and spade to be taken
to that group of fields yonder ? We shall have to cut
some of the maize down, or the house will be in
danger."
The next moment he was again out of sight.
Bidesktity said nothing, but he turned obediently
towards his threatened house, followed by those of his
friends who were near him, and by his wife and
daughter. Poor little Ilonka, she had been too fright-
ened to do anything save ding pitiably to her mother's
skirts, as some tiny chicken hiding beneath the wing
of the hen. But now she ventured timidly to look up,
in order to follow, with curious questioning gaze, the
figure of the man whose name she had heard so often
on this memorable day.
'' He is a good man, mama," she said with convic-
tion, while her blue eyes filled with tears of gratitude.
** I was angry with him to-day because he had annoyed
papa, but I forgive him now, for he is very good."
** Probably he is trying to make amends, my dear,"
said the incorrigibly proud Countess; "no doubt he
knows that your papa will pay him well for his serv-
ices, and he is only doing his duty. Your papa is
his lord."
Bidesktity smiled bitterly to himself. He alone
understood the unconscious irony of his wife's words.
CHAPTER XV
REPARATION
AndrAs, in the meanwhile, had almost reached the
village. He knew, as well as the noble lord, that this
night's devastation was the work of man and not of
God, and that it was the poor superstitious, frightened
wretches, yonder in those cottages, whose hand had
done the dastardly deed, and who now refused, surly
and defiant, to try and check the terrible catastrophe
they, in their criminal folly, had brought about.
The village seemed at first strangdy deserted ; the
little thatched cottages to the right and left of the only
street were dark and desolate-looking ; even the inn
appeared solitary, not a sound emerged through its
half-opened doors. Andr&s dismounted, and led his
horse along the road towards the presbytery ; he reck-
oned on Pater Ambrosius to lend him the weight of his
influence on the obstinate minds of the peasants, and
inwardly wondered how it was that he had not met
the kind old priest on his way to the scene of the fire,
with cross and sacrament, to pray to God to stay His
just and wrathful hand.
The next moment, however, he saw the explanation
to this, for he had reached the presbytery, which was
literally blockaded by a crowd of men sitting and
standing round, some smoking in surly silence, others
discussing eagerly, all turning towards the glow which
sti£Eiased the sky.
157
1 58 A Son of the People
It was very dark, street illumination being still
unknown in the Hungarian lowlands, and Andrds
could do no more than just distinguish the outlines of
these groups of malcontents, and to guess their object
in thus congregating outside Pater Ambrosius' door ;
for though he could not see the good old priest himself,
he could hear his voice, apparently from some window
of his presbytery, expostulating, preaching, admon-
ishing, scolding, and entreating alternately to be
allowed to go and pray for my lord, who was in such
dire trouble,, and threatening a total suspension of ab-
solution, and excommunication of the entire village, if
he was not permitted to perform his priestly duty.
Surlily they all smoked on, not listening to the
kindly voice, which always brought spiritual comfort
to their simple minds. Obstinately they remained deaf
to every appeal, determined to carry on their crime,
their folly, to its utmost dire limit.
'* Do not speak any more words to them. Pater,'*
suddenly said a voice in the darkness; '* they are not
worthy that you should let your kind eyes rest upon
their evil forms, even for a moment,*'
Calmly Andrds stood among them, his usually so
merry eyes looking with contempt and anger at the men
who had all instinctively turned, as they recognised
the voice of their friend.
** Andrds ! " was the general cry of astonishment.
** Stop that," he said peremptorily; ** do not dare to
speak to me by my name. It is the name of an hon-
est man, and can but be polluted by passing through
the mouths of miscreants."
There was a dead silence ; astonished, the men looked
at one another, thinking their favourite had gone mad.
They had never heard such words from him.
Reparation 1 59
*' Miscreant is an ugly word, young man," said old
Vas Berczi, with a threatening tone in his voice, as he
advanced towards Andr&s.
** Ay! an ugly word, man, but not half so ugly as
the dark, murderous deed your cowardly hands have
accomplished to-night. Stand back, there ! " he added,
as one or two of the peasants in the foremost ranks came
close up to him, *' I forbid you to speak to me, to come
within a foot of me, or to lay a finger on Csillag, for
she surely would die of the pestilence."
** Has he gone mad?" whispered one voice to
another. '* What does he mean ? " suggested another.
But ail had retreated ; none spoke to him, and one or
two, as if in awe, looked at their brown hands, whose
touch, he said, was pestilence and death.
** Andrds," came Pater Ambrosius' pleading voice
from the dark,'* you used to have influence over them ;
speak to them, my son, persuade them, at least, since
they are not Christians, and will not assist my lord in
his distress, to let me go and pray for the poor man,
who must be sadly in want of God's help."
** I am here, Father, to take you to your church, or
to the terrible scene from which I have just come, and
where I shall go back at once ; as for speaking to these
miscreants, I will not do it. Their very breath is
offensive to me and to Csillag. You and I, Father,
will go back to where a poor old man, with his wife
and daughter, is watching his all fall a prey to ruin ;
to where poor frightened beasts rush helplessly about,
only to meet with a terrible death in the fire which
these children of hell have kindled. The pride of our
county of Heves, of the entire Hungarian lowland, is
laid to dust, when dastardly hands wreak cowardly
vengeance on innocent beasts of burden. Come, Father,
i6o A Son of the People
let us go; you can come back when your work of
praying is done; as for me, if I am not fortunate enough
to bury myself and my shame in the flames that
devastate the land of which I was so proud, I will,
to-morrow, collect my household goods and, like the
czigdny tramp, wander away across the puszta^ in
search of a spot where I can once more speak to an
honest man. Let Pater Ambrosius pass! He is
waiting at the door ! "
Never had they heard such cruel words, the tones of
which were sharp and cutting as a two-edged sickle,
and the contempt so bitter, so absolutely humiliating,
that even in the darkness they felt their bronzed cheeks
burn with shame.
What did Andrds mean? He who, in all their
grievances, their complaints, had always stood by their
side, ready to cheer, to explain, to alleviate. He who
had always, with a bright smile, thrown down every
barrier which his riches and his influence would other-
wise have built between him and them, the humble
labourers who worked for his liberal wage ; now he even
refused to allow them to speak his name or to touch
his horse ; as if their words and their touch were the
most abasing pollution. Was what they had done^
then, so very awful ? Was it not just revenge ? was it
really, as he said, so very cowardly? A crime and
not justice? True, there were the wife and daughter of
my lord ; they had had nothing to do with those
cursed inventions of Satan . . . and then there were
the poor beasts . . . the beautiful Hungarian horses
. . . the stables of Bidesktit are famed throughout the
lowlands . . . and a good many of the mares were with
colt . . . then the oxen who could not run . . . and
who were so timid and easily scared . . .
Reparation i6i
Silently the groups had parted to make way for Pater
Ambrosius now as he joined Andrds and prepared to
mount behind him. Kem6ny, in the meanwhile,
though still retaining the contemptuous attitude he
had adopted, and seemingly taking no further heed of
the men, just as if they were the very dust upon the
plain, was, nevertheless, quietly watching the effect
his hard words had on those whom, in spite of their
follies, he loved and sympathised with tenderly. It
was because there had been no time to waste in per-
suasion and argument that he had adopted what he
firmly believed was the right mode of getting at those
obstinate, foolish, but not absolutely evil minds. The
fate of the lord of Bideskdt's home for one moment
trembled in the balance, and, for the space of a minute,
perhaps, there was hesitation ; but when Andrds had
actually mounted Csillag, and it became absolutely
evident that he would not speak or look at them again,
a timid voice ventured :
**You are not really leaving Kisfalu for ever, Andrds,
are you?"
** Who spoke ? " he said, looking carelessly over his
shoulder; ** has any man ever known me to say one
thing and mean another? Come, Father, are you
safe ? Put your arms round my waist firmly ; Csillag
will gallop fast."
** No, Andrds, you are not going? "
** What is to become of us ? "
" You would not leave us ? "
** You will see us starve ! " came from every side,
and, anxious, really frightened at what would undoubt-
edly prove a calamity to them, the men crowded round
their favourite eagerly, not quite daring yet to touch
the mare, since he had forbidden it, but preventing her
zx
1 62 A Son of the People
from taking Andr&s away, if he was never to return.
** We thought, Andrds, you would understand our
troubles," said old Vas Berczi, still surly, but very
much humbled ; '' 3'ou have gone over to the enemy
and look down upon us poor folk, now."
Andrds heaved a sigh of satisfaction. This was the
beginning of capitulation; he had gained his point ;
the rest would be easy work.
'' I do always enter into all your troubles, my men.
Your sorrows are my sorrows," he said more kindly,
** but you must have known that when you chose the
ways of crime, our paths would lie divided for ever.
Now, good-bye ; let Csillag pass ! "
**You will come back," they shouted, as Csillag
reared, for her master had pressed his knees against
her haunches.
** Never, except to press the hands of honest men,
again."
*' Ours, Andrds, ours ! " they shouted again, as the
mare started at a rapid gallop down the village street.
Andrds turned round once more to face them.
** Of those who will help me to stay the fire from
reaching the house of Bidesktit."
** Mine, Andrds, mine," came from every one now ;
and one and all, young and old, eager, forgetting their
grievances, their superstitions, their terrors, longing
only for that warm, promised handshake, started run-
ning after the mare and her double burden.
But Andrds had halted just outside the little church,
whose quaint square tower stood out black against the
brilliant, awful background beyond.
** God bless you all, my children" said Pater Am-
brosius, as he slid to his feet, 'Vbut we must wait, and
take our I/)rd with us ! "
Reparation 163
** Quick, Father, there is not a moment to lose/* said
Andrds hurriedly ; but he, like all the rest, had rever-
ently lifted off his cap, and Pater Ambrosius, having
fumbled for his keys, let himself in through the heavy
door, leaving it open so that his erring flock, after their
wild outburst of revengeful passion, should catch sight
of the heavenly peace within the house of God. It
was almost entirely in gloom within, save for the fitful,
lurid light which glimmered through the small, deep-
set Gothic windows ; but the old priest knew his way
well through the rough carved pews to the steps of the
simple altar, from which, since nearly half a century,
he had called forth God's blessing on his simple flock.
With hasty genuflections he rapidly opened the Sanc-
tum Sanctorum, and took out the golden crucible which
contained the true body of his sovereign Lord.
•*For God*s sake, quick, Father!'* said AndrAs's
voice outside, and hastily wrapping the sacred emblem
beneath his cassock. Pater Ambrosius once more
mounted behind the young peasant.
The men had stood reverently silent during this
brief passage of God amongst them, then, as once more
Csillag set off at a sharp gallop, they, with a shout,
started to run after her : a troupe of some two or three
hundred of them, the entire able-bodied population of
the little village, eager to redeem the past, to restore to
their beloved lowland that pride which they, by their
deed, had hiunbled ; and when they at last reached the
grounds of Bidesktit, hot, panting, but as full of vigour
as ever, they formed themselves in a line, ready to obey
his orders to whom they wished to prove that they
were still worthy of his regard and of his sympathy.
Bideskdty, in the meanwhile, had followed Andr&s's
advice ; there was no doubt that from the north now
1 64 A Son of the People
very considerable danger threatened the old ancestral
house. In that direction lay a very extensive field of
maize, part of which was already ablaze and helping^
to spread the conflagration in serious proximity to the
outhouses and stables. The unfortunate owner of all
the devastated lands had collected round him the few
willing hands that were available, and while his male
guests in fantastic array were busy trying to rescue
one comer of his property, he brought his few indoor
servants and one or two of the more robust maids to
attempt the salvage of the other.
With scythes, sickles, and spades they endeavoured
to lay as much of the field low as possible, but though
the small band worked hard and with a, will, the enemy
worked harder, drawing nearer and nearer, and after
the first half-hour it became evident that unless
help arrived numerous and swift, the clearing would
not be sufficiently wide to eflFectually check the flames.
Bidesktity paced up and down the approaches to his
fields, scanning anxiously the horizon from which the
help should come. He would not allow himself to
dwell upon his thoughts and his suspicions ; he knew
too well now that if, after this terrible night, he retained
the roof above his head and any fragment of his
threatened property, it would be thanks to the man
whom that afternoon he had insulted and struck in the
face. That the fire had been kindled by human hand,
of that there could be no doubt ; all that was left to
hope for now was that the rich peasant would exert his
influence to bring the criminals to the atonement of
their own deed before it was too late.
The ladies had all retired to within the park gates.
They were far too anxious to go indoors, and, in
groups of two and three, they paced up and down the
Reparation 165
acacia alleys, all wondering if the promised help would
come, and all watching their fathers, brothers, hus-
bands, still at work on the roofs of the threatened
stables.
Prom afar, already Bidesktity heard the shouts of
the peasants as they ran, headed by Csillag carrying
her master, and Pater Ambrosius.
Andrds brought his horse to a standstill close to
Bidesktity, and having dismounted, he said :
" My lord, the Pater and I have brought you three
hundred willing pairs of hands, who, with God's help,
will at least save your house and stables from this
terrible fire. Now, my men,** he added, pointing to
the maize fields, ''start clearing away that tinder at
once. Hack, cut, mow, tear, uproot ; let me see who
can best devastate one of the finest fields of maize in
the county. Take what tools you can ; lose no time,
and may God bless your work! **
Pater Ambrosius also dismounted. With simple
faith he brought out the sacred vessel from under his
cassock, and holding it high above his head, so that all
might partake of the divine blessing, he reverently
prayed for God*s help in this terrible emergency.
In a few moments the fresh band of willing workers
had dispersed within the fields, and soon, from afar,
could be heard the sound of the sharp scythes cutting
through the tough stems of the maize.
Bidesktity, from where he stood, could see the row of
backs stooping to their work, tearing and cutting,
without rest and pause. They had pushed their
way very near the fire : dangerously near, Bideskiity
thought; it seemed as if they were anxious even
to risk their lives now, to save a few acres of land
for him, to court danger so as better to show their
1 66 A Son of the People
obedience and devotion. And yet, surely, the guilty
were there too, amongst them, wrestling hard with that
merciless fire which their criminal hand had kindled.
Bidesktity looked with a feeling that was akin to envy
at the sturdy peasant by his side who, with a word,
had subdued all those recalcitrant hearts to his will.
He would have wished to speak to him of his gratitude
for the incalculable service rendered, but, somehow, the
ruling passion still choked the words within his throat.
The proud aristocrat could not bring himself, even at a
moment like this, to own himself bounden in any way
to the low-bom peasant at his side.
There was no doubt that, almost imperceptibly, the
area of the fire was being restricted. Already to the
south and east the arid plain and the wide high-road
had proved an insurmountable barrier to the spreading
of the flames in those two directions, whilst to the
north, the group of outlying stables, deluged with
water, had proved an effectual check. Hope began to
revive in Bideskilty's heart, as he saw the great bare
patches in his fields of maize, against which every
column of flame, which threatened to spread in the
direction of the house, first flickered and then died.
Pater Ambrosius had never ceased his prayers while
the men worked and Bideskilty watched. The proud
lord had allowed Andrds, without a word of protest, to
take command in the work of rescue.
The young peasant seemed to Bideskilty*s feverish
eyes to be in every place at the same time — now close
to the men to direct their work, now at the park gates
to send reassuring messages to the ladies within. For
five hours the struggle went on between man and the
element, and, inch by inch, the element was made to
yield. Everywhere now could be seen black and
Reparation 167
smoky patches which looked like desolate islands in a
sea of flame^. The intense glow had subsided. Dark-
ness, which seemed doubly dense owing to the lurid
illumination of a few hours ago, had overspread two-
thirds of the horizon. The vanquished foe made one
or two attempts at regaining lost ground ; in one or two
places the stubble of cut maize stems caught fire and
smouldered for a while, but, after the work of cutting
down, the stamping out of those smouldering remnants
was quick and effectual. As the flames had subsided,
the mummers had joined forces with the peasants, and
soon the barrier, which forced the fire back and back,
became closer and closer. Bideskilty never left the
ground while there was a single spark to be seen ; un-
ceasingly he watched, while his terrible enemy was
being driven back and vanquished. He felt no fatigue;
he watched as in a dream ; not seeking, in the gather-
ing gloom, to note the fearful devastation which now
stretched before him, where, yesterday, rich com and
maize fields had nodded gaily in the summer breeze.
He asked no questions as to the fate of his vineyards,
which lay to the north, his turnip fields, his oats, which
stretched for many leagues away, and of which he
could not as yet know how far they had suffered from
the fury of the flames.
In the east beyond the plain, a faint streak of delicate
rosy grey broke the gathering gloom. The air was
filled with choking smoke. Ahead a group of peasants
and mummers, rendered doubly grotesque by begrimed
faces and hands and torn finery, were stamping out the
last remaining sparks on his dearly-loved maize fields
which had been the pride of the county. He thanked
God that he could not see the wreck, that he could put
off till the morrow the thought of the hopeless ruin of
1 68 A Son of the People
his rich crops, and to-night only remember that at least
his house had been spared him, some of his beasts too,
perhaps.
Prom a distance he could hear those now being
driven back to their stables. He would not ask how
many had perished, suffocated by fire and smoke. All
that he would hear soon enough . . . to-morrow . . .
To-night he thought he only wanted rest. A great
many of the peasants, he noticed, were wending their
way once more towards Arokszdllds. The streak of
rosy grey was getting wider, and brighter; even
through the smoke he could see overhead a few stars,
looking pale and shy at the approach of dawn. Pater
Ambrosius said many kind words to him, and each
peasant, as he passed, touched his silveg (cap) respect-
fully before the ruined lord.
*' Gyuri, won't you come in?*' said portly Count
Kantdssy very gently and very kindly ; ** you must be
worn out with fatigue and anxiety. I have just come
from the chdteau, and have persuaded the ladies to go
to bed,'*
Bidesktity looked at his old friend vacantly ; he
did not quite grasp his meaning. His mind was
numb, as bis body was, from the strain and the fatigue
of the night.
** There seems no more danger for the present, but
pickets of watchers have been placed at different points
to give the alarm in case the fire should break out
again.**
Bidesktity hardly knew who had spoken. It was a
young man, who looked exceedingly comic in a limp
satin skirt, saturated with water, and a bodice, cut
dScolletti in front, with lace frills and bows of ribbons.
It made him laugh so much that he tottered and almost
Reparation 169
fell but for Kantdssy's arm, which supported him gently,
just as if he had been drinking and could not stand.
The portly old Count tried to lead his friend away.
* * Come, Gy uri, there is no occasion for you to stay ! * '
But, though he was very tired, and it was surely time
for bed, Bideskdty felt that there was something he
ought to do before going in, but he could not recollect
what it was. Obstinately he refused to move, and
stared with a vacant smile at the group of his young
guests in limp, wet rags, the remnants of the merry
masquerading which had made him laugh so heartily
... oh! ever so long ago.
A servant came running from the park gates. She
said that the Countess begged my lord would come in,
as she and Mademoiselle Ilonka could not rest till they
had seen him.
Bideskiity at last prepared to go.
**The Countess asked my lord to bring Kem^ny
Andrds of Kisfalu in with him," added the maid, ** for
she wished to speak a few words of thanks to him for
his timely assistance."
Then it was that Bideskdty recollected what it was
he wanted to do before going home to bed. There had
been a man who had not only toiled and slaved for
him, helped to rescue his home from utter devastation,
but had also induced others to give able and willing
help, so as to render his ruin only partial instead of
whole. That man was a low-bom peasant, descendant
of a race of serfs, moreover a usurious money-lender,
with Jewish ancestry ; only that very afternoon he had
been insolent and Bideskdty had been forced to chas-
tise him. Still, quarrels must be forgotten, as the man
had truly made amends, and Bideskdty felt sincerely
grateful.
1 70 A Son of the People
He turned to seek for Andrds among the group
which surrounded him. The peasant was not there.
He asked after him, and called for him by name.
But Kem^ny Andrds was gone.
PART II
I
CHAPTER XVI
FASTER MORN
" It is going to leave oflF ! "
** Not to-day yet, I think ! "
*' I tell you not a drop has fallen for the last ten
minutes."
" And look at that break in the clouds ! **
"Hey! that won't last; they will soon dose up
again/'
" I have felt a drop."
" You are dreaming, I^czi ; why, I can see a bit of
blue!"
•'Where?"
** Right over Kisfalu. I tell you we shall have no
more rain to-day."
He who had last spoken was evidently a man of
much weight in matters connected with rain and
sunshine, for the young men who stood round him,
anxiously surveying the clouded horizon, ventured
no further direct contradiction, although one voice
tremblingly suggested :
** You know, Berczi, last Sunday, you said the rain
would leave off before Pater Ambrosius had said the
•Ite Missa est,' and, when we came out of church,
after the palms had been blessed, it was still raining ;
and has never left off till this moment."
173
1 74 A Son of the People
ti
Hey ! but it has left off now, has n't it? '* repeat-
ed Vas Berczi obstinately, '' or are you still getting
wet, Laczi my boy?" he added with withering
sarcasm.
Truly it seemed as if the weather prophet was
speaking words of wisdom, to-day. Undoubtedly the
break in the clouds was getting wider, and the bit of
sky which was visible beyond that break was unques-
tionably of the brightest blue, whilst a very timid and
pale ray of sun endeavoured to peep through at the
melancholy landscape below.
" The first bit of sun we have seen for a fortnight,
my children,*' said old Berczi, lifting his cap with mock
solemnity ; " hats off to the stranger ! *'
Laughingly the group of young peasants took off
their hats, and, clapping their heels together, made a
solemn bow towards the sun.
' * God has brought you ! * * they all said politely.
** My lord Sun, you are welcome ! **
We hope your worship has come to stay ! "
Hey ! *' added old Berczi with a sigh, "it is a sad
sight your Honour has come to see ! "
'' Was there ever so much mud on the mainroad as
there is just now?" commented one of the peasants
with a shake of the head.
** No cart can get through, and yesterday my oxen
were up to their knees in mud. I could not get them
either to turn or to go on. I thought our last hour
had come, for I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper,
and thought I and the oxen would reach hell that
way, through the mud, without a chance of confession
or prayer."
** I don't see how Kem^ny Andrds will contrive to
come to church this morning."
it
It
Easter Morn 175
'' He has good horses ; he will come on Csillag's
back, and bring Etelka behind him.''
** She will never miss Baster Sunday Mass, I know.
Ktelka is very pious.*'
'* And Andrds won't let her come alone."
** Have you noticed, my children," said the wise
elderly prophet, **that Andrfis has not been himself
lately?"
** He does seem so quiet," said I^czi, " I don't
know when I have heard him laugh."
** Depend on it," whispered an older peasant among
the crowd,'' he has not yet forgiven us about that fire«"
*' Andrds is not one to bear ill-will," asserted a
younger man hotly ; '' he has never spoken a word
about that fire since it happened."
** You cannot deny," said old Berczi," that it is since
the night of the fire that he has seemed so strange and
silent,"
'* He is perhaps anxious about his new crops. We
finished sowing at Kisfalu just before this cursed rain
began."
*' His fields are safe enough from the floods."
'* There are only a few maize fields belonging to
Kisfalu which lie dose to the Tama. He has not
suffered much yet."
" The waters are still rising."
'' The roar was terrific last night, and I went as far
as my lord's stables yesterday ; it seemed to me as if all
Bideskdt lay under water."
'' My lord is indeed unfortunate ! "
" God punishes him, you see. We need not have
set fire to his wheat last year. God will see Himself
that none of it goes to be ground inside that mill of
Satan."
1 76 A Son of the People
The group of peasants were standing outside the
village church, all in their Sunday best, waiting for
their mothers, sisters, sweethearts, who took a long
time this morning to put on their gorgeous finery for
Kaster mom. The sun had evidently come to stay ; it
was shining quite brightly on the scene that since the
last fortnight had been indeed truly desolate. The rain
had been incessant ; since fourteen days and fourteen
nights the patter of heavy drops, as they fell, had dis-
turbed the peaceful immensity of the plain, and changed
the entire landscape into a sea of mud. Par ahead
towards the north could be heard the melancholy roar
of the Tama, as her angry waters, swollen by the con-
tinuous rain, dashed furiously onwards, overflowing
their shallow banks, and submerging in their muddy
depths the rich fields of Bideskdt, newly sown with
the early spring seed.
''Here come the men from Kisfalu," said Laczi,
pointing towards the road; "they are well covered
with mud."
" The girls have made themselves smart, neverthe-
less,'' said one of the younger men, looking admiringly
towards the group of pretty girls in bright-coloured
petticoats, who were coming up the village street.
** Sdri and Kati have each a pair of new red boots ! "
* * Andrds gave them, I know. He drove into Gyong-
yos, just before the sowing, and bought his mother a
new silk dress, and both his servants a pair of red
boots."
'* That man is made of money," sighed old Berczi,
envyingly.
** He makes good use of it, anyhow," said another;
"during the whole of this winter he paid my mother
her full wages for picking wheat, though her eyesight
Easter Morn i77
now is quite gone, and she cannot tell cornflower seed
from the finest lowland com."
''It is easy to do good/' said old Berczi, senten-
tiously, *' if one has plenty."
" Not so easy, evidently," said one of the younger
men ; ** my lord anyhow finds it more difficult than
Andr&s. He gave mighty little away this winter, I
know."
** My lord had mighty little to give away. His entire
crops were destroyed in the fire, remember, and a
great many of his beasts perished."
" There would have been no fire if he had not set up
that mill of Satan, which was to deprive us of wage,
while the devil did the work," asserted Laczi hotly.
The group from Kisfalu had in the meanwhile man-
aged to wade through the muddy streets, and from the
distance already shouted greetings to their friends at
the church porch. There was a remarkable air of
well-being and prosperity among the peasantry in this
tiny lowland village ; the men looked handsome in their
fine white lawn shirts and trousers, very full, and
finely tucked and hemmed, their short leather jackets
handsomely embroidered, and broad belts with great
brass bosses that glittered in the pale sun, the huge
** bunda " (sheepskin mantles) down their backs giving
dignity to their not very tall figures. They were a
sturdy lot, too ; brOad-shouldered, and well planted on
small arched feet encased in the shiniest of leather
boots, with high he^ls and spurs, whiqh jingled as
they walked. As for the girls, there surely could
not be found in any other county in Hungary such
bright eyes, such white arms, such pretty little feet ;
nor could in any other village be mustered such a num-
ber of coloured petticoats round the waist of any one
13
178 A Son of the People
girl. There were Sdri and Kati now, not to speak of
scores of others, who could, this Easter mom, not
have had less than thirty petticoats one over the other,
which made their hips look so large and their waist so
small that one felt an irresistible longing to put an arm
right round it. Their tiny feet were covered in mud,
for it was a long walk from Kisfalu, but in their hands
they proudly carried the shiny pair of new red leather
boots, the joy and delight of every g^rl on the lowlands.
No girl who owns red boots would allow them to get
bespattered in the mud ; she carries them carefully to
church with her prayer-book and best handkerchief,
and only puts them on outside the porch, so as to walk
up the aisle in them, to the envy of her less fortunate
friends who can only afford black boots.
Prom every cottage door now they come tripping
out, this bevy of pretty girls dressed out in Sunday
finery, with great lawn sleeves puffed and starched, and
bows of national colors, red, white, and green, flutter-
ing in the wind. The graceful pdrta, tied at the nape
of the neck with a gigantic bow, sets off to perfection
the tiny queen-like head, with sleek hair falling in
two heavy plaits down the back ; the shift gaily em-
broidered in front, and the corselet laced tightly across
the slim waist above the numberless petticoats, which
swing gaily as the girls walk, with a peculiar rolling
gait from the hips ; the large gold earrings, the many
rows of beads, the bright clasps of the corselet, all
glitter in the sunshine, no less than the bright eyes
and the row of snow-white teeth. The older women
are in more sombre dresses, and taller partas, with
bright-coloured shawls to hide their shoulders, and all
carry ponderous prayer-books with gigantic clasps of
brass or silver.
Easter Morn 1 79
At the church porch greetings and blessings are
exchanged, while the women squat down on the flag-
stones to put on the beautiful boots over the little
muddy feet.
Pater Ambrosius has not come yet, and already the
little bell is sending forth, in merry peals, invitations to
the simple flock to rejoice and worship on this bright
Easter mom. Some of the women have gone in, to
get a good seat in the rough oak pew, from which they
can catch sight of my lord and his family, in their
great pew above ; for my lord always comes to Mass
in the village church on Easter Sunday, and brings
his lamb and eggs to be blessed by the reverend
Pater.
Outside there is ceaseless chatter. The gossip con-
tinues while from every side the worshippers arrive.
** Will my lord come ? '* asks one of the late arrivals.
" He came last year, but I don't know if he will
come to-day,'' said a young herdsman from Bideskiit ;
"the carriage and horses were waiting when I passed
the big house, so I am sure the Countess and the
young lady will come."
** The noble Ilonka is very beautiful,** suggested a
pretty girl who was putting on her red boots.
•* Not half so pretty in my eyes as you, Panna,"
whispered a young swain quickly in her ear.
" Help me up, Rezso, and don't talk nonsense ; I
am sure the noble Ilonka is just like the picture of the
holy Virgin over the altar."
** And you are like nothing, and nobody, Panna, for
there is no one with eyes as bright as yours," said the
young man as he helped the idol of his heart to her
feet, and in the effort managed to Steal a kiss on her
round white shoulders.
i8o A Son of the People
'' Reszo, you know I have forbidden yon to kiss
me/' she said with a frown.
** That is why I like to do it, my soul ; what fun
would there be in kissing the girls, if they would let
you?"
'' I shall not dance the csdrdds with you unless you
promise not to kiss me."
" I won't kiss you while your mother is looking,"
he whispered, ** but what about afterwards ? "
" Hush I " she said blushing, '* here comes my lord's
carriage. I must run in, or I shall not get a good
seat."
** And here, at last, is Kemdny Andrds ! " came from
one or two cheerful voices among the men.
The prophecy had proved correct ; Andrds had relied
on Csillag to bring him through the muddy roads, and
Ktelka also came, mounted on one of the sure-footed
horses from her son's stables.
The young peasant was greeted with many shouts of
** Isten hozta " (God has brought you !), and twenty
pairs of willing hands were ready to help Ktelka off
her saddle. While Andrds tethered Csillag and her
companion to a tree, the carriage from Bideskdt,
drawn by four black horses with scarlet harness and
brass bosses, had driven up to the church x>orch. Re-
spectfully the peasants stood aside while the Countess
stepped out in her rustling silk gown, followed by
Ilonka in a dainty muslin frock.
The Countess Irma looked very pale and worn; there
were a good many more lines in the still handsome
face, and round the proud, disdainful mouth, than
there had been a year ago ; she sailed past the peas-
ants, acknowledging their respectful greetings, l^e a
very queen amongst her vassals. Ilonka, as bright
Easter Morn i8i
and merry as ever, was smiling to all like a gay child.
Kvidently care had not reached her ; what anxiety her
mother and father had had to suffer since the terrible
catastrophe, some eight months ago, they had done it
without allowing her to dream that there was ought
but sunshine in her life.
At the door of the church Andrds stood, holding
his mother by the hand ; they, too, stepped aside as
the Countess crossed the porch, and Stelka suddenly
felt that her son's hand, which held her own, trembled
like an aspen leaf. She looked up at him and saw that
in his eyes, which .were fixed on the two noble ladies
before him, there was a look of such wistful tenderness,
and yet of such hopeless longing, that her motherly
heart ached within her for this son whose sorrow she
scarcely understood.
The Countess Irma had also caught sight of Andr&s,
and had acknowledged his greeting, but when she was
quite dose to him she stopped for an instant. It
seemed as if she were fighting with herself some inward
battle, the victory of which was hard to gain. Then,
as if with sudden resolution, she turned to the young
peasant and said :
'* The lord of Bideskdt desired me to say that he
would speak with you, if you will honour him by break-
ing bread with him, after Mass to-day.*'
Ilonka had also stopped beside her mother, and her
great blue eyes were looking curiously at the handsome
young peasant, who looked so imposing in his magni-
ficent mantle, all gorgeously embroidered, with the
rich silver clasps in his belt, and jacket, and the long
sweeping heron's feather that adorned the cap which
he had respectfully taken off in reply to the Countess's
commands.
i82 A Son of the People
*^ I will attend upon my lord/' he said with a bow.
The next moment the Countess and Honka had disap-
peared inside the church.
Pater Ambrosius was also coming, holding his
cassock high above his lean shanks, to protect it from
the mud. Every one filed into the little church, the
women to the right, the men to the left. After the first
glance of curiosity at the noble ladies, all heads were
reverently bent down, waiting for the Pater to com-
mence. The gentle old priest, in simple vestments,
worn threadbare with age, had entered, carrying the
sacred vessels, and every one knelt for the beginning
of the Mass, and the recitation of the " Confiteor."
The younger folk followed the Latin text in their
prayer-books, but most of the older people, to whom
all kinds of printing were still a mystery, quietly
told their beads in a droning voice, which formed a
quaint accompaniment to Pater Ambrosius' half audi-
ble prayers.
In respectful silence the pious, simple folk listened
to the words prescribed by the Church, not understand-
ing their meaning, but content that they must please
God, since Pater Ambrosius said them, who was so
good and so learned, and since their fathers and grand-
fathers and many generations before them had wor-
shipped in this church, in this self-same way. Now
and then a loudly intoned '^ Per omnia saecula seecu-
lorum" broke the peaceful stillness of the service,
responded to by the schoolmaster's little droning har-
monium, and his ** Amen," sung in a high-pitched
tremolo. Otherwise all was reverently silent. The
pale rays of the sun peeped in now and then, through
the tiny windows, at the simple group of worshippers,
and from afar could be heard the melancholy roaring
Easter Morn 183
of the flood, like distant, subdued thunder, incessant
and gloomy.
Then the little bell, rung by the acolyte, announced
the real bodily approach of God within the village
church. Reverently all knelt down, and humble heads
were bent to worship the Saviour, who, at a word from
Pater Ambrosius, left His glorious heaven to come and
sit inside that white bit of wafer, which the reverend
Pater held between his fingers. A silence full of re-
ligious awe reigned, and, when the little bell had ceased
to tingle, few heads dared as yet to look towards the
altar where God now truly sat enthroned.
Etelka, during the Mass, often looked across at her
son, who knelt close to one of the stone pillars on the
left; and she saw that, all through divine worship, his
eyes, dark and dreamy, were fixed in one direction,
which was not the altar ; that he held his arms tightly
crossed over his chest, and that once during the serv-
ice, when a pale ray of sun came creeping through
one of the tiny windows, and rested on a head of
golden curls, bent reverently over the prayer-book, a
tear found its way in his eyes, and trickled slowly down
his bronzed cheeks. Etelka noticed that he did not
pray, that he only gazed in that one direction, with a
look so wistful and so yearning that she also felt her
own eyes fill with tears.
Pater Ambrosius had intoned " Ite ! Missa est I '*
One by one the little congregation began to file out, in
order to assemble outside the church where, beneath
the great overhanging acacias, a table was spread
with a snow-white cloth, and laden with quarters of
newly-killed lamb, eggs, butter, cheese, and fresh-
cured ham, awaiting the blessing of the Church.
One of the shares of the good fruits of this bountiful
1 84 A Son of the People
earth was for the kind Pater himself, and the few poor
and aged whose time for work had passed. Proudly
each thrifty housewife compared her own eggs with
those of her neighbours, noted the whiteness of her
cheese, the creaminess of her butter. In the centre, on
a huge silver dish, was a young lamb, roasted whole,
which my lord had sent to be blessed ; and all along,
in more humble earthenware platters, and in baskets
plaited of rush, were the coloured eggs, and smaller
products from the more modest cottages.
The small congregation had filed into the church-
yard, and, in spite of mud and damp, all had knelt
down to hear the touching prayer that would bring
God's blessing upon the first-fruits of the earth.
A rug had been spread in the centre for the Countess
and Ilonka, and all round, in picturesque groups, knelt
the pretty peasant girls and bronze-faced young men.
Pater Ambrosius stood behind the table, with hands
outspread and reverent eyes lifted upwards, praying for
grace. Near him a small acolyte swung the censer,
throwing the sweet penetrating scent of myrrh and
incense through the air. The sun had come out in its
full glory, and its noonday rays drew a warm steam
from the wet earth, and made each raindrop glitter on
the grass mounds like so many diamonds. Par away
the distant roar of the flood made a melancholy ac-
companiment to Pater Ambrosius' softly whispered
prayer.
Having spread his hands over all the things placed
before him, the reverend Pater asked God to bless
these, the first-fruits of the earth, and, when he had
finished, he sprinkled each basket of eggs, each quarter
of lamb, with holy water, and swung the censer over
them. His kind old face was full of reverence ; in
Easter Mom 185
true gratitude he thanked the Creator for the plentiful
produce of this happy land. When the last prayer
had been said, and all had repeated ''Amen/' the
priest addressed his flock once again :
** My children," he said, ** now that we have thanked
God for all the good things He gives us, and asked His
special blessing on the first spring fruits of the earth, I
want you to join me in a fervent prayer to our Heav-
enly Father that He may in His mercy stay His wrath
from our beloved county of Heves, and command the
waters of the Tarna to return to their banks. We
must pray to God to stay the catastrophe which brings
such sorrow upon the lord of Bidesktit, Kisfalu, and
Zdrda, who already has had so much grief last year,
when a terrible fire devastated his land. I^et us all
say from our hearts * Our Father,' and three times
* Hail, Mary ' and then the Holy Virgin will truly
intercede with her divine Son for the noble lord."
The simple prayers were repeated devoutly as Pater
Ambrosius requested, for all felt truly sorry in their
hearts to see the beautiful land devastated by the flood ;
and the two noble ladies looked so sad during Mass, it
seemed hard they should suffer for follies which they
could not help. The Countess had firowned when she
heard Pater Ambrosius' exhortation. Her pride re-
belled against the touching appeal made on her behalf
by these simple folk whom she despised ; she did not
care to own, even before her God, that calamity would
dare to touch the aristocratic house of Bideskiit.
As for Andrds, he joined with all his heart in the
simple prayers ; he — alone of all those present — guessed
more accurately the magnitude of the disaster which
had fallen on the lord of Bidesktit by the terrible flood,
and in simple faith he prayed that this disaster would
1 86 A Son of the People
touch but lightly on that dainty head, which was only
created for merriment.
The last ** Amen " had died away ; Pater Ambrosius
had retired within the church to take off his vestments.
All had risen to their feet and stood gossiping about,
in whispers, out of respect for the two noble ladies who
were waiting for their carriage. Etdka had drawn
near to her son ; vaguely, she felt anxious about him,
for the line of some hidden suffering seemed more
accentuated on his face, and once or twice she had
heard like an involuntary sigh, as if the burden on his
heart was more than he could bear. The Countess had
not condescended to speak to him again. She had
stepped into her carriage, followed by Ilonka, and
driven off, leaving Andrds to come on as he pleased.
Her husband had desired to speak with the peasant ;
that was quite sufficient honour for him, without further
words from the noble Countess.
*' You will not stay and eat that man's bread, my
son?" asked Btelka, anxiously.
" Never fear, mother," replied Andr&s, " I will see
what he wants and be home before Sdri and Kati have
laid our mid-day meal. You must walk Ddndar along
the road. It is safer for you when I am not there."
He had passed his hand over his eyes, as if wishing
to chase away some persistent dream. Then he kissed
his mother, and placed her in her saddle. Sdri and
Kati, carrpng their red boots, walked each side of the
horse, and Kem6ny Andrds stood watching the three
women until they were out of sight.
The people had all left the churchyard. One or two
pretty girls looked wistfully after the rich peasant who
was so moody to-day. Gradually the little church
porch and then the village street had become deserted ;
Easter Morn 187
all had gone in to eat the meat and eggs which had
been specially blessed by God. In the distance, Pater
Ambrosius, his cassock well tacked up, was hurrying
home to his presbytery ; from every half-opened cottage
door could be heard loud peals of laughter, and, lin-
gering in the churchyard, Andrds spied two or three
couples exchanging kisses. Overhead he could hear
the melancholy cry of the storks just home from
warmer climes, and seeking for the nest they deserted
last year ; everything spoke of merriness, of home, of
youth and love, and Andrds, with a sigh, turned
towards Csillag and kissed the pretty creature between
her great, gentle eyes.
CHAPTER XVII
THK RUINED I<ORD
It was with a beating heart that Andrds once again
crossed the threshold of that house where his pride had
received so bitter a blow. He had never entered it
since the day when a girlish face had stayed his venge-
ful hand, ready to return blow for blow. And now he
wondered what the arrogant lord would have to say to
him. That it was something of serious import was,
of course, evident, or the Countess would never have
stooped to address him ; Andr£s guessed that my lord
had some request to make to him, which his pride had
probably put ofiF from day to day for some time, till now
it had become imperative.
Jank6 had been waiting for Andrds at the gates ;
another servant took charge of Csillag, while the old
valet led the young peasant to that same room where
the stormy interview had lately taken place.
The lord of Bideskdt was sitting there, smoking,
when Jank6 opened the door to let Andr&s come in ; but
the peasant noticed that as he entered this time the
noble lord took the pipe out of his mouth, and said,
<* Isten hozta ! " (God has brought you !) while point-
ing to a chair.
Andr&s saw how very mudi altered Bideskiity was
since last year. He seemed altogether aged, though
his hair was no greyer nor his stature less upright, but
1 88
The Ruined Lord 189
his geniality seemed gone ; there was an air of serious-
ness, of care, round the eyes, and one or two deep lines
were very apparent between the brows. Andrds felt
exceedingly sorry for this man, who seemed to have
su£fered so much for his folly.
** It is kind of you to come," began Bideskiity a little
nervously.
'* I am here at your lordship's command ; with what
can I be of service ? '*
** You will have guessed by hearing the Tama
roaring out there, over my fields."
** I know that your lordship is sufifering a heavy
loss, as already you did last year. I do not remember
so terrible a flood since I was a boy."
** The loss to me is greater than you think."
** I am a farmer, my lord," said Andrds simply ; I
know the value of every acre upon the lowland."
Bidesktity thought that the peasant purposely evaded
giving him an opening for what he wanted to say.
Never in all his life had he felt so absolutely at a loss
of how to begin ; he had never asked any one anything,
and now he was compelled to do it of a man whom he
despised as utterly beneath him, and yet whom, some-
how, he could not manage to treat in the same way as
he did Rosenstein the Jew.
Andrds waited quietly while Bidesktity mopped his
forehead and drew great clouds of smoke from his pipe.
**Have you suffered much, over at Kisfalu?" he
asked at last.
** As your Honour knows, there are very few fields in
that direction belonging to Kisfalu ; some of my maize
is under water, but it won't be a serious loss."
**You are always lucky!" said Bideskdty envy-
ingly.
iQO A Son of the People
** There are other sorrows besides the loss of com,'*
replied Andrds quietly.
" That depends how much you lose," said Bides-
kiity with growing vehemence ; ** if, like me, you were
to see two successive crops entirely destroyed through
no fault of your own, leaving you nothing, not even
a handful of corn, to sow for the following year, what
then ? If, like me, you saw ruin staring you in the
face, what then ? If every league of your land is
mortgaged to beyond its value, with interest to pay far
beyond what it can produce, what then? If your
very house, in which for seven hundred years every
one of your ancestors were born and have died, is
about to pass into strangers' hands ? Then, Kem^ny
Andrds, are there sorrows that are harder to bear ? "
**No, indeed, my lord," said Andrds kindly, **but
such a terrible state of things is, thank God, not your
own. True, your land is heavily mortgaged ; no one
knows that better than I ; but I am not threatening to
close upon you, dearly as I should love to call that
part of it on which I was born my own. You talk of
interest," he added very gently, ** but, however much
you may have suffered in the two disasters, your land,
thank God, still produces enough on which to feed
yourself and your family and all your servants, and yet
leave over a small surplus, which is but the just inter-
est on the money you have had. As for this house,
who threatens it ? Surely not I. I hold no mortgage
on it, and have already refused to take it as security,
when I lent the money upon the Bideskdt lands."
* You use many pretty phrases," said Bideskdty
impatiently ; ** just now you said you knew the value of
every acre upon the lowland. Are you telling a lie,
then, when you say that, on the few fields that do not
The Ruined Lord 191
lie under water, I can grow enough wheat to pay you
the hundreds of thousands of measures which you de-
mand, and yet have enough with which to feed myself,
and my family, and all my servants? "
** I am afraid your Honour is but a poor calculator ;
the measures of wheat which you pay me annually for
the loan of the 850,000 florins I lent you, altogether, do
not amount to more than twenty thousand and "
" It is you who is a poor calculator " rejoined Bides-
kiity, ** for I pay more than ten times that amount,
which with the thousands of beasts "
'* My lord,'' said Andrds quietly, ** do not let us
wander any further into these fantastic lands. I re-
ceive from your lordship in kind as interest for my
money what does not amount to more than three or
four florins a year for every hundred I lent. You your-
self signed the paper which I hold in my pocket ; what
I asked was more than fair, it was liberal ; had I ex-
acted the usurious interest you speak of, I could long
ago have forced you to part with Kisfalu, to own which
is the dream of my life. But I do not understand
usury, and that is why I am still the * b6rld ' (tenant)
and not the owner of the land."
'* Not understand usury, man ? " said Bideskdty in a
rage ; are you drunk or mad ? Am I dreaming, or are
you telling lies? Does not that blood-sucking Jew
bailifiF of yours exact from me every year what now
amounts to nearly two hundred thousand measures of
wheat, some four hundred head of my best cattle, a
thousand sheep and lambs, my fattest geese and poul-
try, and, in your name, give me neither rest nor
respite ? coming down upon me a little more than a
week after that terrible fire, exacting the few poor
beasts that had escaped from the flames, threatening
1 92 A Son of the People
me with the demand for the capital, unless I parted
with the few stacks of corn left me by the cursed incen-
diaries, my only chance of sowing for the following
year ; and then actually offering me that self-same com
at an outrageous price, and offering to lend me the
money with which to buy it, at usury worse than the
last."
Exhausted, the unfortunate man had sunk down in
his chair, burying his face in his hands. Forgotten
were his pride, his arrogance, when looking his own
folly, his probable ruin, in the face ; it all seemed so
hopdess, he felt like some wretched bird ensnared in a
net, fighting against meshes which closed in on every
side. Andrds had become deathly pale ; at first he had
listened to the ravings of Bideskiity as he would to
those of a lunatic. But gradually he realised in the
man's broken accents, in his voice choked with sobs
half of anger and half of appeal, that he was telling
the bitter truth; he dimly felt that some terrible wrong
had been committed, of which this foolish man had
been the victim, a wrong committed in his name —
Kem^ny Andrds — he who had worshipped his own
integrity as he would a god.
Trembling, his hand sought the papers which bore
Bidesk^ty's signature ; his eyes scanned the writing
anxiously, as if in a vain desire to make them yield
part of that hideous mystery.
** My lord," he said as quietly as possible, after a
long pause, ** I do not think that we quite understand
one another. That there is here some ugly mystery,
of which Rosenstein has the key, seems to me evident ;
shall we try to understand each other first, before we
make him tell us his share of the riddle ? '*
Bideskiity had succeeded in once more mastering
The Ruined Lord 193
himself. He saw his creditor's face, looking so kindly,
so honestly, at him that, for once in his life, his heart
whispered to him to put his pride in his pocket, to trust
that man whom he a£fected to despise, and with a frank
gesture he stretched his hand out towards him.
Andrds placed his own in it ; then he said :
*' Will your lordship tell me, as clearly as you can,
what you believe to be your debt towards me? *'
*' I could not tell you within a good many measures
of wheat, but I know that you lent me altogether
950,000 florins."
" No, my lord, only 850,000 florins."
** There were four loans altogether."
"Only three."
"Three hundred thousand on Kisfalu ; 300,000 on
the lands of Bideskdt, 250,000 on Zdrda, and 100,000
on this house, the gardens and stables, and all its ad-
joining buildings."
" This last loan I never made ; it was no money of
mine. When did your Honour borrow it ? "
** Two days after the fire, last September."
Did Rosenstein say the money came from me ? "
Jews, whenever they lend money, always protest
their own poverty, and speak of a friend who is rich
and is the real lender. When I originally borrowed
of Rosenstein, I did not believe that story. Later
on . . . you told me that it was your money I
was borrowing ... I never inquired further after
that."
** I understand. Will your Honour continue ? "
** I do not know exactly how much money interest I
have agreed to pay. That dirty Jew always made me
sign a paper ; as if the word of a Hungarian nobleman
was not as good as any paper."
«3
194 A Son of the People
*' These papers I have here/* said Andrds, '' is this
your lordship's signature ? "
Bideskiity glanced at the papers which Kem^ny was
holding towards him.
" Yes/' he said, " that is my writing."
** Does your lordship at all remember the amount of
the interest you agreed to pay ? ' '
'* Not exactly . . . but "
<(
Was it at all like this ? " said Andrds, beginning to
read from the paper, ** I owe you 300,000 florins in
gold. For this, until I repay it in full, I promise to
pay you interest every year, one hundred head of cattle,
of which there shall be ten bulls and ninety cows, and
five thousand hectolitres of wheat "
Bideskiity shook his head.
n
On that first loan I have paid now every year, since
over five years, fifty thousand measures of wheat, some
two hundred head of cattle and sheep, and I don't
know how much poultry."
** But why did your lordship do it, when you onfy
agreed to pay five thousand measures of wheat, and a
hundred head of cattle ? "
" I tell you, man, that from the first Rosenstein de-
manded usurious interest in the name of his friend,
who I supposed was yourself; that he would not let me
have the money without I signed his cursed papers,
promising to pay his outrageous demands."
Papers ? Were there more than one ? "
I think I always signed two every time I received
the money. I don't quite remember," said Bideskiity,
with exasperating vagueness.
" But your lordship musi have seen what you
wrote ; you must have read what you put your name
to."
The Ruined Lord 195
" May the devil get into the cursed things ! I never
read them, I tell you."
** Never read them ? "
Andrds was fairly staggered. In his careful, thrifty,
peasant mind, such negligence was nothing short of
criminal. Clearly the Jew had had an easy game with
this careless, shiftless spendthrift, who seemed utterly
ignorant of the value of all he was so casually signing
away with a flourish of his pen, without deigning even
to glance at that to which he had put his name. It
seemed to Andrds almost incredible, and just for a
moment he doubted whether Bideskdty was not play-
ing some game too deep for his peasant mind to fathom.
But Bideskdty looked so puzzled himself, so wretched
and hopeless, that Andrds felt truly sorry for him.
" Then your lordship sent for me to-day "
** To ask you if you cannot forego some of that inter-
est,** interrupte4 Bideskdty again nervously; **I
thought you could easily do that without losing very
much by it"
** Indeed, my lord, had I ever done so dishonourable
a thing as to extort usury like that from you," said
Andrds with a smile, " I would well have deserved
that blow on the head eight months ago, the scar of
which I still bear. I see clearly now that that con-
founded Jew has used my money and my name to prac-
tise the most villainous usury upon you, and that —
your lordship must pardon me for saying this — ^you
have allowed yourself to be robbed in a most careless
manner."
What could I do ? I wanted the money."
Your lordship knows best what you wanted it for.
No good has come of the money, and your lordship
is suflFering deeply for some unfortunate follies.'*
10 A Son of the People
'* You have no right to speak to me like that. I
allow no one to condemn my actions. Certainly not
such as you "
'' Do not let us quarrel again, noble lord/' said
Andrds, who this time was determined not to lose his
temper, * * but rather let us see which way it will be best
for me to help your Honour. I can, of course, get the
other papers out of the hands of that cursed Jew, those,
I mean, which deal with loans I actually did make."
*' What will you do with them ? '* asked BideskAty,
still suspiciously.
** Destroy them," replied Andrds simply. ** Unfor-
tunately it is not in my power to force Rosenstein to
give you back all that he has extorted from you. I
can thrash him to within an inch of his life," he
added, ** but that would do no good."
''All that is not the worst," said Bideskdty with a
sigh; **what is gone is gone. I^can pay neither
interest nor principal of that last loan ; the dday you
and Rosenstein have granted me expires this week ; I
have not a groat in the world; my best land is under
water, my beasts have not yet recovered from the fear-
ful shock and terrors of that awful night in September,
and my beautiful house of Bideskdt, where I was bom
and had hoped to die, will fall into the hands of a
stranger — yours — Rosenstein' s — " added the poor man
ready again to break down. '' What difference does it
make to me whether it is Jew or peasant that drives me
from my home?"
** Your lordship does not remember what you signed,
in connection with the loan on this bouse? "
I tell you, man, I never read what I signed ! "
Yes, I know," said Andrds with an impatient
sigh, " but you must have some sort of an idea as to
It
i<
The Ruined Lord 197
what money you are actually owing at this moment
upon that one loan and the interest."
** I know that the money I had was 100,000 florins,
that there is some outrageous interest due on it, of
which I have not paid one measure of wheat or one
head of cattle ; and that with my early crops under
water, I see absolutely no chance of ever paying,
neither that, nor anything I owe you."
** We will talk about your debt to me later on, when
we have satisfied Rosenstein, and made your house
secure from his clutches. I have not the money with
me to-day, but I will see him to-morrow, and have a
look at all the papers he holds. We can both only
pray, my lord, that I shall be able to buy them at a
reasonable figure. I am not made of money," added
Andrds, smiling, ''as your Honour has often said;
thank God, however, I have enough yet to let you be
in my debt, with regard to the house, instead of in the
Jew's, and I can assure your lordship that I will never
be hard upon you in the matter of the interest."
Bideskiity seemed hardly to realise the enormous
service which the young peasant was thus quietly
ofiering to render him. For the last few months his
situation had appeared to him so hopeless, he had
brooded so deeply and so darkly over his inevitable
ruin, that the glimmer of hope which this man so un-
ostentatiously held out to him appeared too faint to
penetrate through the dreary veil of his misery.
** Whatever interest you wanted," he said, dejectedly,
" I could not pay you, while fire and water fight alter-
nately against me."
** I told your lordship that I would not be hard."
" Do you wish to humiliate me by conferring favours
upon me?" said Bideskdty, fretfully.
igS A Son of the People
** I have no wish to humiliate any one, being only a
peasant myself," said Andrds with a pride which at
least equalled Bideskiity's own, as he drew up his tall
figure to the full height, and looked the lord of Bides-
k^t straight in the face. '* Your lordship has asked
me to help you. You know best if you can accept
the only help I can suggest without losing your
dignity.'*
** Thinking you were my creditor, I only asked for
time. I do not see why you should part with your
money to help me."
*' I am a single man, my lord," said Andrds, with
inexpressible sadness, ''my dear mother and I have
enough to feed ourselves and all those who ask us to
feed them ; I have no desire to save, and we must all
try to help one another on this beautiful lowland of
ours, so that it remains fruitful and prosperous, such
as God created it."
Bideskdty had rested his elbow on the table, and
hidden his face in his hands, so that the peasant could
not see how deeply he felt his present position, how
humbled he really was in his pride at being so abso-
lutely bounden to one beneath him, to one who was
quietly giving him the most serious lesson he had ever
had in his life. He felt very like a chidden child, still
obstinately shutting his eyes to the fact that nothing
but his own folly had brought him to the verge of
ruin, and looking on all his misfortunes as the relentless
hand of fate.
There was a long silence between the two men ;
Andrds waited till Bideskiity had composed himself,
and after a while he said :
'' Have I your lordship's permission to see Rosen-
stein to-morrow?"
The Ruined Lord 199
(<
Yes ! . . . Yes ! " said Bideskdty, hurriedly ; *' I
am grateful to you, friend . . . yes, very grateful,
. . . and . . . you need not fear ... I will repay
you all soon . . . very soon . . . you are placing your
money on good security. . . . Next year my mill will
be at work . . .*'
** We can easily talk of that later on,** said Andrds,
gently ; " if your lordship will allow me, now I will go ;
my mother will be waiting for our Easter meal, and the
roads are muddy towards Kisfalu.**
*' Oh ! Ah ! Yes ! Yes ! ** added Bideskiity, nerv-
ously, **but . . . but . . . will you not . . . break
the bread with us? . . . with me ... I mean . . .
for, of course, the Countess . . . **
Andrds had looked with some amusement at the poor
man struggling through this evidently most uncordial
invitation. He was far too shrewd not to guess how
unwelcome a guest he really would be at the noble
lord*s table, and far too proud to avail himself of
Bideskiity* s sense of obligation towards him. He had
risen to his feet, and in his great mantle, with his tall,
broad stature, he seemed to tower in his pride above
the unfortunate nobleman, with his seven centuries of
ancestry.
" I thank your Honour,** he said, " but, if you will
allow me, I will join my mother at our own mid-day
meal. My two little servants would be sad to see my
empty chair on Easter Sunday, and I would not like to
be the cause of the noble Countess being forced to eat
the blessed meats apart from her lord.*'
" Will you come to me after you have seen Rosen-
stein to-morrow?** asked Bideskiity, evidently much
relieved.
" I will certainly bring you the papers at once. You
200 A Son of the People
will be glad to see them destroyed/' said Andrds, pre-
paring to take his leave.
For a moment Bideskdty hesitated. The guest who
had come to the rescue when all seemed lost, and who
had staved off the ruin which had been knocking at
the door, was about to depart. Surely, the laws of
hospitality demanded that he should be accompanied to
the gates, that the stirrup-cup should be handed to him
by his host before he rode away.
Andrds readjusted his mantle over his broad shoul-
ders, tightened his belt, took up his cap, and bowed to
the lord of Bidesktit. Gyuri again put out his hand,
which the peasant grasped, after an imperceptible
moment of hesitation — then, the next instant, he was
gone, his steps echoing on the flagstones of the hall,
and it was old Jank6 who offered the peasant the
stirrup-cup, which Andrds refused ; whilst from the
room above, Bideskiity watched his creditor with a
puzzled look on his face.
CHAPTER XVIII
ROSKNSTEIN THE JEW
Nobody knew in the village exactly how Rosenstein
the Jew lived, and no one could really boast of ever
having entered the small cottage in which he had lived
for over a quarter of a century. He kept neither man
nor maid, so must have done every kind of work for
himself, from stewing his own " gulyds'* to looking
after his own chickens, of which he kept a few in the
bit of garden at the back, and his cow, a beautiful
milcher, from the Kisfalu herd, which he had bought
from Kem6ny Andrds. Every Saturday, however,
old R6za, Dardzs Laczi's mother, had to go and do his
work for him ; on that day, although he could not go
to Synagogue, since there was no such place of worship
nearer than the one at Gyongyos, he kept his Sab-
bath most strictly, and remained all day indoors, doing
absolutely nothing but take his meals, which Zsuzsi
cooked for him, and to whom he gave ten kreutzer
(about twopence) every Saturday for her trouble.
Kem6ny Andrds looked with some doubt through the
half-open door into that cottage on the following after-
noon ; it seemed so dark and close within. He knocked
several times at the door before he heard a shuffling
footstep across the room, and Rosenstein's husky voice
asking who was there.
** It is I, Kem6ny Andr&s, Rosenstein, let me in I I
wish to speak with you."
202 A Son of the People
'* My poor house is too much honoured," said the
Jew, barring the way across the threshold ; * * if you de-
sired to speak with me, I would have gone where you
had bidden me."
" I^t me in, man," said Kem^ny peremptorily,
"what I have to say to you cannot be said at a way-
side inn, or on the road, and my time is short."
Without waiting for the Jew's reply, Andrds pushed
him on one side and went in. He had to stoop as he
crossed the threshold, for the doorway was low and
heavy rafters supported the thatched roof. At first he
could see nothing round him, for the tiny window was
masked by an old coat, which was nailed across it, so
as to entirely obstruct the daylight. The heat inside
was overpowering, for there was a huge fire in the
great earthenware oven, on which something, that was
strongly flavoured with garlic, was simmering gently.
As Andrds's eyes became accustomed to the darkness,
he noticed a table in the middle of the room, of dark
polished wood, on which were spread several papers.
Before it a chair had apparently been hastily pushed
aside. Otherwise the room appeared empty ; at the
farther end, a door led to an inner room, beyond
which was the tiny garden, and a shed for the cow.
Rosenstein had hurriedly endeavoured to collect the
papers scattered on the table.
** I^eave those alone," said Andrds, putting his hand
over them, *' I expect those papers are the ones about
which I have come to speak to you. But take
that rag from off the window; I must have some
light."
* * The villagers are so inquisitive, your Honour, ' ' pro-
tested Rosenstein, whose sallow cheeks had become of
a pale ashen colour, as Andrds, sitting on the edge of
Rosenstein the Jew 203
the table, had picked up all the papers, and was pre-
paring to look over them.
" I told you to let in more light," said the peasant,
peremptorily. The Jew obeyed. For fully five min-
utes there was silence, during which time Andrds
quietly read each paper through, whilst Rosenstein
watched anxiously every varying expression of his face
as he read. When Andrds had finished, he replaced
the papers on the table.
" Do you remember," he asked quietly, ** that some
eight months ago I once told you that I would thrash
your very life out of you, if ever I found you out trying
to deceive me?"
** Your Honour — " began Rosenstein, protesting.
** I said, do you remember?" interrupted Andrds>
still very quietly.
There was no reply. The Jew looked frightened ;
once or twice he passed his tongue over his lips, which
seemed parched, and his knees shook under him visibly,
as he dropped into the chair.
** I have brought with me," resumed Andrds, who
was still sitting on the edge of the table, '* the riding-
whip with which I thrash my herdsmen if I catch any
of them ill-using a dumb brute unnecessarily. I have
only struck a beast once with it, and that was a pig
which had turned savage and bitten a shepherd in the
leg. To-day I shall use it upon you, because you
have not only deceived me, and brought my good
name to shame, but because you have cruelly and un-
necessarily ill-used one who had done you no wrong,
and brought him to the verge of ruin."
** Your Honour — " protested Rosenstein again.
*' I have not done yet. When I have finished with
the thrashing I intend to give you, you will hand over
204 A Son of the People
to me the papers relating to the loan of 100,000 florins,
which you made upon the house of Bideskiit (which
is not here among these papers on the table), in ex-
change for the sum of 105,000 florins which I shall
hand over to you, this being at a fair rate of interest,
upon the money you lent six months ago. As for
these papers here, they are valueless, and when you
have had your thrashing, we will destroy them."
Andrds thereupon calmly took off his mantle, and
drew from out his belt a short-handled whip of twisted
leather.
Rosenstein was positively livid. Though he was
well used to sundry thrashings from hot-tempered
noble borrowers, there was a nasty look in Andrds's
eyes, which foretold that the present experience would
be decidedly more unpleasant than any in the past.
But the astute Jew was not a man to be taken una-
wares; no doubt, when he first entered upon the
hazardous game, which he now stood a sad chance of
losing, he had prepared for an eventuality like the pre-
sent one. He knew that he would not always be able
to keep creditor and debtor apart, and that, sooner or
later, an unpleasant encounter with his rich employer
would be the inevitable result.
** Your Honour,'* he said with absolute calm, whilst
Andrds cracked his whip through the air, ** you think
I have deceived j^ou, and perhaps to a certain extent
I have done so, but not quite so much as you think.
I cannot save my poor old shoulders from your riding-
whip, seeing that you have the advantage over me in
point of strength and age, but, surely, if I have
deserved a beating, you would not be cowardly enough
to thrash me, who am weak, and let him who is
strong, and far guiltier than I, go free.'*
Rosenstein the Jew 205
" What is it to. me, if some one else helped you in
doing your lying, cheating trade ? I have not had any
dealings with other miscreants save you. But if it will
ease your sore shoulders to see those of your accomplice
smart — well ! if you will name him to me, I promise you
he shall not come off second best.*'
Rosenstein was quietly chuckling to himself, and
looking at the young peasant from under his shaggy
eyebrows, with a satirical smile playing upon his thin
lips.
** Even if that accomplice is the lord of Bidesktit,
Kisfalu, and Zdrda?** he asked. "Look here, your
Honour," he added as Andris, puzzled, had paused a
moment, giving the Jew a chance to speak, " I do not,
of course, know with what lies the noble lord over at
Bideskiit has been stuffing you up; whatever they
were, you have evidently believed them, and have come
here thinking that I was the vilest thing on earth, only
fit to be touched with the same whip with which you
thrash your pigs. But when your Honour read books on
law, and studied Latin with Pater Ambrosius, you must
have learned also the good sound saying: that one
man's tongue is good, till the other man's begins to
wag. If your Honour desires to be just, you will hear
me, and then decide whose shoulders are more worthy
of your riding- whip. ' '
It was obvious that Andrds would listen, for he had
folded his arms over his chest, and placed the whip on
the table by his side.
"As I said before," resumed Rosenstein, whose
voice now was perfectly assured and steady, ** I do not
know what stories your Honour has heard. I will tell
it, such as it all really happened, the truth of which I
swear by our forefather Abraham, by Isaac, Jacob, and
2o6 A Son of the People
by Moses the lawgiver. The noble lord wanted some
money, a great deal of money ; your Honour perhaps
has no idea how much went into that wonderful mill,
which has never ground yet a thousand bushels of
wheat. You were willing to lend his lordship what
was more than a reasonable amount of money on the
security of Kisfalu first, then of Bideskiit, and finally
of Zdrda. I am a poor man, and no farmer, but I say
it humbly that the money you lent was quite as much
as the land was worth. But the most noble lord
wanted more, a great deal more ; his mill, his machin-
ery, his improvements swallowed up the money you
lent, and like the ogres children are frightened with,
when they had swallowed all, they wanted more. The
owner of Bideskiit, Kisfalu, and Zdrda had no more
land to offer as security ; I could not, as he wanted,
ask your Honour to lend any more ; I had some money
put by. Is that a sin ? . . . Your Honour's father put
a couple of millions into a wine barrel. I sank mine
into a Hungarian nobleman's bottomless pockets. . . .
But, mind you, /had no security . . . only my lord's
august name at the bottom of a piece of paper. . . .
You understand these things . . • the worse the secu-
rity . . . the heavier the interest ... I had no wish
to part with my money, in order merely to gratify the
whims of an arrogant, spendthrift lord. I had no
cause to love him, for, whenever I refused to lend him
all the money he wanted, he had me whipped by his
lacqueys. . . . Once he forced me to break the laws
of my religion, and stuffed pig's meat down my throat
in order to make his kitchenmaids laugh. . . . No ! I
did not love him . . . but I lent him money ... at
interest . . . just interest . . . you must judge me
rightly . . . and consider ... I had no security."
«
Rosenstein the Jew 207
Rosenstein had told this extraordinary tissue of false-
hoods with perfect self-possession. All his nervousness
had gone, and as he proceeded with his narrative, he
wore such an air of truth, and the whole circumstances
seemed so absolutely plausible, that Andrds was fairly
staggered. More and more puzzled, he tried to read
the Jew's very thoughts beneath the mask of bland
innocence he wore, and his honest mind refused to
grasp the obvious fact that one of the two men — the
lord or the Jew — was telling him a complete tissue of
lies. Being simple and honest, he had a great desire
to be just, and, in a matter of rectitude, both Jew and
lord seemed to him to have an equal right to be
believed.
Rosenstein, through his very calling in life, was
accustomed to note every change in the human face.
The young peasant's keen frank eyes were the very
mirror of his mind within, and the Jew soon saw that
his narrative had had a sufficient air of truth to have,
at any rate, severely shaken Andr&s's conviction of his
guilt
'* After all," he resumed after a pause, '' I do not ex-
pect you to believe my words without proofs. Here are
the papers relating to three loans which I made to my
lord. They are signed *Bidesk6ty Gyuri' ; he will not
deny his own signature ; he cannot do it. ... I do
not know what lies he has told your Honour. A man
who has no respect for religion can have no respect
for truth . . . but he cannot deny his signature.'*
'* He does not deny any signature, but he says you
made him sign two papers, which he never read. He
owns that he had the money, that he agreed to pay the
usurious interest, set forth on your papers, but, al-
though he does not deny that the signature at the
2o8 A Son of the People
bottom of the }>apers which I hold is his, he says he
knows nothing of their contents.*'
'' And does your Honour, who knows something
about business, really believe that a man would be
fool enough to put his name to papers without know-
ing what they contain?" asked Rosenstein, with a
shrug of the shoulders..
He had — ^perhaps unknown to himself— played his
trump card here. There was no doubt that, to the
peasant, the idea of Bideskdty professing not to have
read the contents of the papers he had signed was ab-
solutely preposterous ; although, until he had spoken to
Rosenstein, he had never actually discredited the noble
lord's statement, now that it was jeered at by the Jew,
it struck him again forcibly as shiftless beyond the
bounds of possibility.
Once more he took up the papers that were lying on
the table, and read them through very carefully, with
a more and more puzzled air. They certainly bore out
the Jew's statements to the full ; although in them
Bideskiity acknowledged the debt, and agreed to pay
the usurious interest charged therein, there was no
mention of any security whatsoever. Triumphantly,
the Jew watched his face.
** After the fire, your Honour, when my lord required
more money, and I began to feel that perhaps my spec-
ulation was becoming hazardous, I exacted the house
and grounds of Bideskiit as security for the next loan.
I was obliged to do that in my own interests, as a
wholesome weapon over his head. Remember, it is all
I have as security for the vast sums of money I have
lent ; whilst I hold that, I can enforce the payment of
the interest on the other loans. I know the noble lord
would not part with the house as long as he had a
Rosenstein the Jew 209
qaarter of wheat left which he could throw to me when
I became pressing."
** I was prepared to take over the loan on the house,"
said Andrds/* and brought the money with me to-day."
* * How can your Honour suggest such a thing ? ' * said
Rosenstein with amazement. *' If I part with that
one security I hold, what chance have I, not only of
ever seeing a florin of the principal, but of being able
to enforce the payment of the interest? You hold
Kisfalu, Bideskdt, Zdrda as security . . . what
chance would I have ? "
** If you seize the house of Bideskdt and drive the
noble lord and his family away from their home, you
have no better chance of getting the remainder of your
principal and interest, and, according to your state-
ment, you will then have paid 950,000 florins for
a house, a garden, a few stables, and two or three
fields."
** The house is comfortable," said the Jew placidly.
'' I can live in it, if I like. I am a poor man, with
simple tastes ; the garden and the fields will yield me
all I want."
'* Why, man I the house will fall into ruin, if it is
uninhabited. Ten years hence, unless you keep it in
proper repair, your 950,000 florins will not fetch as
many pence."
"Suppose, your Honour," said the Jew with slow
emphasis, "' that I am content to pay 950,000 florins
for the pleasure of seeing that man a beggar, and
without a home, the man who amused himself by see-
ing me whipped by his herdsmen, and by forcing pig's
meat down my throat? "
Andr&s looked astonished, even awed, in spite of
himaelfy by the tone of bitter, deadly hatred, which
2IO A Son of the People
made the words come out of the Jew*s mouth like the
hissing of a poisonous snake. Again there was a long
pause. Kem^ny Andrds was quite at a loss to know
what to do. The whole thing nauseated him. So
many lies had been told, there was so much greed, so
much cupidity, so much hatred on one side, such
hopeless thriftlessness on the other, that it seemed
absolutely impossible to mediate with equal justice to
both. There is no doubt that but for a fair, girlish
vision, which, with provoking persistency, haunted his
dreams, he would have left the careless, arrogant lord
to his fate ; but, before him, his fancy conjured up a
pathetic picture of that curly head, bent down under a
weight of sorrow, of those forget-me-not eyes dim with
tears, of that sweet mouth lined with care, and perhaps
want. . . .
Great God ! such a vision, haunting him by day and
by night, seen in the fitful light of the moon, or mir-
rored across the plain by the fairy Morgana, would
drive him mad, and sap his manhood, his pride, reduce
him to an imbecile visionary, the laughing-stock of
the county of Heves. . . .
'' lyook here, Rosenstein," he said at last, ** I am
pledged to see justice done, in this unfortunate busi-
ness. My lord 'stale is very different from yours. . . . ''
** I have the papers,*' repeated the Jew, obstinately.
** He denies any knowledge of them.**
" Does he deny his signature ? * * persisted Rosenstein.
** No, he does not ; but . . . *'
" There is no duf, your Honour ; you must in all jus-
tice admit that. You have seen all the papers. Here,*'
he added, taking another from his breast-pocket, '* is
the one relating to the last loan . . . the one on the
house of Bideskdt. . . . He promises to pay back the
Rosenstein the Jew 2 1 1
principal and interest in six months ; failing which I
have the right to seize his house. There is no argu-
ment possible. I am within my rights ; and your
Honour cannot say I have wronged you in any way.
Your money is perfectly secure; what he has agreed to
pay you he can pay or not as he pleases ; the land is
well worth foreclosing on. ... I have nothing but
the house . . . the house I mean to have, unless the
noble lord fulfils his engagements to me . . . which
by his own signature he has agreed to do. This is my
last word. . . . Your Honour is just. . . . Read the
papers . . . you will see that I am within my rights."
Unfortunately, of that fact there was absolutely no
doubt, and Kemdny Andrds felt how hopeless any
question of temporising would be. It would only stave
off the inevitable ruin by a few months. If the Jew
had spoken the truth — and there certainly was every
material proof that he had — then, obviously, it would
be the grossest injustice to him to advance the money
to Bidesktity ; thus taking over the mortgage of the
house, and for ever depriving Rosenstein of any weapon
with which he might enforce at least the part repay-
ment of all the money he declared he had lent in the
past, and of all the interest in the future.
*'Look here, Rosenstein, supposing all you say is
correct . . . now do not interrupt me, I said suppos-
ing y as there are two of you, each with a different tale
. . . you have admitted yourself that three of the loans
are unsecured, but that for the pleasure of seeing a
poor old man and his family turned out of the home
which has belonged to their ancestors for hundreds of
years, you are willing to lose the bulk of your principal
and interest. . . . Now, will you tell me, what would
induce you to forego that pleasure entirely? ... in
212 A Son of the People
other words, what money wotild you take for every
scrap of paper you hold which bears the signature
• Bidcskfity ' ? *'
Rosenstein had been expecting this all the time. In
order to have this question put to him, he had lied and
sweated now for over an hour, but not a line of his
thin countenance expressed triumph or satisfaction, as
he said placidly :
' ' I will own to your Honour that I have often thought
that my lord would one day put such a question to me.
If the thought occurred to me, just after a whipping
from his servants, I invariably dismissed it, for I knew
that I should refuse to take a penny less than my due."
''But, suppose, for argument's sake, that it was I
who put that question to you ? What then ? "
Perhaps imperceptibly, certainly unconsciously, a
shade — oh! it was the merest shade — of softness
passed over Rosenstdn's hard face, and his voice was
not so sharp and hissing, when, he replied :
'' Your Honour is the only person in the lowlands
who speaks to me as to a man, and not to a dog. You
have never borrowed money of me, and given me a
blow as part interest. Once I fainted in the heat of
the sun : you had me taken inside your house and
tended me, till I was able to be on my feet again :
when every other peasant or lord in the county would
have kicked the fainting Jew to one side. ... If
your Honour will make me a fair and just offer for these
papers, I will take it. But your Honour must remem-
ber that you are throwing away your money on an
arrogant lord, who will give contempt in return for
kindness, insult for generosity. The lord of Bidesktit
can be nothing to a peasant of Heves. Let your
Honour think well before you waste your father's
Rosenstein the Jew 213
savings on a spendthrift magnate who looks upon you
as the dirt beneath his feet.''
Rosenstein had said this very solemnly, and, while
he spoke, the ugly look of deceit and cupidity seemed to
have left his face. His stooping back was erect, his
eyes looked straight before him, there was a certain
dignity in his spare form, clad in the long threadbare
garment ; the centuries of humiliations, of buffetings,
seemed forgotten, and contempt as absolute, as wither-
ing, as that of the Hungarian nobleman for the
despised race, appeared in every line of the thin, satiri-
cal mouth, for the spendthrift, arrogant lord who had
trampled him under foot.
No doubt the young peasant felt the truth of the
Jew's words, the folly of his own hopes, which, at this
critical juncture, were, in spite of himself, surging
within his heart. Half absently, he collected the
four papers, which Rosenstein was handing to him,
and the hand which, as if in weariness, he passed over
his eyes, trembled visibly.
** I wish to be just with you, Rosenstein, but I have
not much money left. If— what seems to me inevitable
— Kisfalu and Zdrda pass into my possession, after the
settling up of these affairs, I must keep some of it, to
use if any calamity of flood or fire overtake me. But
I will give you 300,000 florins for these pieces of paper,
provided any lord gives his consent to the bargain.
Not with a look did Rosenstein betray his triumph.
He closed his eyes, no doubt in order to thoroughly
enjoy the glorious vision which the young peasant was
holding out before him. His deceit, his astuteness,
had profited him beyond the dreams of avarice ; never
for a moment did remorse enter his grasping soul, at
the hideous way in which he was deceiving a just and
214 A Son of the People
honourable man. The Jew in Eastern Europe stands at
war with thje rest of the population ; beaten, buffeted,
derided, often injured, his only weapon is his money ;
with it, he gets his revenge on peer and peasant, and
wields it mercilessly against all, as a poor vengeance
for all he has to endure. He bears insults, blows,
contempt of every kind, but on the subject of money
he is the master, for he has the superior intellect, and
the careful thrift, the lack of which brings his oppress-
ors, sooner or later, within his clutches. Rosenstein had
himself owned that from Kem6ny Andrds he had never
received anything but kindness, and the hideous
advantage he was taking of the young peasant's sense
of justice was not aimed at the individual ; it was
race against race, and Andrds was paying more than a
quarter of a million in expiation of all the Jew had
endured at other hands than his.
** You are hard upon a poor man," said Rosenstein
at last.
** It is my last word," replied Andrds decisively.
** Will you give me time to think ? "
** Yes, a week from to-day. I must speak with my
lord ; he will also want time to think."
Rosenstein noticed how dreamily he spoke, saw the
strange, wistful look in the young man's eyes, and,
probably, his shrewd mind guessed what was passing in
that honest brain, for a curious smile parted his thin
lips ; he rubbed his bony hands one against the other,
and across his eyes there flashed that look of deadly
hatred.
* * Shall I wait upon your Honour this day week at the
inn, or at Kisfalu ? "
** Neither. I will come myself, and bring the money
. . . if my lord consents."
Rosenstein the Jew 215
He took up his cap and his riding- whip, and, nod-
ding to the Jew, found himself in the village street
again.
All seemed as bright and as gay as ever. Easter
Monday had brought young men and maids without.
The former, armed with squirts and watering-cans, were
deluging the pretty girls as they passed, in true Easter
Monday custom ; whilst the latter, courting the water-
ing, proud of their dripping skirts and wet hair, made
but mock pretence at running away from their torment-
ors ; seeing that the girl whose clothes remain dry on
this day can have but few adorers.
Andrds watched the merrymakers come and go for a
few minutes ; a year ago he would have been the first
to snatch a kiss from every pretty girl, after having
rendered her helpless under a deluge of water. To-
day his heart seemed shut off from all his friends
and companions ; it was filled with hopeless longing
for a star as far above him as those in heaven, for a
fairy vision as bright and as elusive as those Fata Mor-
gana draws on the horizon, beyond the plain.
CHAPTER XIX
A SON OF THK P«OPI,B
AndrAs was nervous and anxious when, having gal-
loped all the way from Arokszillds, he saw the yellow
walls of Bideskdt dose before him. For the first time
in his life he was mixed up, through no fault of his
own, in a transaction in which lying on one side or the
other — or both — formed a prominent part. He hardly
knew how to deal with it. If he caught some gipsy or
herdsman telling him a lie, he found his riding- whip
the most conclusive argument ; but what could he do,
if the lord of Bideskdt deviated from the paths of
truth? or if the Jew had embroidered, if not actually
invented, the remarkable version of his transactions
with the unfortunate nobleman? Kem6ny Andrds's
thoughts were in a whirl. In the presence of either of
the two parties he had felt that each was telling him
the truth ; chiefly because he, himself, did not under-
stand the process of lying, and perhaps thought that
the act of telling an untruth bore some imprint on the
face of the speaker. My lord's evident anxiety and
trouble had distressed him ; it seemed to him an im-
possibility to act the part of sorrow as Bideskdty had
done ; and yet, again, there were the papers, which
Rosenstein swore by all his patriarchs that my lord had
signed, well knowing what they contained.
Bideskfity had watched anxiously for the peasant
si6
A Son of the People 2 1 7
through his window, and had given orders that Kem-
6ny was to be brought to his room immediately. All
the morning he had been unable to sit still, and Coun-
tess Irma had in vain begged for an explanation of his
moodiness. Bideskdty, with truly masculine exclu-
siveness, would not allow his wife or daughter to par-
ticipate in his troubles. The woman in Hungary is
seldom the friend of her lord ; though he holds her in
high esteem : high enough to share all joys and honours
equally with him, but not high enough to allow her to
join in his sorrows.
There was a perceptible hesitation in Andrds*s man-
ner when my lord, eager and excited, stretched out a
hand towards him. The young peasant, full of the
belief that the nobleman was playing him false, paused'
an instant before he placed his honest hand in my
lord's trembling one. But Bideskiity looked so care-
worn, so haggard and anxious, that the kind-hearted
young peasant felt again that overwhelming sympathy
for the foolish and sorely stricken man ; more especially
as in his softened mood there was a look in my lord's
eyes, which were blue, that melted all Andres's anger
as the snow upon the plains at the first kiss of the
April sun.
**Do you bring good news, friend?" asked
Bideskiity.
He could not sit ; he was pacing up and down the
room restlessly, his anxious eyes every now and then
searching his creditor's face.
** The news I bring, my lord may call good or bad,
I cannot tell," replied Andrds quietly.
" Speak, man, cannot you see that I am in a fever?
Speak ! am I a beggar? ..."
*• Not so fast, my lord," said Andrds ; ** first let me
2i8 A Son of the People
assure you that things are not desperate, that they
depend on yourself to be put entirely right. There is
no cause for sorrow . . . as yet."
** Rosenstein? . . . *'
** Unfortunately, my lord,*' said Andrds with some
nervousness, but trying to speak very kindly, **the
Jew has a very different tale to tell, from the one your
lordship has told me."
Like a furious bull Bidesktity faced his creditor.
** Man, do you dare to say ..."
*'I only dare humbly," interrupted Andrds with
absolute calm, ** to try and see justice done, and to
help your lordship in your great difficulty. I am
neither noble nor learned ; my education is what a
kind and clever priest has given me, in the intervals
of cultivating the soil, and I am not clever enough to
read in the minds of other men. Your lordship has
told me one thing : Rosenstein tells a different tale
. . . unfortunately the Jew holds proofs of his asser-
tion, and you have but your word."
'* And do you dare stand there before me, man, and
say that the word of a Hungarian nobleman is not better
than a thousand proofs?"
** I know very little about noblemen, my lord, and
I am afraid in the law courts of Gy6ngyos the papers
you signed will weigh heavily against the words you
speak."
*' I told you I never read those confounded papers,"
persisted Bideskiity obstinately.
** It is useless going over the same ground, your
lordship ; and I think it would be best, in your own
interests, that you should hear Rosenstein's story, so
that you may decide whether you will accept what I
propose."
A Son of the People 219
"Why should I listen to his tissue of falsehoods?
Why does he not come here and repeat them, so that I
may flog his lying soul out of his cursed body ? '*
** Because your lordship has unfortunately, and most
recklessly, placed yourself and your good name unre-
servedly in his hands.*'
My good name? *'
In a court of law, my lord, we all stand alike.
Pater Ambrosius will tell you that before the throne
of the Divine Judge, lord and peasant, Jew and Christ-
ian, will have equal justice, and that the lawmakers
and judges in our beautiful country try to be as just as
God Himself has taught them to be. Now will your
lordship listen ? . . . I have here in my pocket three
separate papers, mentioning three separate loans I
made to you on the security of Kisfalu, of Z&rda, and
of Bideskiit (the latter without the house and grounds
and stables) ; these loans your lordship acknowledged
and agreed to pay a certain interest upon them. . . I
must ask your lordship not to interrupt me ; this is a
very serious affair, not of feelings, but of facts. Your
lordship, in your present circumstances, is absolutely
unable to pay the interest, which is already in arrears,
for at least a year to come ; as for the principal, it is
entirely out of your lordship's power now ever to repay
that, as you will never have the chance of putting a
single florin by, while you are obliged to satisfy Rosen-
stein's demands. . . . Does your lordship understand
me?"
Moodily, Bideskdty nodded his head.
" As far, therefore, as law and justice are con-
cerned," resumed Andrds emphatically, ** Kisfalu,
Zdrda, and the lands of Bideskiit become my property
absolutely. I have paid 850,000 florins for them,
220 A Son of the People
which is more money than any other estate of fhe same
size would fetch in the lowlands."
Andr&s paused a moment, for there was a look of
such hopeless sorrow on the ruined nobleman's &ce
that it went straight to the honest young peasant's
heart to have to still further plunge the knife into the
unfortunate man's wound.
** I would have been only too willing to wait and
temporise till your lordship's circumstances looked a
little more cheerful/' he resumed with infinite gentle-
ness, ''but as matters now stand I should be doing
you no good, and hopelessly endangering my fortune,
which, after all, I cannot very well afford to do. Ro-
senstein declares, and I am bound to admit that he has
full proof of what he says, that after your lordship had
concluded the loans with me, you borrowed at intervals
another 950,000 florins from him, for the greater part
of which he had no security, and therefore charged the
usurious interest you know of."
** I never had the money. I am ready to swear that,
since my word is not good enough," protested Bides-
ktity hopelessly; ** the man is an outrageous liar ! "
** Unfortunately, your lordship signed receipts for
the money."
** I tell you I never read what I signed."
** Rosenstein swears that you did. And he holds the
receipts for the money. Does your Honour deny in any
way that you signed the papers ? "
** No ! I must have signed altogether seven papers ;
I do not deny that; two when I gave Kisfalu as
security; two when I pledged my lands of Bidesktit ;
two with Zdrda, and one some eight months ago,
when I mortgaged this house, grounds, and stables
for 100,000 florins."
A Son of the People 221
** And I only hold three of those papers, my lord ;
and I know nothing of this last loan."
It seemed indeed hopeless ; Bideskiity was beginning
to dimly realise how utterly blind and foolish he had
been. An implacable Nemesis had overtaken him in
the midst of all his arrogance and reckless extrava-
gance, and he had fallen a helpless prey in the hands
of the first unscrupulous man who had laid a trap
for him. For some time there was silence, while the
wretched man stared moodily before him, making vain
endeavours to realise the utter ruin which stared him
in the face. Andrds, full of deep sympathy, ready with
the help he had come to bring, was seeking for words
in which to frame his offer.
*' It seems to me," said Bideskdty at last, '*that
the news you brought could not very well have been
worse."
' Pardon me, my lord, I have told you the worst ;
the evil as it stands ; it is high time I placed before
you the remedy, such as I humbly propose it."
** A remedy ? There is one, then ? "
Hungarian nature is eminently buoyant and san-
guine. In a moment Bidesktity raised his head, and a
flash of hope illumined his careworn features.
" Why in the world did you sit there, then, and
croak like some raven of evil, man? If you have good
news, why did you make sport of me, by watching my
misery?"
** To every evil there is a remedy, my lord, only we
are not always ready to take it."
'* Are you going to speak, instead of preaching,
man ? " said Bideskdty, boiling over with impatience.
'' Rosenstein, my lord, knowing that his money is in
peril, and holding but one real sectirity, namely^ that
222 A Son of the People
on this house and grounds, has offered to take one third
of the capital lent, in exchange for every scrap of
paper your Honour has ever signed."
** One third ? . . . Why, you said just now that I
have signed receipts amounting to 950,000 florins . . .
one third of that would be . , . ? "
** 300,000 florins, in ready money, my lord," said
Andrds.
** Man ! I have said before : you are made of money ;
300,000 florins may mean nothing to you. I can no
mote find that sum than I can jump out of this window
without breaking my neck. I have not a single foot
of land that I can call my own, not a stack of com
which I can sell. The remedy may sound a good one to
you, it is the last death-blow to all my hopes.*'
** I know perfectly well that your lordship has no
money ; and I was not proposing that you should pay
that 300,000 florins, but. ..."
'*But?"
** But that I should," said Andr&s very quietly.
To all appearances he had never departed from his
attitude of absolute calm ; and Bidesk6ty — quite unable
to understand the peasant's self-contained nature —
looked with astonishment at this man who spoke of
vast sums of money as if they were no more to him
than a handful of maize.
** I do not understand," said Bidesk6ty at last, ** or
else you do not altogether realise my position. What
use would there be in my owing you 300,000 florins,
any more than 950,000 to Rosenstein? I could no
more repay the one than I can the other ; and the low-
est possible amount of interest would, with the present
state of the floods, be absolutely beyond my power
to pay."
A Son of the People 223
** I was not proposing to lend your lordship the
money," said Andrds in a voice so low that Bidesk6ty
could hardly hear it, ** but ... to give it."
Evidently his self-control was being put to a severe
test. His lips trembled as he spoke, and his voice,
hardly above a whisper, had a curious gasping tone.
His breathing came hard and fast, as if the power-
ful chest was bursting from within, and his hands
were tightly locked together, whilst on his forehead
great veins stood up like cords. Still, Bideskdty, un-
conscious, did not understand.
** Give it to me, man ? '* he said with sorrowful dig-
nity, ** you are dreaming ! I have seen much trouble
lately, it is true ; but I have not yet, thank God,
stooped so low as to take alms from a stranger."
** No ! not from a stranger, my lord ..." added
Andrds with an eflFort, ** but . . . from one near . . .
very near to you ..."
*' I do not understand ! . . . What do you mean ?
... I can accept money from no one . . . you can-
not think such a thing possible ! . . . What do you
mean ? " he repeated again.
** My lord," said Andrds at last, shaking off his nerv-
ousness, with a violent effort, and rising to his full
height so that he stood before Bidesktity in all the
inborn pride of a Hungarian lowland peasant, '* in my
garden at Kisfalu there is a beautiful rose-tree which
stands alone in fragrant loveliness. My mother never
planted anything close to it, for both she and I felt
that no other flower was worthy to bloom near that
rose, so surpassingly beautiful is it. Alone it stood for
many years, growing every summer more radiant, and
filling the air around with its sweet overpowering
odour ; a very queen among her humbler fragrant
224 A Son of the People
sisters, which, in her isolation, she seemed to disdain.
. . . This year, my lord, at the foot of that lovely
rose-tree there has sprung — who knows how ? — a hum-
ble bed of moss. Was it the binls who wantonly
carried the vulgar seed to the court of the queen of
flowers? or did that Divine hand which cares for every
blade of grass direct that that humble moss should be
at the feet of the gorgeous rose ? . . . Who knows ?
. . . but since a year, the tiny green leaves have dared
to look very closely at the magnificence of the garden
queen, whilst other fragrant and beautiful flowers have
been kept respectfully away.'*
For one moment the young peasant paused. His
voice had become quite firm ; though still low and in-
finitely tender, it was clear and without a tremor. The
flowery mode of speech — the inalienable characteristic
of the Hungarian language, when applied to deep emo-
tion — sounded peculiarly sweet in the mouth of this
handsome young son of the soil, and, instinctively,
Bideskiity listened, vaguely feeling that beneath that
proud, calm bearing lay hidden a torrent of feeling so
overwhelming that it commanded respect.
"At first, your Honour," resumed Andrds, ** my
mother would have punished that moss for its presump-
tion, and, tearing it up by its root, have flung it out,
with other noisome weeds, on to the plain where it
might wither, since it had dared approach so near the
queen. But the tiny, soft bed looked so green and
cool, and the sun above so scorching and hot, that the
moss was allowed to stay for a while to protect the feet
of the queen from the more parching rays. Since
then, my lord, there it has remained, humble and pro-
tecting, cool and green in the heat of the summer,
warm and clinging in the winter, sheltering the roots of
A Son of the People 227
heart, a wistful longing which made him as a child,
with heavy tears blurring his vision, and great aching
sobs shaking his frame.
Suddenly he started ; a hand — ^heavy, but not unkind
— ^was placed upon his shoulder. He turned and saw
an old man, bent with grief, with a look of humbled
pride in his sorrowing eyes, which went straight to the
honest young peasant 's heart.
"Friend, when I first realised," said Bideskdty,
''what your meaning was, an uncontrollable fit of anger
seized me. You must forgive me ... I am an old
man . . . and have not yet fully learned the lessons of
this century. The idea that I should give my daugh-
ter to a peasant seemed to me so preposterous that for
the moment I forgot . . . that you hold my life prac-
tically in your hands ... for if I and my family are
turned out of our home, I shall never survive the
sorrow, and God only knows what would happen then
to my wife and to my Ilonka.''
Andrds would have spoken, but Bideskiity resumed
immediately.
** I know what you would say : that you have no
desire to force me. Hey ! friend, that is as it may be !
We are all bom free agents in this world, and yet
who can resist his destiny, struggle how he may ? The
land which once was mine has passed out of my hands
into yours with a few careless dashes of the pen on some
accursed bits of paper. The next few days will, unless
a miracle should happen — and there are not many
miracles nowadays, — see me and my family go forth
'"e a herd of wandering gipsies, homeless and friend-
; and those who have fawned most on my hospital-
vill be the first to throw stones at me for my folly.
He midst of this hopeless ruin you come to me.
228 A Son of the People
and ofiPer not only to save me and mine, but by this
same offer guarantee that my lands will, in spite of all,
belong to my child, and ultimately to my grandchil-
dren. What can I do? When a man has a knife at
his throat, it is a small matter to ask him if he will
part with his wealth."
**My lord . . . "
*\Nay ! do not speak ! You have had your say.
What you now would add could not alter thing^.
You urged your strongest plea when you spoke of
my grandchildren; and in holding my lands, you know
well that you hold the key to my consent. What can
you say more? that you love my daughter? Why,
man ! of course you love her ; she is very beautiful and
infinitely above you. We all love God and the Virgin
Mary. That you will be a slave to her ? I have no
doubt of that ; you come from a race of serfs. That
you will make her happy ? There man, I think you
will try in vain ; my daughter Ilonka could not be
happy in the hut of a peasant. If I and her mother
give our consent to this strange union . . . mind you,
1 only said * if * ... we shall be sacrificing our child
for the sake of our grandchildren, and their children
after them ; for the sake of the land of Bideskfit, which
will then never pass out of the family at all, though it
will have been tainted by passing through peasant
hands.**
** My lord,'* said Andrds, wearily, ** when I came
here to speak with you of these things, I tried to think
of you only as the father of the being who to me is
almost divine. Would it not be best both for your own
dignity and for mine, that you did not force or sting
me into forgetting this? "
** Forgive me, friend, I am hasty ! Events have
A Son of the People 229
crowded in upon me . . . and have deprived me of my
power of thinking. ... I have had much trouble
. . . you are young . . . you do not understand the
griefs of older men. . . . Perhaps also your pride has
never suffered a humiliation . . . like the one I suffer
now. . . . Will you leave me to myself? ... I must
think ... I must be alone . . . and I must speak
with the noble Countess.'*
Silently Andrds had taken his cap, and silently,
automatically, he left the room. As in a dream he
walked across the hall, and down the noble staircase.
Bideskiity had not bidden him good-bye. He had said
nothing definite. He had hurled a problematical * * if "
at Andr&s in the midst of insults calmly spoken, and
the young peasant's pride had writhed beneath the
cold, callous, cruel words.
Oh ! that love should make such abject fools of us,
that for one sweet sake we should be willing to endure
tortures such as the very demons of hell cannot devise
for the punishment of souls at war with their Creator !
How strange it is that at the feet of one being on earth
we should be willing to sacrifice our manhood and our
self-respect, and yet that this very sacrifice, that same
degradation, should ennoble us beyond all glorious
deeds, and render us equal to the angels.
How Andrds spent the remainder of that day he
could not say. The roads were muddy, and Csillag
could do no more than carefully pick her way in the
mire. Yet she understood her master's sorrow, for she
roamed with him upon the puszta till long after the
shades of evening had wrapped the lowlands in gloom.
Far ahead, the roar of the Tama lent an additional
note of sorrow and desolation to the land. It was
late when at last Kem6uy Andrds reached the quiet
230 A Son of the People
farmhouse where Btdka, at her spinning, was waiting
anxiously for her son. She went to the door when she
heard Crag's hoofs outside, and through the dark-
ness watched Andr&s as he gently groomed his favourite
animal and made her comfortable for the night. He
had not seen his mother evidently, for otherwise his
first greeting would have been for her. Ktelka*s heart
felt inexpressibly sad when she saw how slow and
heavy was his tread, as he walked towards the house.
In the garden he stopped close to where stood a lovely
rose-tree covered with tiny buds, the promise of a glor-
ious June ; and Etelka wondered why her son touched
each unopened blossom with his hand, and then
stooped as if to kiss them.
CHAPTER XX
THH ANSWER
Four days later the answer came. For four weary
days had the suspense lasted, during which time
Andres's iron constitution almost gave way under the
strain of wearing uncertainty. No one heard his voice
during that time. Silently he toiled like a very slave
upon the beloved land which now, at last, was his. With
almost savage fury he tried to tire out his strong body
by day, for the sake of earning a few hours' heavy,
dreamless sleep by night. Of his hopes, his fears, his
love, he would not, dared not allow himself to think ;
and when the early evening shadows had closed in
upon the land, he would mount on Csillag's back and
roam restlessly with her upon the plain. There in
solitude, silence, and peace, his weary mind found rest,
his aching nerves solace and comfort. The distant
roar of the flood lulled him to forgetfulness, and, mus-
ingly, he would watch for hours the wandering storks
overhead, or the swallows in their flight. He had told
everything to Ktdka. It would have been useless to
try and deceive her ; her fond, anxious, motherly eyes
read deeply within the loved son's soul ; long ago she
had guessed his secret, had seen wild joy alternate
with mad g^ef, and hope arise but to g^ve birth to
despair. And, sileiitly, she had wept and prayed :
prayed to God and to the Virgin Mary to avert the
331
232 A Son of the People
catastrophe which threatened her Andrds's happiness.
Her shrewd mind , rendered doubly acute by earnest love
for her boy, showed her the hideous image of misery
that so preposterous, so unequal a marriage would in-
evitably bring beneath the humble peasant's home.
The proud lady, nurtured from her cradle to look on
every peasant with contempt, linked against her will to
save her parents* ruin, with one of the despised race !
Oh ! thepity of it ! theshame ! the remorse ! Etelka fore-
saw, with unerring judgment, the contempt with which
the dainty girl would place her soft white hand into An-
dres's rough brown palm, the blush of horror and anger
with which she would respond to his strange masterful
passion, the passion of an unlettered, half-educated son
of the soil, bom and bred in the free life of the plain,
with warm, breathing, living nature to teach him the
lessons of life, and the years of petty tyranny behind
him, during which every feeling, every emotion was
held in constant check ; ready, now that, rich and free,
he had reached powerful manhood, to break through
every bond, and cry out for response from one being
who should return ardour for ardour, passion for pas-
sion, kiss for kiss.
Etelka wept and prayed as she thought of that son
eating his heart out for longing to obtain a smile from
those aristocratic lips, and wearing out his manhood
to smooth away the curl of contempt from the comers
of the dainty mouth.
Oh ! for one great cmshing blow ! the refusal of that
careless, yet surely loving father, to sacrifice his child
to his own folly, and of that proud mother to allow her
daughter to stoop so low, for the sake of the gold and
the land ! A blow which would be terrible when it
fell : and Etelka' s heart ached, in the very midst of her
The Answer 233
prayers, when she thought of the sorrow, the despair
of her boy, seeing all his fairy visions suddenly and
irretrievably dispelled ; but, though the blow would be
cruel, it would be sharp and sudden, and Ktelka trusted
that the all-absorbing care for that beloved land would
soon teach him to forget the other love, the Fata Mor-
gana-like vision bom but to fade away.
How infinitely better than the daily, hourly torture
of an ill-assorted union, the wrecked life, the hourly
shame, the mad joy of a few hours, the grief of lifelong
days! And now the answer had come : a message
from the noble lord of Bideskiit to Kem^ny Andrds,
bidding him come to the castle to present his respects to
the noble Countess and to her young ladyship: the
peasant was bidden to pay his court to the noble lady,
the stars were descending from heaven in order to
walk upon the plains.
Andrds was from home when the message came,
brought by Jank6, who had ridden over from Bidesk6t
burning with curiosity as to what my lord's extraordi-
nary condescension might mean. He would have
stayed to ask a hundred questions, for all tongues were
wagging within the kitchen of Bideskiit, but Etelka
seemed so sad and looked so silent that Jank6 dared
not speak ; he felt as if, unconsciously, he had been the
harbinger of evil tidings, and rode away wondering
why Etelka' s eyes were full of tears when she heard of
the unwonted honour done to her son.
Etelka was glad that Andrds was away. He had
ridden over to Zdrda at break of day, and the mother
wished to have her son secure in her arms when she
first told him the great news — the realisation of his
maddest hopes.
She watched at the door till Jank6 was out of sight,
234 A Son of the People
then gazed out across the puszta in the direction of
Zdrda ; and when she saw a tiny speck upon the hori-
zon, which gradually grew and took the form of a
horse and rider, idly picking their way through the
muddy roads, with a heavy sigh she went within.
She waited till her son, tired out from his ride, had
knelt down beside her spinning-wheel, and, placing
his arms round her, had rested his hot, aching head on
her shoulder, then she said :
* ' Andr&s ! for good or for evil, your wishes are fulfilled.
My lord desires your presence at the castle, that you
may pay your respects to the lady who is to be your wife ! * *
There was a dead silence, for Andrds neither spoke
nor stirred. His arms were still round Btelka's shoul-
ders, and his head upon her breast. She felt his grip
tighten and his whole frame tremble against hers ; she
could not see his face, and could scarcely hear him
breathe ; but suddenly a great sob, like the breaking
of an overburdened heart, seemed to shake him from
head to foot, and, with a wild cry, that at last be-
trayed all the pent-up passions, the love, the hopes
and fears so resolutely held in check, he buried his
head in that dear mother 's lap, and sobbed with this
joy so great, so wild, that it was almost pain.
Gently Ktelka soothed him, smoothed his matted
hair, spoke quaint endearing words, such as she used
to whisper when as a tiny lad he had sought comfort
in her arms against his father's rough words and
knotty stick. Gradually the paroxysm passed away ;
but for quite a long while he remained at her knee,
holding the dear one in his arms, his head pillowed
against her breast ; and she, poor soul ! her eyes swim-
ming over with tears, prayed to God not to forsake her
beloved son in this, his greatest joy.
CHAPTER XXI
It was an anxious morning. Most of the night,
neither Bideskuty nor the Countess Irma had slept ;
each lay awake thinking of what the coming, eventful
day would bring.
**I wish we had told her all,'* sighed Bideskdty
mentally, as he despatched Jank6 off on the momentous
message, which was to bring the strange suitor to the
noble house.
''It is better so I " was the self-satisfied conclusion
arrived at by the Countess Irma, as she turned over
her daughter's ribbons and sashes to decide which
would be most suitable to wear on the important
occasion.
And now it was close upon mid-day, and the lord of
Bideskiit was nervously pacing up and down his smok-
ing-room, unable to sit still, or even to smoke his
favourite pipe, awaiting anxiously, and dreading the
first interview : speculating on the probable attitude of
his daughter, the possible scene.
He had had a very hard task in explaining to his
wife the cruel necessity which would force their only
child, the last descendant of those chieftains who had
helped to place King Mdtyds on the throne, into the
arms of a peasant — the grandson of a serf. Countess
Irma was a woman of the world. The horror of so
835
236 A Son of the People
preposterous a misalliance struck her at first with ter-
rible force ; but, when she found herself placed between
the two alternatives, of facing complete penury in a
provincial town, with one maid to cook the daily meal,
and a tax-collector thundering weekly at the door, and
that of seeing her daughter the wife of a man infinitely
beneath her in the social scale, but whose wealth was
large enough to restore to Bideskiit all its former
splendour, she chose what she considered the lesser evil.
The idea that any selfishness was mixed up in this
choice would have seemed to Countess Irma utterly
preposterous. Marriage, in her eyes, was as much a
business contract as the buying and selling of land or
wheat, and of far too serious a moment to be swayed
by any question of sentiment. That the young peas-
ant's one desire (now that he had had the temerity to
become passing rich) was to own a noble wife, was too
obvious a fact to be much wondered at, and the idea
that Ilonka might have hidden ideals, unbeknown to
her mother, was in itself an impossibility.
Countess Irma had never heard of marriage in con-
nection with any sentiment. Ruin had, with truly
plebeian want of discrimination, knocked and been
admitted within the aristocratic walls of Bidesk6t. A
certain marriage — preposterous, monstrous, true, j'ct
perfectly feasible — presented itself as a means of avert-
ing a catastrophe which was a hundred-fold more
hideous, and more monstrous ; Countess Irma thought
— as her husband had done— of future generations, of
duty to posterity, of a great name which for five hun-
dred years had added lustre to the history of a warlike
country, now threatened with extinction and ruin ; her
duty appeared clear to her, — she felt she was making a
sacrifice, nerved herself to the task, and unflinchingly
The Noble Lady 237
fulfilled it. Her daughter was asked of her. She
gave her daughter, trusting that she could keep her
well under her wing for at least eleven months out
of the twelve, during which Ilonka might fancy herself
a grass-widow, living with her parents. That the
peasant husband would ever dare to assert his rights,
to keep his wife under his lowly roof, never entered
Countess Irma's head. She was convinced that her
decision was for her daughter's and her husband's
happiness, fully convinced that she was acting un-
selfishly in the matter, doing what was right. Bides-
kiity, humiliated, heart-broken, harassed by his wife's
reproaches, had left the child's future in her mother's
hands.
'* I^t her have a free choice," he had begged half
remorsefully.
But Countess Irma called his hesitation '* sentimental
folly."
** Leave her to me," she said, ** and for God's sake
do not interfere. You have proved yourself utterly
incapable of conducting your own affairs. This one at
least I mean to carry through."
What passed between mother and daughter Bides-
kdty never knew. The interview lasted over two
hours, late one night, and when at last Countess Irma
came to bed, she said :
'* You can send for the peasant to-morrow. The
sooner the marriage ceremony is gone through, the
better."
Bideskiity longed to ask many questions. In his
heart he had a deep love for and pride in the lovely
child.
** Remember, Gyuri, I have not told Ilonka why
this marriage is necessary. Thank God I have
238 A Son of the People
brought her up to obey her parents without question
and without argument."
** I will not have her unhappy ..." protested
Bideskdty.
" My dear Gyuri, what nonsense you talk. Of
course she is not unhappy. Why should she be ? She
knows nothing of the man ; she cannot dislike him,
therefore how can she be unhappy. *'
This was unanswerable logic, apparently. Bides-
kiity sighed, but he trusted to his wife's judgment.
He fully believed that women understood one another,
and he had never been allowed a say in the bringing
up of his daughter.
And Kem^ny Andrds had been sent for. He was
expected every moment. Bideskdty was hideously
nervous ; anxiously he scanned his wife's face ; she sat
rigid and erect in the middle of the room, working at
some knitting with irritating persistency. Close by
the window, her hands lying idly in her lap, her faoe
turned away from her parents, sat Ilonka. Bideskdty,
who had expected and dreaded a pathetic feminine
scene, with tears and prayers, felt quite relieved to see
his daughter quiet and serene.
He certainly thought her strangely altered since last
night. She seemed somehow to have grown more
stately, and decidedly older. Her eyes were tearless,
but they had a curious look in them, as if they were
looking far, very far away, and all the pink colour had
left her cheeks. But the Countess Irma had said that
the child was not unhappy. She certainly had made
no protest, and seemed quite calmly to be awaiting her
future husband. No doubt natural, girlish coyness,
excitement, curiosity, had made her cheeks pale, and
given that far-off strange look to her eyes.
The Noble Lady 239
The sound of horses* hoofs up the acacia drive. . . .
Bideskiity wiped the beads of perspiration from his
forehead : his nervousness was quite painful ; even
Countess Irma's hands trembled as she held her knit-
ting ; soon the sound of voices, the opening and shut-
ting of doors, a heavy, firm tread on the flagstones of
the hall and passages, preceded by Jank6's lighter
step. . . . Ilonka, alone, where she sat, had not
stirred ; her hands, which lay idly in her lap, had not
trembled, only her eyes were now fixed, large and
glowing, on the door before her. . . .
Then Jank6 threw it open, and, immediately behind
him, the tall picturesque figure of the peasant suitor,
in all the barbaric splendour of his national attire,
stood out against the massive dark oak frame of the
door. His great height, his broad, powerful shoulders,
the dignity of his presence, seemed still further en-
hanced by the great mantle of sheepskin, gorgeously
embroidered in many coloured designs by Etelka*s
loving hands, which hung from his shoulders to his
feet, by his broad belt covered with massive silver
bosses, and by the full white lawn sleeves and trousers,
a very masterpiece of exquisite fineness and delicate
embroidery. His face was very pale, and his eyes —
dark, burning, magnetic — ^had travelled swiftly round
the room, till they had caught sight of the frail figure
by the window. . . . He seemed almost as in a
trance; half dazed he walked into the room, and
stooped to kiss the hand which the noble Countess had
deigned to extend towards him.
My lord had said ** Isten hozta I" (God has brought
you) and now was talking in disjointed sentences of
lands and floods, of rain and sunshine. Andrds
scarcely heard ; he tried to answer intelligibly, forced
240 A Son of the People
himself not to look towards the window, where the
Countess stood talking to his fairy vision who seemed
so strangely white and fragile.
Then suddenly the Countess beckoned to him ; he
hardly had the strength to walk ; he passed his hand
across his eyes, for his vision was getting dim.
The graceful white form had risen. A pair of blue
eyes, large, burning, terrified, were fixed upon him as
he advanced.
'* Ilonka, my child, this is Kem^ny Andrds of Kis-
falu, who has your father's and my consent to express
his love for you, and ask you to become his wife."
The voice sounded as if it were far away. A roar
like that of the flooded Tarna filled his ears ; all his
senses seemed concentrated in one of gazing at his
dream.
** Give him your hand, Ilonka."
Mechanically, obediently, a tiny white hand was
stretched towards him, and Andrds stooped very low
and tremblingly took it in his own. A look of infinite
yearning and tenderness was in his eyes, a look of
appeal infinitely touching and pathetic in the powerful,
rugged face ; that look but begged for a look, a respon-
sive gaze from those blue eyes which stared so
strangely, so vacantly, as if he, in his humility, his
love, his adoration, were far away from her.
Tenderly he raised the tiny cold hand to his lips, and
sought to warm it into response by one long passionate
kiss. ... A slight tremor seemed to shake her, and
she tried to snatch her hand away from his. He longed
to speak to her, but great sobs choked his throat ; nerv-
ously he held the tiny hand imprisoned in his own,
and with longing gaze tried to look into those blue
cfyes which stared so vacantly, so strangely afar.
The Noble Lady 241
Joy, ah, well, it was a great joy, a joy so infinite, so
complete, that his heart well-nigh broke under it, and
the pain of it seemed more than he could bear.
My lord came up to speak to him ; the Countess also
said a few words : both meant to be kind, no doubt,
but their voices jarred upon Andrds's nerves, forcibly
breaking the enchanting spell, and dragging him back
to earth. The tiny hand had escaped ; he was forced
to turn towards Bideskiity, who led him to the farther
end of the room to talk of business matters. How
long he stayed, or what he said, Andrds did not know.
The talk of business, the formalities, the discussion of
the marriage plans sickened and enervated him. He
longed to take that fragile being in his arms, and on
Csillag's back ride away with her across the puszfa.
She had not spoken once. The whole thing seemed
strangely unreal to Andrds ; the voices of my lord, and
of the lady his wife, sounded in a weird confusion in
his ears ; even his vision had grown troubled, so long
and so earnestly had he gazed in the one direction.
The Countess said something about the month of May,
and the best time for the wedding ; Andrds replied to
that, no doubt, for my lady rose soon after and said
some very condescending words. But after that it was
all darkness, dreary and blank, for the seat in the win-
dow was empty.
The lord of Bideskdt had ' become silent Andrds
thought he might take his leave. He longed to be
alone, to ride across the plain, to feel Csillag's hoofs
thundering beneath him, to leave the castle behind,
where the air seemed to have grown stifling, and where
strange spectres of evil foreboding seemed to dance a
hideous dance of death before him.
Bideskiity accompanied him to the door. With his
x6
242 A Son of the People
own hands he handed up to Andrds the stirrup-cup of
rich Hungarian wine. Jank6 stood wondering at the
gate, and nearly fell over backwards when he heard my
lord say : ** God be with you, my son ! " adding im-
mediately : ** Your place will be laid for you at the
mid-day meal on Sunday."
CHAPTER XXII
A DRKAM
Thb rest of the day Andrds spent upon the plain ;
not even to bis mother could he have spoken of this in-
tervieWy of that fragile vision, of the tiny hand on
which, in his temerity, he had dared to imprint a kiss.
He left Csillag to roam about at will, and, spreading his
mantle upon the ground, he allowed his mind to dwell
at leisure on the wonderful thing that had happened.
The feeling of unreality still clung to it ; and dream-
ily he gazed at his rough brown hands which had held
another imprisoned — so tiny, and oh I so cold I Now
that he was away from her, Andrds cursed himself for
his clumsiness, his silence. There were so many
things he might have said to her ! if only those great
blue eyes had been once turned to his, if only she had
not been so strange, so distant ! . . . and was not that
slight tremble a shudder which went through her
young body, when his kiss, glowing and scorching
with his wild passion, had dared to touch her tiny
ice-cold hand?
He might have said to her : " T love you, Ilonka !
my Ilonka ! mine ! mine ! mine ! " but then, how infin-
itely great was that love, and how desecrated it would
seem if words tried to express it !
His ! His ! She really one day would be his I . . .
One day soon . . . the Countess had spoken of one
243
244 A Son of the People
day in May. . . . When the sun was hot, and the
roses would begin to bloom . . . one day . . . she
would come home with him . . . her white figure, tall
and lithe, would fill the lowly farmhouse with a radi-
ance which would be almost divine. . . . She would
stand with the last rays of the setting sun, which
always crept in through the tiny windows, playing
upon her golden curls. . . . There would be silence
in the house, for Etelka will have gone to her own
room to pray or to spin, leaving her son and his bride
alone. . . . His bride! . . . With the sun upon her
golden curls . . . and Andrds would watch every hair
of that dainty head, and, with the exquisite self-in-
flicted torture of suspense, touch with reverent finger
every curl, ere he dared clasp the queenly form wholly
in his arms, drinking with insatiable eyes that loveli-
ness fashioned by God for him, the lowly peasant,
prouder than any king.
Oh ! the joy of this dream I the agony of the fairy
vision, the pain that was a happiness to bear, the joy
that was inexpressible torture ! Alone upon the vast
plain, away from human eyes, Andrds dared to conjure
up this vision, and found mad delight in torturing
himself with those Fata Morgana-like dreams of great
blue eyes, large and wondering, growing soft and
misty, moist and tender with responsive passion, of
that exquisite tiny mouth, perfumed and chaste as the
petals of a rosebud, of the soft red lips, parting with a
smile, preparing for a kiss, of the warmth of her
breath, the tears in her eyes, the quickly drawn breath
through her delicate nostrils. . . . And she in his
arms I his bride 1 his wife I Andrds closed his eyes — ^the
vision faded away, and in its place he saw another, the
reality of a few hours ago : tall and stately, and oh ! so
A Dream 245
cold ! with a far-off look in those blue eyes, large and
tearless ; and a curious tremble — was it a shudder ? —
which left the tiny hand colder, icier, still.
But, no ! no I this vision should not stay ! that cold-
ness, his ardour would melt! that absent look, his
glowing eyes would imprison ! that shudder, his love
would soothe. He would strew roses at her feet;
wealth, joys, pleasures, all that could bring a smile on
those lips, a tender look in those eyes ; and if all he had
and could do or give her was not enough, he would
lay his life in her tiny hands and let her crush it if
she would.
Long after the darkness had covered the plain with
gloom, Andrds still lay upon the earth, wrapped in his
mantle, his eyes following the swiftly travelling clouds,
dwelling dreamily on each twinkling star.
Btelka knew that she would not see him that night.
And yet she could not go to rest. Her hands lying
idly in her lap, she sat beside the window looking out
anxiously towards the plain. Only when the first
streak of gold broke the darkness of the sky did she
hear the well-known sound of Csillag*s hoofs. Then
she put out all the lights, content that her son was
safe, knowing full well that he would wish to be alone.
She listened for his tread, which was light and free ;
she watched him in the yard as he tethered Csillag,
and she saw that he walked erect. Then, as he crossed
the garden, he again paused beside his favourite rose-
tree : one small bud showed a tiny streak of pink
between its green sepals. Btelka remembered how,
earlier in the day, she had noticed this first sign of the
opening bloom, — ^now, with a quick, triumphant ges-
ture, Andrds plucked the opening blossom and carried
it with him to his home.
CHAPTER XXIII
HOW THK NKWS WAS RKC^IVKD
Thank God, news travels very slowly on the low-
lands, at all times, but more especially when the early
spring rains have rendered the roads well-nigh impass-
able. Countess Irma had reckoned upon this, when
she decided that the unfortunate marriage should be
accomplished before the news of it could reach the ears
of her relatives and friends only as 2i fait accompli^
mixed with a sauce of reasons, both romantic and
plausible, which had induced the proud Countess to
give her only daughter to a peasant.
Ilonka had been tiresome : more tiresome than the
Countess Irma could ever have supposed a daughter of
hers to be. Not that there had been any question of
resistance, or actual disobedience. Thank God ! girls
in Hungarian aristocratic houses had not yet caught
the hideous English ideas of independence. '' Honour
thy father and thy mother " was still more than a dead
letter to them ; but the child had argued and had
begged ; had talked of foolish sentiment, of love for
that penniless young Maddch, whom the Countess sin-
cerely wished at the bottom of the Tama.
There had been one or two very upsetting scenes,
and Countess Irma's ears were very frequently shocked
at her daughter's strange ideas of matrimony and love.
I^ve, before marriage? Truly preposterous. She
246
How the News was Received 247
had never been in love with Gyuri till after the wed-
ding Mass, when it became her duty to love him ! and
was there ever a more model couple in all the lowlands
of Hungary ? Never had any one heard the slightest
dispute or faintest disagreement between the Countess
and her lord. The idea of love in a young girl's mind
was positively indecent ! Fortunately the Countess
was more than convinced that young Maddch was
about to marry the daughter of Schmidt the jeweller,
whose dowry was said to exceed three millions in solid
gold.
There was no crime in fashioning that conviction
into a positive fact, since it had the desired effect of
driving those indecent thoughts out of Ilonka's head,
and brought about that peace of mind and submission
to her parents' will which is the only real happiness
for a well-bom girl. Certainly, after she had been
told of this fact, the child became quite submissive ;
she never even expressed horror at the idea of having
a peasant for her future lord. Her attitude towards
him was from the first beyond reproach. Countess
Irma was proud of her daughter's frigid bearing to-
wards the low-born odious creature who had dared to
ask for her daughter's hand in exchange for his gold.
At heart the Countess rejoiced at the humiliation
the peasant would have to endure in the future at his
wife's hands, and the withering contempt with which
Ilonka would one day overwhelm him would more
than counterbalance the bitter humiliation her mother
was now suffering, through forcing her aristocratic lips
to say " fiam " (my son) to a man who wore a sheep-
skin mantle, and had hands as rough and brown as
those of the herdsmen. The Countess's mind dwelt
lovingly on all the snubs, the disdain, he would have to
248 A Son of the People
endure anon, when the marriage was actually aooom-
plished; and these thoughts helped her to get over the
immediate present, when twice a week she had to
receive the odious man with some show of civility.
The arrogance with which he bore himself was sim-
ply unendurable: Countess Irma tried by every means
in her power to wound or to snub him ; but her
weapons, more often than not, seemed to turn against
herself. He had a way of looking through and beyond
her, with a look which placed him beyond the reach of
her most poisonous darts. At first she had talked a
great deal of the honour which was being done to a
man in so lowly a station ; but once he had quietly
remarked :
'^ No one, noble lady, understands better than I do
the honour of touching even the tips of Ilonka's fin-
gers. But that honour is so great that it cannot be
enhanced by any reference to it by other lips than
mine."
After that the Countess gave up the topic. She
maintained a coldly haughty attitude, on the perpetual
defensive lest the peasant should presume on his posi-
tion by undue familiarity. She never allowed Ilonka
to see hitxjiancf out of her sight, nor to exchange any
but the merest commonplace words, well within her
hearing. She had noticed with annoyance that Ilonka
had taken to blushing when she heard Csillag's hoofs
on the acacia drive, and this annoyed her immensely.
She wished her daughter to adhere to her attitude of
disdainful impassiveness. The low-bred peasant had
got what he wanted. So had the Countess ; for the
mortgage on the house had been paid up to Rosen-
stein ; and all Gyuri 's foolish, careless, and compro-
mising papers been handed back through Kem£ny
How the News was Received 249
Andrds*s hands and destroyed. It was terrible to
think that all the lands which had been in the
Bidesktity family for seven hundred years now be-
longed to the descendant of those peasants who had
been the veriest slaves to their lords. Thank God 1 it
was but a temporary alienation into those ugly, rough
brown hands. Very soon Ilonka would have a son,
who should be brought up away from his vulgar kin-
dred, fashioned by his loving grandmother into a true
aristocrat, with every taint of common blood eradicated
from his nature. And then, surely, after a while,
Providence, all-just and merciful, would remove the
rich and vulgar father from the noble son's path alto-
gether ; the boy would drop the very name of Kem^ny
that spoke of peasantry and of low birth, and a petition,
which his Majesty Francis Joseph would not refuse,
would stipulate that the noble name of Bideskiit be
borne once more by the owner of the lands.
Oh, yes! there were trying days to get over, but all
would be well in time. Ilonka would no doubt go
through some terrible struggles before she finally suc-
ceeded in putting the presumptuous brute into his
proper place ; therefore the Countess hurried on all the
preparations for the wedding, sorted out the linen,
which from Ilonka's very birth had been collected in
anticipation of her marriage. Kem^ny Andrds evi-
dently meant to leave upon the Countess's shoulders
the entire onus of announcing the news to the servants,
and thence to the village. It was strange but true
that, so far, not one of the peasantry seemed to know
of the gigantic honour about to be done to one of their
kind; it almost looked as if Andrds did not care to
speak about it, to brag of it, as people of his class
surely would always do ; only Pater Ambrosius had
J
250 A Son of the People
evidently been told, for, one Sunday, just before din-
ner, he had taken Ilonka's hand in his and, patting it
very gently, he had said :
** Let us all thank God, noble lady, for the great
happiness He has vouchsafed to g^ant you ; and pray
to Him that you may worthily love the truly good man
who is to become your husband."
Countess Irma had overheard this. It was a bitter
moment. But for his priestly dignity, she could have
turned on the Pater for his impudent speech. ** Great
happiness!" when her parents were breaking their
hearts with shame and remorse ! ** Worthily love? "
whilst her mother puzzled her brain as to the best
means of annihilating the ^' truly good man," with
withering contempt.
Ilonka, fortunately, said nothing. She never did
now. She flitted about the house like a ghost, and no
one ever heard her talk or laugh. She carried on her
frigidity, even towards her parents. It was very heart-
less of the child to add to their sorrow by seeming so
obviously unhappy; and she was looking quite plain,
so thin and pale had she become.
In the meanwhile, in the kitchen, the gossip had
grown apace. That the rich farmer of Elisfalu was on
terms of the closest intimacy with my lord was very
soon an obvious fact to all. Twice a week, now, he
came to the castle, and my lord had been repeatedly
heard to call him ** my son." On Sundays he always
rode over after Mass, and stayed to mid-day meal, just
like Pater Ambrosius ; and when Bideskdty and the
Pater settled down in the afternoon to their game of
** Tarok," Andrds would walk round the garden with
the noble Countess and the young lady.
Much had been the gossip, many the conjectures as
How the News was Received 251
to this extraordinary condescension. Gradually, as
from the kitchen the news spread to the village, vari-
ous theories were set up : the most generally believed
being that my lord hoped, by shaking hands with the
rich peasant, and by treating him as an equal, to win
him over to his own views about the steam-mill, and,
with Andres's help and influence, to start it once more
on a more prosperous career. At first that idea, origin-
ally propounded by Vas Berczi, the village oracle, was
treated with derision. Kem6ny Andrds, in spite of his
silence and his taciturnity of the past few months, was
still the universal favourite with both sexes, with
young and with old ; and the idea that he could,
through my lord's flatteries, be bribed over to the
devil 's side, was flouted as utterly preposterous. But,
as weeks went on, and Andrds*s visits to the castle
were as frequent as ever, and his silence more pro-
nounced, a certain feeling of suspicion, not altogether
free from ill-will, gained ground in AjokszAllds.
There was no doubt that for some time past a change,
gradual but unmistakable, had taken place in the
popular favourite. At one time his merry laugh could
be heard ringing from one end of the village to the
other; now he seldom even smiled. Once he never
could look at a pretty girl without trying to snatch a
kiss from her, in spite of jealous suitor or anxious
parent ; now the village beauties looked vainly at him,
with provoking or languishing eyes; he scarcely
seemed to heed them beyond a kind ** Good-day ! ** and
there was a strange look in his eyes as if they perpetu-
ally saw something that was not there.
He never now joined his friends on Sunday after-
noons in the big barn to listen to czigdny music or to
twirl the girls round in the csdrdds, in his wonted
252 A Son of the People
madcap way. He never now was found at the wayade
inn, with pretty Lotti on his knee, making her husband
wildly furious with jealousy.
Yes I he was changed ! of that there was no doubt !
Very sadly changed. The constant intercourse with
my lord and his family had accomplished what all old
Kem^ny's money-bags had failed to do : it had made
Andrds proud. He no longer cared for the village, its
music, its pretty girls, its dancing. He no longer
dropped silver florins into the czigdny's fiddles, or
bought bright bits of ribbon for the girls. Andr&s was
detaching himself from them. He was now the friend
of my lord.
Gradually a barrier seemed to arise between him and
them, built by unseen hands ; and now, when he came
to the village, the younger men took to lifting their
caps to him, just as they did to my lord. Even the
older ones took to calling him ** kend '* (your Honour),
and the girls curtseyed as he passed.
Andrds did not fail to notice the difference. At first
he felt it keenly, for he dearly loved his village and his
friends ; Etelka saw it, too. She knew the evil would
come, creeping apace. It was that which she had
dreaded : the gradual detachment of her son from his
old life, his hdpless striving to live the new. Andr&s
had at first spoken of it, with tears in his eyes, then,
after a while, he seemed not to heed it. Certainly his
manner changed. The sunny nature had grown
strangely sad, and sadness gave a dignity to the
peasant lad, to the tall, broad figure and dreamy
eyes, which all the village folk unconsciously
recognised, and bowed to, as something noble and
high. Then, one day, Jank6 came riding down,
all excitement, to the village; the news he had to
How the News was Received 253
tell was so great, so wonderful, he hardly knew how
to begin.
Andrds ! Kem^ny Andrds, the rich peasant, the
young chap who had sung with them, danced with
them, been brought up amongst them, was ... no !
Jank6 could not go on ! the words seemed to choke
him . . . was going to marry. . . .
*'Yes! Yes! Whom? Quick, Jank6! Long live
AndrAs and his future wife ! Oh ! the sly dog ! so
silent ! so taciturn ! that was it, then ? Quick, Jank6,
who is it? ... "
And an anxious crowd gathered round Jank6. He
was led in triumph to the inn, where a litre of the best
wine was placed before him, to help him tell his won-
derful news.
** Oh ! won't Zsuzsi cry ! and what will Panna say?
... as for Erzsi, she will surely break her heart.
Speak, Jank6! is it Erzsi? . . . No? . . . Margit?
. . . No ? . . . Mariska ? . . . No ? . . . Speak, Jank6 !
or may you never speak again ! **
Never had news travelled so quickly as that which
Jank6 came to bring. Kemfeny Andrds was going to get
married ! That was the cause of his sorrow, of his
silence ? Now all would be well again ! He would
come back to them as merry as ever ! and give up
going to the castle, and listening to my lord's blandish-
ments ! He would have some one to court, some one
with whom to dance ! Long live Kem^ny Andrds !
** Jank6, why the devil don't you speak? and why
the devil don't you drink ? drink, man, and tell us of
the lucky girl who will share the Kisfalu money with
Andrds, and have the best of husbands into the
bargain. "
But Jank6 would not speak till all were silent again.
254 A Son of the People
and all crowded round him to hear the strange news.
Outside the inn, eager, curious faces were peering
through the window. Within a breathless silence fell
on the excited crowd :
** Kem^ny Andrds of Kisfalu is about towed the
most noble lady Uonka of Bidesktit ! ''
It was as if a thunderbolt had come down from
heaven, and had fallen crashing in the midst of the
village. A dead silence followed the extraordinary
announcement, while Jank6 drank a deep measure of
wine, for his news had made him thirsty.
Then, as the sound of a rising storm, questions, ejac-
ulations, surmises began to be heard right and left :
** Impossible T'
** Jank6, you are a liar ! "
** The first of April is long since gone I "
"Kem^ny Andrds?*'
"OurAndrds?''
** And her young ladyship ? "
"One of us?**
** Married to a noble lady ? '*
''When did it happen?"
"How did it happen?*'
** Is he in love with her ? **
" Is she in love with him ? "
All spoke at once. All crowded round Jank6. One
pulled his coat tails ; the other tugged at his sleeve.
Nobody would let him drink. He must tell something
more. He must know more of this strange history.
" Let me go outside where you all can hear» and I
will tell you all I know."
" That's right, Jank6!"
" Long live Jank6 ! "
On to a huge, empty cask, Janko was pushed and
How the News was Received 255
hoisted. He was fully alive to his own importance,
the wonders of his news. He viewed, from this height,
the number of eager faces turned expectantly towards
him. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and pre-
pared for an interesting, thrilling speech. But, just as
he was about to begin, he spied over the sea of heads
Pater Ambrosius coming towards him. He thought
that his position was not dignified on the top of a
cask ; the priest might tell my lord of the way in which
his confidential valet announced the news to the village.
The noble lord might be angry. Jank6 thought it
prudent to descend. Pater Ambrosius had pushed his
way through the crowd.
** You all seem very excited, my children," he said ;
•'what is it?''
** Kem^ny Andrds, Pater."
** Oh ! that's it, is it? Jank6 has already brought
the news? and you want to hear all about it. Well,
my children, there is not much to say. You all know
Andrds, whose heart is as strong as his gold, whose
generosity is as great as his riches. Is there one
among you here who has not once in the last ten years
been in trouble, and gone to Andrds for help ? and,
having gone, did not get all the help, and ten times
more kindness and sympathy than he expected? "
"Yes! Yes! Long live Kem6ny Andrds! Our
Andrds ! Yes ! Yes ! " came from every side, while
the gentler sex, more sentimentally inclined, lifted an
apron to a moist eye or so.
** Very well, then, my children, you will agree with
me that one so good as Andrds — one who follows the
dictates of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has taught us to
love and succour one another — is surely worthy to wed
with the noblest in the land. Kem6ny Andrds has
256 A Son of the People
wooed the beautiful young lady at Bideskdt, and her
parents have decided to give her to him/'
** Does she love him, Father ? " came from the sjrm-
pathetic, tearful, feminine portion of the audience.
** The noble lady will do her duty as a wife should,
and love her husband," replied the old priest, guard-
edly ; ** and now will you all go back to your work or
to your homes ? — and when next Andr4s comes to the
village you can wish him joy at his future marriage.**
But it was useless to talk of work that day. Those
who had heard the great news were longing to impart
it to others who were away at work on Andrds's land,
or that of my lord ; whilst others thought they would
like to wander out upon the plain and meet the young
herdsmen at the inn, and see how they would take the
news.
The wise old folk longed for a gossip ; the news was
great. Every aspect must be discussed. It was all
very well for the young ones to be so excited ; there
was surely no cause for rejoicing. Andrds had made
friends with my lord ; he had been won over to the
enemy's camp. He had turned his back for ever on his
friends. His pride had known no bounds. He had
used his riches to raise himself above all his equals.
Naturally now he would remain among those who
had thought fit to welcome the peasant lad as one of
themselves because of his great wealth and his lands.
Andrds would have a son who, if his mother had been
a peasant girl, should have continued his father's tra-
ditions of hard work on the fields, merrymaking in
the inns, love of dancing and of music, but who now
would be reared away from the village, with his heart
and mind turned against those who had been his
father's friends and companions. Pride is an evil
• ••it
How the News was Received 257
thing. Andrds was evidently not beyond it. All the
empty-headed young things would soon recognise
that in future they would have to put up with Andrds's
condescension and patronage, which was not worth a
particle of Andrds's friendship and gaiety.
He would come to church in a carriage, wearing a
frock coat, and discarding the sheepskin mantle ; he
would help my lady, his wife, out of her coach ; he
would nod kindly to the young men, who would stand
gaping round, with their caps in their hands, and
chuck the girls under the chin, who would blush and
curtsey. He would surely have to be called ** honoured
sir," and would set aside so many measures of wheat,
which Pater Ambrosius would be told to distribute
among the needy. He would not come to cheer the
sick and the old in their cottages, with his lively talk
and his silver florins, but would send alms through
Pater Ambrosius' hands.
"But we will not take it, will we?'* added Vas
Berczi, bringing his fist crashing down upon the table.
** We will show Andrds that we care nothing about his
money, since he is too proud to end his days among
us, and to find his wife among our daughters."
The feeling of the older part of the population was
decidedly antagonistic to the late popular favourite.
The whole thing had struck them as too utterly pre-
posterous and wonderful ; they did not understand it,
and they resented this sudden upsetting of all their
ideas on the unattainability of the noble folk. It almost
seemed as if somebody had had the temerity to bring
down the Saints from Heaven, and taken them for a
walk down the village street. The lord of Bideskdt
and his family were not much loved, for they were too
proud to have found their way to popularity, but, at the
'7
258 A Son of the People
same time they were the owners of the land, until very
recently the very owners of the peasants' bodies them-
selves, the lords of the country ; they dispensed the
laws ; they were in a sphere above, as far removed from
the village folk as the Saints in their niches in the old
church. The temerity of one of their kind daring to
be at one with them seemed akin to a sacrilege. These
older folk wisely shook their heads, and predicted
disaster ; such an upheaval of all their social notions
would be sure to carry some calamity in its train, and
Andrds would live to see sorrow and humiliation follow
his pride and temerity.
Outside, the young people did not look far ahead ;
they wondered when the wedding was to be, and
whether Andrds would ask them all to a huge supper
at Kisfalu. They saw in the marriage nothing but the
gaieties and festivities of the wedding ceremony, ac-
cording to ancient traditions, with plenty of wine and
dancing, and the best czigdny music in the county.
They half thought of the noble young lady as wearing
thirty or forty petticoats, and a pair of brilliant red
leather boots, to walk to church with on Sundays,
such, in fact, as had never been seen for miles around.
The younger ones did not think or talk of temerity and
sacrilege, of rising to higher social spheres. To them
it was poetry, romance, the willing descent of a great
lady to their own humble but merry circle ; the desire
of a noble young lady to dance the csdrdds merrily
with them in the big bam, to enjoy herself, to trip
barefoot across the muddy roads, to forsake grandeur
for gaiety.
They were ready to receive her with open arms, since
she wished to come amongst them ; to give her such a
welcome in the village on her wedding-day as would
How the News was Received 259
make the vast plain resound with their shouts. As for
Andrds, he would have, before his marriage, to make
ever}' girl dance till she could not stand, and to make
every suitor jealous and everj' father furious. After
that, he would, in the natural course of events, become
the jealous husband himself, and the noble wife of the
rich farmer would make close acquaintanceship with a
certain knotted stick upon her white shoulders.
Ah ! good days were coming ! Plenty of merry-
making, plenty of wine and music. Never had Andrds
been so popular among the younger folk, though many
tears were shed by pretty eyes at this sudden expira-
tion of secretly treasured hopes.
The old ones croaked and shook their heads ; the
young ones gossiped, laughed, and cried. There was
sorrow at the castle, silence at the farm of Kisfalu, and
on a solitary plain a lonely horse and rider roamed
about beneath the stars, and a great and good heart
was wearing itself out with longing.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE MARRIAGE
" Introiso ad altare Dei ! * '
Pater Ambrosius has handed over his biretta to the
tiny brown-faced ministrant, and is now bending with
reverent head before the high altar, and reciting the
opening prayers of the Mass.
Inside the church, the air is heavy with the scent of
flowers : roses, roses everywhere, red, white, pink,
yellow, in many tones of fragrant loveliness, tied in
great posies at the feet of the Virgin's statue, or on the
big iron candlesticks, whilst a carpet of many-coloured
petals is strewn all down the nave. Half faded, these
throw an intoxicating, faint perfume in the air, which
mingles with the more penetrating fumes of the incense,
as the little ministrants swing their simple censers to
and fro. The tiny village church, with its rough stone
pillars, its highly-coloured quaint images, its faded
altar hangings, is turned into a very bower of sweet-
scented blooms. Outside, the day is warm — one of
those early May days when the earth gives forth its
first promises of coming vintage and harvest, when the
air is filled with many cries of innumerable bird throats,
when the stork calls loudly to its mate, the swallow is
busy in perfecting his nest, the sparrow and the finch
twitter in gladness at the warmth, the radiance of the
sun. It comes peeping in at the tiny leaded windows
260
The Marriage 261
of the church, and alights gaily on the holiday attire
of the eager, curious throng of worshippers ; on the
bevy of pretty girls on the left, in the smartest of gay-
coloured petticoats and embroidered corselets, with
black hair smoothly held back underneath the gorgeous
head-dress, with eyes no less bright than the glittering
beads which encircle their pretty round necks, hang
down on plump bosoms, and glisten in tiny ears. It
smiles at the crowd of handsome young men, in all the
barbaric splendour of their holiday attire, with great
bunches of spring flowers fastened to their heavy
mantles, their round hats held respectfully in their
hands, and adorned with streaming ribbons of national
tri-colour.
The Latin text of the Mass is all obscure to them ;
the prayer-books are only for show, since few of them
can read ; moreover, none could pray to-day, for there
is such an extraordinary thing to be seen. All eyes
are turned to where, by the communion rail, on a pair
of well-worn crimson cushions, there kneel a man and
a woman. He, tall, erect, his dark head towering
above all others, his great mantle worked in gold and
silver threads, falling from his broad shoulders, like
the regal mantle of some barbaric chieftain ; she, slen-
der, fragile, in clinging, white muslin, with a long,
transparent veil, disguising the chaste young form,
and through which a few glints of golden curls can
occasionally be seen. Side by side they kneel, envel-
oped in the penetrating smoke of the incense, with roses
all round them — at their feet, in half-&ded masses,
on the chancel rail and steps, in great heavy bunches,
thrown everywhere by hands unaccustomed to fashion
decoration, but in grotesque picturesqueness of untidi-
ness and plenty — side by side, to receive the blessing of
262 A Son of the People
God and the Church on this union decreed on them by
the high Fate which shapes our destinies. The girl,
with tiny ice-cold hands clutching nervously at the
ivory-bound prayer-book, trying to follow the obscure
meaning of the Latin text, her blue eyes fixed stead«
fastly down on the pages, with not a tear falling from
beneath the heavy lids ; the man, upright and proud,
with strong arms crossed tightly across his broad chest,
forcing his eyes to rest on the sacred vessels, the altar
before him, and not to dwell on that girlish fig^^re by
his side, whose every movement sends the flames of
heaven coursing through his veins. The long folds of
her veil disguise her before him, but, beneath it, he
can guess the golden curls, the delicate outline of nose
and chin, the slender, graceful curves of the throat,
and his arms tighten across his breast, till the strong
sinews crack, as if to still the exultant beating of the
heart, and force the mind to reverence and prayer.
Pater Ambrosius, bending still lower, has begun
to recite the ** Confiteor'' ; his lean hand strikes his
breast :
**Mea culpa / mea culpa ! mea mcLxima culpa ! "
Immediately behind them my lord kneels, with fig-
ure slightly bent, as if under some terrible weight too
heavy for man to bear ; he looks aristocratic and still
young, among all these heavily-built sons of the soil,
in his tight-fitting frock-coat, buttoned close up to the
neck. At the ** Confiteor '* a great sigh, which sounds
almost like a sob, breaks through his tightly com-
pressed lips.
^^Indulgentiam, absoluHonem et remissionem peccaio-
rum nostrorum^ tribuat nobis omnipotens et misericors
Deusr'
His hands are convulsively clasped. He, too, prays
The Marriage 263
to God for pardon for all transgressions, all obsti-
nacies, pride, and vain-glory, all the follies which have
thrust his dainty, high-bom child into the arms of a
peasant.
The noble Countess, in antiquated silk which stands
in rigid folds round her, has recited the ** Confiteor"
under her breath, out of her prayer-book, merely as a
concession, for she stands in no need of absolution, or
of remission. She has accomplished her duty, sacri-
ficed her very pride, her own child, her most treasured
traditions, for the sake of her husband's honour and
the future of her race.
Then the worthy old priest mounts the altar steps ;
his new vestments, covered with lace and embroideries
(a present from Andrds for the great occasion), impede
his movements. He stumbles and almost falls, causing
a titter among the giddy young folk at the back, while
old ones shake their heads and make the sig^ of the
Cross, for the omen forebodes nothing good. The
tension of suspense, of excitement, is so acute that
the most trivial occurrence calls forth nervous merri-
ment, or flood of tears.
In the meanwhile the Pater is reading the beginning
of the Introit —
^^ Deus Israel conjugal vos . . . **
Andrds listens reverently. Yesterday the kind old
priest had patiently gone through every word of the
wedding Mass with him, so that he might understand
what God enjoined him to do, and what he would
swear to fulfil.
" May the God of Israel unite you ! *'
Yesterday, when he had read these words, they had
seemed to him as words spoken by angels, when open-
ing the gates of paradise.
264 A Son of the People
The band of gipsy players, inseparable from any
Hungarian function, grave or gay, has been stationed
at the further end of the church. They know little of
hymn or psalm tune ; their music consists of dreamy
Hungarian songs, which they play with soft, sighing
sounds, and which fill the tiny, roughly-built church
as with an appealing whisper.
Andr&s closes his eyes. He has promised the Pater
to keep his thoughts in check, to turn them wholly
upon the sacred function, upon God's blessings
worthily to be received.
The mellow tones of the czimbalom, the sighing
accents of the fiddles, fill the air ; the half-audible mut-
terings of Pater Ambrosius as he reads the Gospel,
recites the Creed and Offertory prayers, all seem Uke
sounds in dreamland, far removed from reality.
And still, as in a dream, through the thickening
clouds of incense, Andrds watches the priest as he
pronounces the sacred, words of the consecration. The
tiny bell tingles and all heads are reverentiy bent :
from Ilonka's eyes a few tears are slowly falling upon
her prayer-book. Before him, there floats a vision of
the home at Kisfalu, rendered radiant with the pres-
ence of his young wife, flitting fairy-like through the
low-raftered rooms, and . . . then ... of the patter
of feet, tinier even than hers, skipping merrily about
the house, and of fresh, shrill voices, shouting " father "
when he comes home. An infinite peace is in his heart ;
forgotten are the torrents of passion which had well-
nigh overwhelmed him in these last weary weeks ; he
only thinks of her as he does of the Madonna, serene,
pure, the fountain of happiness — ^she sitting on a
throne aloft, dispensing joys to the homestead : he
worshipping, devoted, at her feet.
The Marriage 265
But now Pater Ambrosius is descending the altar
steps ; my lord has also left his seat, and is standing
erect and very pale, dose to the communion rails,
while one of the ministrants holds a small plate in his
hands on which two gold circlets glisten.
A sound, which is like a long sigh, seems to come
from the hundred throats in the church, a sigh of in-
tense, eager expectancy. Andrds and Ilonka are
standing before the priest, about to finally become man
and wife. Neither of them hears what the priest says.
Both feel as in a dream. Behind, all necks are craned
to catch a glimpse of the two figures, one so tall and
broad, the other so fragile ; one or two less reverent
feet are standing up on the pews, while a nervous
whisper and titter, a frou-frou of starched skirts, a
jingle of beads and bangles, breaks the solemn silence
of the church.
Binecz Mark6 and his band are playing a dreamy
song, a quaint, half-sad melody; they whisper on their
instruments ; the music sounds like one long sigh,
hardly audible, as if coming from some distant doud-
land, and wafted in on the smoke of the incense.
Pater Ambrosius has taken the tiny, cold, white
hand, and the other, strong, brown, and rough, and
placed one within the other. Andrds hardly dares to
breathe. Surdy this cannot be reality. Pater Ambro-
sius holds both the hands clasped together, but through
it all Andrds feels a flutter, like the wings of a tiny
bird, just stolen from its nest. As her hand touches
his, her white face has become whiter still, and for one
swift moment her blue eyes have sought his own, with
a terror-stricken, appealing look, that makes Andr&s's
heart well-nigh break with pity. Did she not under-
stand, then, that he loved her— as saints had loved thdr
266 A Son of the People
God — and that he would tend and cherish her» and
keep every sorrow from her path ? Did they not tell
her how he had begged for leave to lie at her feet» to
keep stormy weather and arid sun from her ways, and
then be content to see her smile ? Why did she then
look so appealingly at him ? It seemed almost as if she
were frightened I Frightened? Great and mighty
Lord ! when her hand rested in his ! and God Himself
was entrusting her to his care, to shield and to protect !
Pater Ambrosius now places the golden circlets, one in
the hand of each. Then he whispers to Andr&s to slip
the one he holds on the finger of one of those white
hands. The Pater says something, which Andrds
repeats after him. There is a great deal about loving
and cherishing, sickness and death, evil and good :
Andrds repeats it all, as in a dream ; only vaguely does
he understand that he is taking an oath before God
and before men. What need has he of oaths, when his
very heart-strings are bound up in the fulfilment of
his own happiness ?
Then she begins to speak. She also repeats what
Pater Ambrosius says before her. Her voice — oh ! it
was the sweetest music — sounds hardly above a whis-
per . . . hardly above the dying murmur of the
czimbalom as it faintly echoes through the sacred
edifice. She also swears, as with icy hands she holds
the ring on his finger, to love, to honour, and to obey.
Firmly, triumphantly, sounds the ** Yes ! ** spoken
by Andrds in reply, when God through the mouth of
his priest, the law as represented by the Church, asks
if he will have this woman for wife. His answer
is like the triumphant echo, the expression of all his
pent-up passion, of his longing, his deep, his infinite
love. Firmly she, too, answers ** Yes ! *' ; her voice
The Marriage 267
does not tremble, but once again two great tears detach
themselves from her eyes, and fall, like glistening
dew-drops, down her cheek.
A g^eat sigh of satisfaction broke from the crowd of
worshippers. The irrevocable deed had been. done.
Kem^ny Andrds, the peasant lad whom, as a tiny boy,
many a homely mouth had kissed, who older in years
had been bu£feted and beaten by a tyrannical father,
had toiled on farm and field as any labourer, who
was one of themselves, like them, bom and bred on
the good Hungarian lowlands, was now and for ever the
rightful lord and master of a noble high-bom lady, the
daughter of him who owned the land, the descendant
of those who had owned the very peasants as their
goods and chattels, to sell and barter at will, to mal-
treat, or even to kill. How wonderful it was ! Like
some grand dream, dreamt by all alike — the lights,
the roses, the beautiful new vestments ; the lord of
Bidesktit standing there, giving his daughter away to
the peasant lad ; the beautiful lady, all in white, look-
ing like a saint, stepped down from one of the images ;
and amidst them all the powerful figure, the handsome
dark head, bronzed by years of hard toil on the land,
beneath the arid sun, the hard, rugged hands ever
opened wide to pour kindnesses, money, gifts, to all
who needed it, and who never asked in vain. It was
a glorious day, a great event ! so great and glorious
that not one eye remained dry, not one throat unchoked
with sobs; so great and glorious that the czigdny
poured forth on the heavy, scented air their most sad,
most appealing melodies ! So great and glorious that
the chief actors therein, that powerful man and that
268 A Son of the People
fragile girl, were both bowing with bursting hearts and
tearful eyes before the all-kind, merciful throne of God !
The rest of the Mass was listened to in silence.
Dreamy quiet rested upon all. The simple words of
the lyord's Prayer, though spoken in Latin, were
known and felt by the humblest, the most unlettered
in the flock. Andrds had knelt down on the faded
cushion. He had buried his face in his hands ; before
his closed eyes there was a haunting vision of that ter-
rified look which had implored him for pity. That
vision seemed to rend his heart-strings. He held his
teeth firmly set together, lest heart-breaking sobs
should escape his throat. She was kneeling so list-
lessly, so icily beside him now. Reverently each took
the white wafer, which Pater Ambrosius had placed in
their mouth. In simple faith the young peasant
accepted the great mystery which the Catholic Church
commands her children to believe. He did not under-
stand, but did not question ; scarcely a faint doubt
crossed his fevered mind. The faded flowers seemed
to make him drowsy ; Binecz Mark6*s plaintive music
lulled him to dreamy insensibility.
Then Pater Ambrosius raised his hands aloft :
^^May the God of Abraham^ the God of Israel^ the
God of facob be with you ; may He pour forth upon you
the continual dew of His blessings so that ye may see the
children of your children even unto the third and
fourth generation^ arid that ye may be possessed at
the last with eternal life, through the grace of our
Lard fesus Christ, who liveth and reigneth with God
the Father and the Holy Ghosty world without end,
Amenl^^
And he added, making the sign of the Cross towards
the assistants :
The Marriage 269
^^Benedicai vos omnipotentes Deus Pater ^ et Films ^ et
SpirUus Sandus,**
The last *' Amen " died away ; the last Gospel had
been read; Pater Ambrosius was wiping the sacred
vessels.
Among the worshippers, the long, religiously kept
silence was at last threatening to break. Excited
whispers were heard among the young folk, as well as
a general noise of closing the clasps of prayer-books,
short, nervous coughing, and an occasional titter.
Respectfully, all remained in their seats, but craned
their necks to catch sight of the bride and bridegroom,
and of the noble people. Eager questions were asked,
excited comments made. Pater Ambrosius came
down to the communion rail ; with fatherly freedom
he had taken the bride's pale young face between his
wrinkled hands, and looking straight into her innocent
eyes was whispering something to her : a last admoni-
tion, a quiet prayer. Then he turned towards Andrds
and took his hand in both his own, and all heard him
say : ** God bless you, my son, you have well deserved
your happiness ! ** After that, he put on his biretta,
and was gone.
The noble Countess had gathered up her shawl and
prayer-book, and had drawn near to Ilonka. Every
one strained their necks to watch the critical moment.
In true time-honoured Hungarian tradition Andrds,
with a hand which visibly trembled, lifted the veil from
his young bride's face, and, stooping down towards
her, his face as pale as death, he imprinted the first
kiss on the pure forehead of his newly-made wife.
She seemed whiter than the white roses in her hair.
Her eyes closed. She seemed ready to swoon. He had
had the first kiss as every bridegroom on the lowlands :
270 A Son of the People
and yet, how hungrily he watched as her father and
mother, each in turn, took her in their arms, and the
noble Countess wiped copious tears from her maternal
eyes. It seemed as if he could not allow any one to
approach her now.
The comments flowed freely. Feminine hearts
ached at the sad, white look of the bride. But then,
all brides are coy and frightened on their wedding-
day : it is their great charm ; and Andrds would soon
bring a blush to those cheeks, and briUiancy to those
eyes.
How handsome they both looked as they walked
down the nave ; her hand hardly touching his arm as
he led her towards the door. Softly murmured ** God
bless you both I'' accompanied them to the porch.
Then, behind my lord and his lady, the crowd closed
in to see the departure.
For one moment Andrds paused, as the brilliance of
the May-day sun half dazzled his eyes. Down the road,
my lord's carriage, with its Hungarian livery, in its
scarlet leather harness, its five milk-white horses that
had brought the bride to the church were eagerly, im-
patiently pawing the ground. The crowd, like the
overflowing waters of the Tama, had pressed its way
out of the church, now much too small to contain all
the people. All rushed eagerly forward, looking round
for the rich peasant's carriage, which was sure to be
gorgeous beyond description, since it would convey the
noble bride to her new farmhouse home, with glittering
harness, and with its shiny brass bosses and silver
hasps, that would shame that of the lord of Bideskiit ;
moreover, no stables could rival the horses from Kis-
falu. The Countess, too, was looking inquiringly
down the road, and anxiously at Andrds, for no car-
The Marriage 271
riage but hers was in sight. What was Andrds waiting
for with his young wife on his arm ?
Suddenly, there was a loud start, a quick pawing of
the air and the road, a whirl and a shout, and before
the village folk's delighted gaze, and the noble Coun-
tess's cry of horror, Kem6ny Andrds, with one quick
gesture, had picked his young bride up in his arms,
bad jumped on Csillag's back, and, before the specta-
tors had time to realise what had happened, or the
Countess to recover from the shock, the mare, with her
double burden, was fat away, throwing up a cloud of
loose earth with her hoofs, galloping away towards the
plain, her mane flying in the wind.
A gigantic cry of *' l/ong live I " that shook the
very foundations of the tiny village church, sent its
echoes after the fast-disappearing horse and rider ; such
a cry as relieved the tension of the intense excitement
of the last two hours, and was the fitting, barbaric,
primitive, intensely human comment on this novel
home-going of a Hungarian bride.
CHAPTER XXV
FATA MORGANA
Oh ! the delights of that wild ride across the roads,
amid the fields of the beautiful Hungarian lowlands,
with Csillag feeling, as it were, the same magnetic
current which filled her master's veins, and flying
along, swift and sure, like the very clouds driven by
the wind.
Oh ! how he had looked forward to this ride, with
her frightened arms clinging perforce to him, for she
would have to hold on tight when Csillag flew like the
wind.
How pale she looked ! Her eyes were closed : per-
haps she had fainted away. He had been forced to be
brusque and rough, to mount Csillag and fly away
with her, and give no one time to stop him, and this,
no doubt, had frightened her.
On Csillag flew, the village was far behind ! the
shouts of ** Eljen ! '* had died away ; the plain, in all
its immensity, in all its loneliness, lay before him, and
Csillag who, like her master, loved its untrammelled
freedom, loved the vast expanse of ea|:th and sky,
bounded onwards, as if God's angels had lent her their
wings.
On ! On ! She lay so still and so pale in his arms ;
scarcely a breath escaped the partially closed mouth ;
her long white veil lay round her like a shroud, and
272
Fata Morgana 273
her tiny head rested upon his breast. Of such a mo-
ment he had dreamt long nights through, upon the
plain, had half broken his heart with mad desire long-
ing for this. And now he gazed upon her for the first
time all alone. No eyes to watch his emotion ; her
loveliness lying passive in his arms. Oh I the joy of
seeing her thus, senseless, helpless, against his breast ;
fondly his eyes dwelt on every soft curl which escaped
from beneath the veil, on the closed transparent lids,
where tiny purple veins spoke of sorrow and of tears,
on the small white nose, with its dainty tip and delicate
nostrils, and, above all, on that scarlet mouth, with
lips half parted, through which Andrds's ardent gaze
sought the tiny white teeth and the tip of her rosy
tongue.
Oh ! it was joy unspeakable, joy beyond compare —
save to most exquisite torture — to drink in every line
of that fragile beauty, of which he was now the owner,
and which, for very love, for great desire, he would not,
dare not touch.
On, Csillag ! On !
She had not stirred ; her very breath seemed to have
stopped. She lay as dead in his arms. All around,
earth and sky were still. The noonday sun poured
down its radiance on the vast immensity of the plains.
The heat made the air tremble with its waves. All
signs of human life were far, very far away. The tiny
wayside inn lay behind, the cry of the herdsmen was
heard no more ; only overhead the storks were calling
to one another, and down from beneath the great
leaves of the melons, bright-coloured lizards darted to
and fro, frightened by Csillag' s mad gallop. A fra-
grance of opening blossoms, of ripening fruit, was in the
air. To the right a herd of wild horses cantered
18
274 A Son of the People
swiftly past. Andrds looked up for a moment, gazed
round at the solitary, silent plain which he loved so
well, and his eyes rested with delight on the blue sky,
the ruddy soil, the distant outline of the long-armed
well, against the purple mist beyond.
And lo ! as he gazed on the hot, dry, trembling air,
far away, upon the infinite golden distance, with rapid
touches, the fitful fairy Fata Morgana drew her elusive
pictures. To Andrds's excited brain, it seemed like
the gold and white city of paradise glistening in the
radiance of the sun ; with cool, rippling streams, mar-
ble towers, and green pastures, glorious and solitary,
calling to him to enter, with that snow-white burden
in his arms there, to lay him down, and her, beside
the cool streams, his burning head resting against that
soft green grass.
I/)ng and earnestly he gazed, while it seemed to him
as if Csillag flew thither with outstretched angels*
wings. Nearer and nearei the enchanting picture
drew, half-veiled in a thin mist, which was made of
tears.
Then he bent his head down, and his ardent lips
sought the tiny half -opened mouth : and the sotd of
the young, rough, half-barbaric peasant passed from
him to her inanimate form, in one long, burning kiss.
Par out, on the horizon, the fitful fairy had swiftly
erased the golden image of that paradise city ; over-
head the storks had ceased their cry ; the little lizards
had gone to rest.
Peaceful, immense, solitary, the puszta lay — and
Csillag galloped on.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE PEASANT'S WIFE
'* There ! there ! there ! let her be, my boy. She
will be all right with me. You leave her here. The
sheets are warm and ^ft, and scented with lavender.
You go down to the cellar and get me a measure of
that vinegar I put into casks last November. Put it
outside the door, and bring me from the attic some
cloves, and thyme, and perhaps a little burrage. Now
go ! I tell you she is only faint, with that madcap ride
of yours. You should have done as other folks do,
and brought her home in a cart, with steady oxen to
pull her along!"
It was long after mid-day when Andrds came home
on Csillag's back, carrying a white burden in his arms.
Btelka had been waiting to welcome the bride home,
and had cooked such a meal as was fit to place before
the king himself, for she wanted Sdri and Kati to have
the treat of putting on their best clothes and seeing
their master being wed to the noble young lady. She
could not help feeling anxious, for she knew of her
son's intention of bringing his bride home in his arms,
flying on Csillag's back, and feared lest the noble
young lady, unaccustomed to such summary proceed-
ings, should become faint and ill. She had made the
tiny farmhouse look like a perfect garden of loveliness.
Her roses, fortunately, were in full bloom, and she had
275
276 A Son of the People
been able to place great bunches of them in every roc»i,
more especially in the one which, newly papered and
ornamented with daintily embroidered curtains, had
been destined for the younq^ wife.
Ah ! there, at last, the distant and well-known sound
of Csillag's hoofe on the soft earth outside. Excitedly
Btelka hurried out to the porch, ready to welcome her
new daughter home with a loving kiss. One look in
her son's face told her that something was amiss.
Gently, with the pretty trick her master had taught
her, Csillag had dropped on her knees, and Andrfis,
looking almost as white as the bhrden he was carrying,
dismounted and went within.
He laid her down on the bed, Ktdka helping him to
pillow the golden head softly on the cushions. She
looked so white and inanimate. No wonder Andrds
was frightened. But Ktelka understood that excite-
ment alone had caused a dead faint, and soon reassured
her son. She tried to remain cheerful, while she was
in the room, but when he had gone, she shook her
head sadly. Never had she seen any one so pale and
wan looking, and this strange home-coming foreboded
nothing good to her mind.
Andrds had brought the vinegar, and Ktelka, having
placed it on the stove to warm, and throwing some
aromatic herbs into it, began bathing Ilonka's temples
with it. She took o£f the poor child's shoes and stock-
ings, and rubbed her cold feet between her own rough
hands. At last a faint tremulous sigh escaped the
purple lips. The golden head moved restlessly on the
pillow, and soon a pair of frightened blue eyes looked
up at the wrinkled, kind face above them.
Terrified, puzzled, they roamed round, trying— just
home from the land of dreams, — ^to take in the imme-
The Peasant's Wife ^n
diate reality : the quaint, tiny room, with its low-
raftered ceiling, from which hung bunches of dry
sweet-scented herbs. The great stove of glazed earth-
enware, brilliant and green, with the hot vessel of
aromatic vinegar steaming upon it. The posies of
white roses in great rough pots, and the quaint figure
of the kind old woman with the large dark eyes, which
reminded Ilonka of something she had hoped for ever
to forget.
But the face looked good and sympathetic, and
Ilonka just now had sore need of comfort* Her heart
felt numb and bruised, and the old, dark eyes had two
great tears in them that spoke of love and pity. All
had been so strange, so bewildering. Ilonka had lived
in such an atmosphere of stem duty and proud bearing
for the last few weeks that the simple peasant clothes,
the kind, wrinkled face, the rough brown hands, the
sympathetic tears went straight to that bruised young
heart, and she put out both her arms in an appeal for
comfort and for love.
The old peasant woman's heart, which had already
gone out to the fragile, girlish figure on the bed, quite
melted at this sweet appeal. Her arms closed round
the delicate young girl, the golden head rested on the
old motherly breast, and on it there fell such a shower
of kisses and such words of love and sympathy as
Ilonka had never heard from her own mother's lips.
** Now, my sweet one, you feel better, do you not?
Lie still for a while, and rest ; you are tired and ex-
cited. See, I will draw the curtains across these win-
dows, and shut out the sun, which will be setting
presently, and you will perhaps get a good long sleep.
I will be at my spinning in the room next to this. If
you want anything, you must just tap the wall with
278 A Son of the People
your hand. I shall hear. I have aired all your beau-
tiful linen, and hung your dresses up in that wardrobe,
so when you are rested you can slip off your white
frock, and put on some of your nice new things which
my lady your mother sent down with the cart yester-
day. There ! is that pillow just right, under your
head? • . . Good-night, my sweet one. • • . Sleep
well! ... "
She gave Ilonka a last kiss, drew the curtains across
the windows so that the rays of the sun only came in
softened and subdued ; then she slipped quietly out of
the room.
Ilonka was alone. At first she was only conscious
of an exquisite sense of bodily well-being. The sheets
were so fine, and smelt so sweetly of lavender and
rosemary, the air was delidously fragrant with the
scent of roses and lilies of the valley. She closed her
e3res ; her body lay rigid in an exqtiisite feeling of rest.
How tired she was of all the turmoil and excitement of
the past few days, of the maids bustling round, sorting
the new linen and the various dresses, of the white
gown which had to be tried on several times, and
which always gave her a pain in her heart whenever
she felt its dinging folds round her. But above all,
she was infinitely weary of all the talk about wealth
and lands, duties and posterity. Her cheeks had been
in one perpetual flame, hearing herself spoken of but
as the mother of unborn children, who were to be rich
and own all the land and all the money.
She had fought for liberty in an earnest, gentle way,
had tried to appeal to her parents' love for her, thdr
pride in her, their contempt for the husband they had
chosen for her. She cared nothing for great riches, or
for broad leagues of land ; she was happy at Bideskiit,
The Peasant's Wife 279
and would soon get over the shame of being an old
maid. She could not understand why her father
always looked so sad when her future was talked
about. If he did not like his daughter's marriage with
the rich peasant, why did he allow it ? Surely he had
lands, fields, money enough of his own. What did he
want with a peasant's wealth, be it ever so great ?
Ilonka could not understand. Her mother, who was
so proud, seemed to look on the mSsalliance with con-
tent, while scorning the idea of a penniless husband,
even if he had a long line of ancestry. The child had
soon told her long-cherished secret, had candidly ad-
mitted the thrills of delight which one voice among
all others had called forth in her young heart. She
was an only child, had been much loved and petted. It
seemed terrible she should have to live in a peasant's
cottage, learn to spin and dig in the garden, become
no better than one of the maids, and cut off from all
her friends.
Then one day they told her that he did not care ;
that he, being poor, was about to wed a rich manu-
facturer's daughter, who was willing to exchange her
bags of gold for a Countess's coronet. After that
Ilonka was passive. She did not mind what they
decided for her. Since he had lied to her, had talked
of love, which he said would last till death, and had
ended in a year, if he was false and dishonourable, she
did not care what happened to her. If she could not
be happy, she might as well do what her mother and
father wished, and give her hand to the peasant, who
was not more sordid than he^ in wishing to have a noble
lady as his wife.
Ilonka, with closed eyes, lying there passively on
the rosemary-scented bed, recalled her first meeting
28o A Son of the People
with the tall, picturesque man : with him who had
been described to her as the rich and vulgar peasant in
search of noble blood, to which to ally his own com*
«mon nature. She recalled his strange personality, his
deep, musical voice, his eyes which rested so strangely
upon her, the kiss which he always imprinted on her
hand, and which used to bring a hot flush to her cheek,
and a feeling that was half faint, half horrible.
She tried to recall every moment of that solemn hour
in church, the vows she spoke, the prayers she
repeated, kneeling beside that strange man, whom, in
spite of his origin, she could not despise, for he was so
tall, and so quiet in his ways, and had ^uch a curious
masterful look in his eyes.
A shudder went through her now as it did then,
when she felt the gold circlet of metal being slipped on
her finger, the badge of her slavery to this man, who,
her mother said, was infinitely beneath her.
And she had sworn to honour, to love, and to obey.
Oh ! she would do the latter to the utmost of her
capacity, do his every bidding, work as any serf had
worked in days gone by, when bitter blows were all
the wage for a heavy day's toil ; and she would bear
his arrogance, his masterfulness, be a willing and
cheerful slave to him. Fulfil this oath — then perhaps
God would remit the other, for she had sworn that
which she could not fulfil : she had sworn that she
would love. Then a last picture floated before her
mind, a picture the reality of which in itself seemed
as a dream : a picture of many faces floating round her,
and in front the tiny village, with its thatched cottages,
under the glare of a glorious May-day sun : the air hot
and heavy with the fragrance of early opening blos-
soms, and filled with sounds of bees and birds, ndgh-
The Peasant's Wife 281
ing of colts, and bleating of lambs. Then, suddenly,
she had felt herself lifted off her feet, and fl3dng
through the air as if on cloud wings. She dimly
remembered a long shout, which died away in the dis-
tance as she flew, then something strong and tight
seemed to hold her faster, closer ; the acacia trees, the
cottages, the throng of moving faces, appeared a thing
of the infinite past, and she remembered no more.
Oh, why had consciousness come back to her ! Why
had she ever wakened ? She had been in infinite peace ;
why had not that peace lasted on and on, till the doud
wings had carried her to those regions where rest is
eternal?
CHAPTER XXVII
THE IRRBPARABLK
The sun was sinking low down in the west, and its
golden rays stole in by the little windows of the living
room and adorned each object in it with a narrow edge
of gold, like a halo.
Btelka had laid aside her spinning. The mid-day
meal had been left untasted, and she had thought out
some dainty dishes to prepare for supper, with her own
hands, since S&ri and Kati were too full of the wedding
and all they had seen to be trusted with the cooking
of the first meal the young wife would take in her
new home.
She had seemingly not yet stirred. Btelka had
peeped into the room, and seen her lying peacefully,
with a faint colour in her cheeks, regular breathing
coming through her half-opened mouth. Reassured,
she had left Andrds to watch in the parlour, and had
hurried to her kitchen.
Dreamily he sat beside the open window gazing out
across the plain towards the setting sun. . . . Thus
his mind had always pictured this day of all days :
The house still and solitary. He alone with her ; she
with him. They two together, for ever henceforth, as
one ; loving and loved ; sharing sorrows and joys ; all
in all to each other. He remembered his lonely child-
hood, his early years, when, tired with hard, slavish
a8a
The Irreparable 283
toil, his youDg shoulders braised and aching £rom
unjust and heavy blows from his father's stick, he used
to wander out on the lonely plain, lonelier even than
he, and alone betwixt earth and sky, alone with the
moon and stars, he had asked beautiful, loving Nature
to tell him some of her secrets : to teach him why the
stork called always for its mate, why the swallow toiled
to build a nest, why even the Uttle lizards had their
homes beneath the great leaves of the melons, and why
he, in spite of all the great love he bore his mother, felt
lonely and homeless. Now he knew. He understood
Nature's great all-pervading lesson, of a dual existence
which is as one, a lesson which neither father nor
mother could teach him, but which he had learnt when
first he saw the fairy vision that had become his dream,
and first heard the voice which had been angel's music
in his ear. Like the stork, he, too, called for his
mate ; like the swallow, he longed for a home wherein
to love her, to cherish her, of which she would be
queen.
A faint noise behind him made him turn his head.
It was she, all in white, dimly outlined in the gather-
ing gloom. She had laid aside her veil, but was still
in her wedding dress.
"Ilonka!"
Evidently she had not expected to find him here, for
she started, stopped short, and her hand sought the
support of the table near her as if she were afraid to fall.
'' Ilonka ! " he said again, and came close to where
she stood.
She drew back a step or two.
** I thought ... I ... I did not know you were
here."
** My mother was here till just now," he said very
284 A Son of the People
gently; "seeing that you were fast asleep, she has
gone to the kitchen and left me here to watch if you
stirred."
He tried to take her hand and to draw her to him,
but she snatched it away and said hurriedly :
** Where is the kitchen ? I will go and find her."
** The kitchen is in an outhouse, sweet, over there in
the garden. The house is solitary and still, and we
are alone, you and I.'*
Again he tried to take her hand, but she evaded him,
and turned nervously to the door.
" Oh ! I can find my way ; she will want me, I know.
She . . . "
But swiftly Andrds had placed himself in her way,
and with a sudden, passionate movement, his arms
closed round her.
** She does not need your help, sweet," he whispered
earnestly, ** and you cannot go . . . see ! you are a
prisoner in my arms. . . . Oh ! do not struggle ... for
I hold you tight. How pale you look and how
scared !
. . . Are you frightened ? . , . Not now, surely, when
you are in my arms ! . . . I can protect you, sweet,
from every sorrow and every ill. . . . Bend down and
let your tiny ear touch my mouth ... for I want to
whisper something into it . . . something, Ilonka,
which has so filled my heart for many weary months
that it has well-nigh broken it, for striving to be told.
. . . Ilonka . . • my own . . . my sweet wife . . .
I love you."
His voice sounded hoarse and strange. His arms
held her as in a vice. He was drawing' her closer,
faster to him, till his face was near to her own. Ilonka
fought to free herself. She was surprised and tern-
The Irreparable 285
fied. She did not understand. Never had she heard
a voice so strange, nor met a look which frightened
her so. Her mother should have warned, told her she
would have to listen,would have to allow this odious
peasant to put his arms round her, as he no doubt did
to the village girls at the inn. She felt humiliated,
horrified, her sharp nails were dug into his hands in a
frantic effort to force him to let her go.
'* I forbid you ... I forbid you 1 . . ." was all that
she could gasp, for her throat was choked with terror.
But he seemed not to heed. He repeated, in a curious
way, **Ilonka . . . I love you! ..." as if the words
almost choked him. And those words, in his mouth,
sent a thrill of revolt through her ; they were the self-
same words which, in those happy times, a gentle voice
had murmured with respectful tenderness in her ear,
and had caused her then such divine happiness.
** I forbid you ! " she repeated mechanically.
His grasp relaxed slightly, and she could see that he
smiled.
** Forbid me, sweet ! what will you forbid ? Do you
then not wish to hear me tell you of the great love I
bear you ? . . . Remember, that for all these weeks
I hardly dared approach you. Some one was always
there, who seemed to chase away all words of love from
my mouth. . . . For weeks now, I have hardly dared
to look at you. It wotdd be cruel to forbid me to speak
• . . now . . . that, at last, we are alone . . . now
. . . that you are . . . my wife ! *'
With a swift and sudden movement, she had suc-
ceeded in freeing herself from his grasp. Erect and
defiant, she stood before him, all the arrogance, the
pride of the aristocrat in revolt against the daring of
this presumptuous peasant. He looked so tall and so
286 A Son of the People
powerful in all his bearing ; in his look there was such
an air of indomitable will, of almost tyrannical master-
fulness, that Ilonka unconsciously remembered the
oath she swore, to honour and to obey ; and also the
silent compact with her heart, to give full obedience,
since she could g^ve no love.
" Yes ! Yes, I know,'* she said slowly, with a cer-
tain defiant humility. ''I understand, and will try
not to forget. I am your wife ; and this morning, at
the altar, I swore an oath that I would obey you. My
mother and father commanded and I did as they
desired. I swore that I would obey, and I will keep
that oath, never fear ! I will be a dutiful wife. I will
work for you as no peasant woman could ever work.
I will spin, and I will dig; walk to church with you,
and distribute to the labourers their measures of wine
and com. You must teach me my duties ; command
me, and I will obey. • . . You need have no fear.
. . . I know . . . I am your wife ! "
Andrds was gazing at her, half bewildered. He did
not quite understand what she said. She looked very
beautiful, save for the strange look in her eyes. He
could not read what that look meant. It certainly had
nothing of terror in it ; and her voice, too, was dear
and distinct, and each word she said seemed to strike
at his heart, making it throb with pain. The shades
of evening were closing in. He could not see her very
distinctly. Her slim form looked quite ghost-Uke in
the gathering gloom.
She had paused a moment, while he murmured
'' Ilonka ! '' as if in a tender appeal. He would have
spoken and tried to draw near to her again, but with
an imperious gesture she put up her hand.
** Do not speak,*' she said haughtily. ** Just now I
The Irreparable 287
could not stop you. You held me tightly. I tried
to protest. But you had your say. It is my turn now.
You said there were many things you wished to tell
me. Things which, when you said them, made my
cheeks bum with shame. I did not know — I am an
ignorant girl— and my mother did not tell me — that
it was part of this hideous bargain that you should
speak to me of love, and that I should have to listen
to words which, in your mouth, must be a sacrilege ! "
•*Ilonka!''
One great and n)iighty cry, heart-rending in its
intensity. The cry of the wounded beast, struck unto
death, and sending forth in the air its last piteous
appeal.
Was she in her senses ? Did she know what she was
saying ? Was it consciously that she had struck this
terrible blow, so deadly that, for a moment, he almost
staggered beneath it ? He looked at the outline of her
young figure, dimly discernible in the darkness. So
slender, white, and fragile did it look, that, in the
midst of his great pain, an infinite pity for her seized
him. No! No! she could not understand. She was
ill and excited. Her brain was in a fever. Terror, in
the midst of the strange surroundings, the lonely farm-
house, the small low room, had blinded her. He had
been hot-headed and impetuous. Poor, tender little
thing, what could she know of a man's passion ? how
could she understand the overmastering intensity of a
rough peasant's love? He was rough ! All Pater Am-
brosius' education had not quite eradicated the hot,
impatient temperament of the son of the soil ; and she,
refined, aristocratic, hitherto surrounded by the calm
devotion of her parents, the deference of her servants,
the respectful courtship of high-born suitors, had been
288 A Son of the People
frightened by it all. No wonder she shrank from his
sudden, brutal, clumsy ways.
•* Ilonka/' he began very gently, forcing his voice
not to tremble, so as to reassure her, ** many things
have frightened you to-day. . . . You are still weak
and ill, and I do not think that you are able to realise
the cruelty of your last words to me. . . . Let me
take you to your room now. , . . My mother said
that you would require a great deal of rest . . . and
perhaps I was rough and clumsy with you . . . just
now. ... I am but a peasant, as you know • . .
but I can be gentle. . . . And, oh ! I would sooner
cut off my right hand than offend or frighten you in
anyway. . . . Will you forgive me ? See ... it is
this great love that overwhelms me • . . that almost
obscures my brain . . . and, perhaps ... I lose con-
trol of my arms, when they close round you . • . and
of my voice, when I speak to you. ... I am quite
calm now, my sweet ; will you let me take your hand ? ' *
** Is it necessary ? " she asked.
** Necessary, Ilonka ? do you not wish to place your
hand in mine ? Will you not try to give me one gentle
word ? . . . I do not ask for very much , • . I will
wait . . • oh I with infinite patience, for a word of
love from you. . . . You are exquisitely beautiful.
My love for you sprung in my heart the day on which
I first beheld your loveliness. I am a common peasant
... it will take time, I know, to win your love for
me. . . . But I will win it, with such infinite gentle-
ness that your heart will open to the poor peasant
who so humbly worships you. But until then, my
sweet, I will not complain. ... I will be content if
you will place your tiny hand in mine . . • just for
one moment, of your own accord ..."
The Irreparable 289
He held out his hand towards her.
**Yoa will not do this, Ilonka? Have I then
offended you so deeply that you have devised this
terrible punishment for me ? If so, believe me, dear,
the punishment has been enough ; for the fault I com-
mitted was in the intensity of my love, and that love you
have wounded so deeply that it now lies bruised and
sore at your feet. . . . You will not stretch out your
hand towards me? . . . You will not say that you
forgive . . . even if I . . . pray for that forgiveness
on my knees ...?'*
He had knelt down at her feet ; and in the darkness
his burning lips had sought and found the small, ice-
cold hand. She snatched it away as if she had been
stung, with a sudden cry of horror and loathing.
In a moment Andrds was on his feet again. That sud-
den gesture, that cry of horror, were not the outcome
of girlish coyness, or childish fear. There was some-
thing more, hidden within the heart of the woman
before him, something that was not calm and icy as
her words, and as her look ; and in the gloom he tried
to see more of her face than its bare outline. But it
was too dark ; her head was entirely in shadow, and
he could not read what was passing within. With
sudden, fierce masterfulness, he seized both her wrists.
" You do not hate me, Ilonka ? "
There was dead silence in the room. The moon had
just crept round over the lonely farmhouse, and her
slanting rays found their way through the low case-
ment windows. Outside, the leaves of the poplar trees
trembled in the evening breeze, giving forth a melan-
choly sound like a long-drawn-out sigh. She was
silent : and suddenly he remembered how it was thus
that he had always pictured the evening of this
«9
290 A Son of the People
glorious day — the house solitary and still ; his mother
gone to her room, leaving him alone with her. He
remembered how he had pictured her : coy, frightened
at first, then listening to his love, her blue eyes get-
ting gradually moist with pity and responsive passion,
her lips parting in a happy smile. Oh, the bitter irony
of it all 1 the cruelty of this awakening from the long,
beautiful dream !
** Ilonka, will you answer me ? " he pleaded.
She did not try to free her wrists, but drew herself to
her full height, and stepped quite dose to him, letting
each word sound distinctly in his ear :
"Hate you, Kem6ny Andrds?" she began slowly
and earnestly ; *' hatred is a big word, as great a one
as love ; I am a very young girl, and have seen
nothing of the world beyond the walls of my father's
castle of Bideskiit, and therefore perhaps I know
nothing of either. But this I do know : that in order
to hate, one must be able to love. And I could never
love you. You, with your great wealth, your fields,
your lands, and your gold, had little else in the world
to desire. But in your ambitious heart there remained
one arrogant thought : you were not content to see
one of your own kind, low-bom and sordid as yourself,
sharing with you that wealth which all peasants hold
so dear. Since 3'our money could not place you above
your station, you longed at least that at the head of
your table there should be seated one whom your
labourers would call * my lady,' and that in one castle,
at least, in the lowlands, you should be welcomed
almost as an equal. With what machinations, what
treachery, what usury, you ensnared my weak father,
I shall probably never know. I do not care to
ask. I may be young, but I am not blind, and
The Irreparable 291
one thing was clear to me from the very first day
on which you entered my father's house, as some
triumphant conqueror, and stooped to kiss my hand
— it was clear to me from the moment when you, the
grandson of a serf, first sat at my mother's table — and
that is, that you have bought me with your gold,
Kem6ny Andrds. You paid so many bank-notes,
such measures of wheat or wine in order to call me
your wife, to brag of me before your companions at the
iun, to boast of me to the village girls, with whom you
used to flirt and dance, to see me keep your house in
order, to give me your commands, to beat me, as the
peasants do their wives. I — a noble girl — your wife !
Well, you have bought me ! you have paid for me, as
you do for your cattle and your sheep upon the puszta.
The bargain is concluded. The daughter of those
who once held your kindred in bondage is your
slave. Be content, Kem^ny Andrds ! Command her
to obey, if you will, but do not ask her if she hate
you ! "
Gradually she had spoken more and more quickly ;
each word, every insult which she uttered, seemed to
strike him in the face, as once her father's blow had
done, which still remained unavenged. She was quite
calm and self-possessed now, and, though her voice
was hardly above a whisper, it was clear and without
a tremor.
He had allowed her to speak without making the
slightest effort to stop her. Perhaps he had not
the strength to do so. His blood coursed through his
veins like fire, his temples throbbed as if they would
break ; and yet he listened, as if longing to endure this
torture to the full, as if he longed to know what an
infinity of hatred there lurked in that young girl's
292 A Son of the People
*
heart, and what amount of pain his own bruised heart
could bear.
What a fool he had been to think of her as a child,
coy and frightened with the newness of the life before
her ! What a fool to offer her silent adoration, pity,
or patience. He could not see her, but he could feel
her, quivering with all the pent-up passions of woman-
hood, with bitter hatred, and with deadly revenge.
He could feel the frail arms writhing in his clutch,
and, on his cheek, her breath warm and panting, hiss-
ing out words of insult and of contempt called from the
bitterness of an injured woman's — not a girl's — ^heart.
Oh ! if there was so much hatred, so much passion
within her, she still was a woman exquisitely beauti-
ful, and adorable beyond all other women ; if her pas-
sions were strong, he would conquer them ; if she
hated him now, he would turn that hatred into love.
Since she had, with cold and callous words, with insult
and defiance, bruised and trampled on that great love
he bore her, if she would not bend to his deep affec-
tion, accept and cherish his reverence, he would break
her to his will, and there would be pleasure still —
pleasure bom of hell, perhaps, but as great as the
tortures he endured — to make her suffer as he had
suffered.
Forgotten were Pater Ambrosius* teachings, his
striving after higher things, the lessons of love and
compassion, the refinement born of a great heart and
the accomplishment of noble deeds. She had said it
truly : he was a peasant, bom of serfs; years of educa-
tion had kept his passions in check, but they were all
there, subject to the influence of this one woman,
whom he had worshipped with all the strength of his
self-contained nature. She had insulted him, derided
The Irreparable 293
him, returning loathing for his love; that love lay
maimed and bruised by her hatred and his desire.
He would have beaten her as the herdsmen out on
the plains beat their wives, if they disobey, or make
them jealous, for very love, because that love is uncon-
trolled. He could see the outline of her white shoul-
ders in the moonlight, and all that once had been low
in the peasant's nature, which the kind Pater's teach-
ings, his own kindly heart, had held in check, rose
again, masterful, passionate, to the fore.
** Ilonka," he said, while swiftly his trembling arms
once more closed round her, ** God knows I have
worshipped you as only good Catholics worship their
Lord, that I have honoured every piece of land, every
blade of grass, which your foot has ever trodden. This
you do not choose to believe. In exchange for all that
love, which I was ready to pour forth humbly at your
feet, you have given me cruelty beyond compare,
insults more terrible than blows. You have, with
your own hands, dispelled the fairy vision I had of a
sweet and lovely girl, frail and tender, who would
nestle in my arms, and allow me to keep all sorrows
and ills from her path, in exchange for one sweet smile
of love. The fairy vision has flitted away, but instead
of this you have shown me the living reality : an ex-
quisitely beautiful woman, full of passions, of deadly
hatred, which speaks of some love which, if born, will
be well worth the conquering. That reality I cannot
worship ; it is too far removed from the pictures of the
Saints or of the Virgin, but perhaps it comes nearer to
my own self, my own nature, low, sordid, vulgar — a
peasant, you know, the grandson of a serf. That real-
ity, my beautiful wife, is my own ; your obedience
I can compel ; you are in my arms, and, though
294 A Son of the People
my love is changed, it is as great, as ardent as
before."
But, as he lost his self-control, so she gradually
regained hers. She did not struggle. She stood up,
listless and passive in his arms, only turning her head
away, so that she might not see him.
** My obedience is yours. I have said it. You need
have no fear. It will be as absolute as is my contempt. ' '
** And as your love, when I have conquered it,*' he
said proudly.
If she was afraid, she did not show it. She paused
a moment before she wielded her last, her deadliest
weapon.
** My love,*' she said slowly, *' that, Kem6ny Andrds,
even if you were different from what you are, could
never become yours, for I have given it to another."
Was it a sob ? Was it a cry ? So heart-rending a
sound was it that the very wing seemed to pause as
if to listen, in pity.
** Woman," he whispered hoarsely, * * may God have
mercy on your soul, for you have gone too far."
His torture had turned to madness ; before his eyes
the gloom had suddenly changed to a dark red mist,
which was like blood. The wounded beast was at last
at bay. With savage fury he threw the white figure
down on the floor at his feet, while his hand found the
heavy clasp-knife from his belt ; and in the moonlight
there glittered, cold and blue, the polished steel, which
he held high over his head.
" Andr&s ! in the name of the Virgin Mary ! what
dost thou with that knife ? "
A flood of light came streaming in through the door.
Ktelka had heard the fearful cry, even in the kitchen,
and she stood there, with a lamp in her hand, with
The Irreparable 295
blanched face, gazing at the terrible scene before her.
For one moment — an eternity — there was silence.
Then Andrds slowly dropped his arm : the knife fell
with a dull, metallic sound on the floor. He stood,
with head bent, looking down at the figure at his feet.
With superhuman efibrt he was endeavouring to collect
his scattered senses. She had not stirred, but half lay,
half knelt before him, her head erect, and her eyes,
cold and blue as the metal, meeting his own in a
defiant gaze.
** Uonka," said Andrds at last very slowly, his voice
shaken and hoarse, '* for the last hour my reason has
been flying from me, bit by bit : the last shred flew
away just now. The darkness, the moonlight — I
know not — helped to scatter it away. But my mother's
voice has suddenly brought it back, and I stand here
shamed before you — worse still, shamed before myself.
Put down the lamp, mother dear," he said, turning to
Ktdka, *' and help this lady to a chair. She is ill and
I have frightened her. But when she is alone with
you she will recover. I, myself, have much business
to see to in Zarda, and Csillag is ready to carry me
there to-night. I do not know when I shall return, but
in the meanwhile this lady will stay with you as your
guest, until she wishes to return to her home. I know
you have prepared a good supper, and I hope you will
eat it in peace, for you know Csillag is sure-footed,
and I shall be in Zdrda before the night birds begin to
croak."
He picked up his heavy mantle which was l3dng on
the floor, and fastened it round his shoulders. Ilonka
had sunk into a chair, and her eyes followed the tall,
picturesque figure of her husband, as with absolute
calm he stood a moment to give his mother several
2gS A Son of the People
directions as to the woik to-moiTOW tn the fields.
Then he came close to where ^e sat.
" Before my mother, I would like to say to yoo,
Honka, that whenever you wish it you are &ee to
return to yoni parents, who have so well taught you
the lessons of truth, of honour, and obedience. And, as
from my childhood she has known all my thoughts,
heard my every prayer, it is my desire that she should
hear this my oath. As I swore this morning before
the altar, so do I swear now, by a most solemn oath,
both as a Christian, upon the crucifix, and as a man,
upon that which I held dearer, more sacred than all,
my love for a girlish vision, young and pure as the
angels, vanished ftom me for ever. Upon the memory
of that dead love I swear to you, that never while you
live will I offend your ears by speaking to you of that
love ; never will I, by word or deed, remind you that
the low-bom son of serfs is your l<xd and husband.
You may command the shelter of my roof or seek
again that of your parents, as you will. Yoo are as
free as you were before the presumptuous peasant
dared to ask that you should place your hand in his."
Before the last echo of his quivering voice had died
away, before Ilonka had found the strength to took up at
the tall figure, so noble, so dignified in its pathos, he had
gone, and the hoofs of CsiUag were heard gallo[»ng
away towards the pustta.
Then Ilon ka buried her head in her hands, and
sobbed^BUier heart would break. ~~
PART III
997
i
CHAPTER XXVIII
" Lkt me lead Ddndar part of the way for you,
Pater, and perhaps you will not mind walking as far
as the crossroad with me ? '*
** Mind? I shall enjoy it, my son. I have never
seen a brighter morning. And . . • but for Ddndar,
you know ... I should have had to walk all the way
to Arokszdllds."
" It was very foolish of you, Pater, not to have told
me three months ago that K6p6 was dead. You could
have had D&ndar at once, and then perhaps you would
not have been all this while without coming to see me."
Andrds had slipped the horse's bridle over his arm,
and the two men, leaving the little thatched cottage
behind, began to walk down the main-road.
It was one of those bright, cold, frosty mornings in
December, when a brilliant sun shines down merrily
on the crisp sheet of snow which lies evenly over the
vast plain. Hardly an eminence or a stump to break
the monotony of this shroud, that glistens in the win-
try sun like myriads of tiny diamonds. The village of
Zdrda (hardly a village, since it had no church), with
its few straggling cottages which looked as if thatched
with snow, seemed lonely and desolate. There is
nothing to be done in the fields, and the Hungarian
peasant in the winter likes to wrap himself up in his
299
300 A Son of the People
mantle and stare dreamily into the fire of his great
oven, smoking pipe after pipe, in silence and drowsi-
ness. Andrds and the Pater were soon in the open road.
The old priest's nose was quite red with the nipping
frost, though he was wrapped up to the ears in a huge
great-coat of black sheepskin, from .beneath which
emerged his thin legs encased in great leather top-boots
to protect them from the snow. Andrds walked on
silently by his side for a while. He seemed not to feel
the intense cold, for his great mantle hung down his
back, and his arms came out bare from his full, thin
lawn sleeves.
The terrible tragedy which he had gone through had
left very little mark upon him outwardly ; his tall fig-
ure was just as upright, his step as firm, his head as
erect. Only the face seemed to have grown older.
The mouth drooped more, there were two deep lines
between the brows, and as the sun shone brilliantly on
the dark hair, there were some very obvious streaks of
grey among the black.
'* I daresay you have found this small cottage at
Zdrda very lonely at times, my son," said the Pater
tentatively.
"Yes," replied Andrds somewhat wistfully, "I
think I have had about enough of it. . . • I miss my
mother, you see . . • she and I were always together
on winter evenings. . . . Yes ! . . . I shall be glad
to get home ! "
** That 's right, my son; you have done my old heart
good by that speech. . . . Heigho I I shall have a
merry ride home, thinking of the jo3rful news I am
taking to Ktelka, . . . and our boys and girls, too,
at Arokszdllds. They will give you such a welcome I**
Andrds shook his head with a smile.
Love Lies Bleeding 301
** No, Father, they will not do that. You know bet-
ter than to mean what you say. They have too much
respect for me, now, to give me a real hearty welcome."
*' Andrds, that was an unkind speech. Your name
in A.roksz&ll&s has become dear to every household.
They would be very devils indeed of ingratitude, if
they forgot all that you have done for them, during the
terrible epidemic.**
" Thank God, that is well over now," said Andrds,
ignoring the first part of the priest's speech, ** all round
here, at least, we have not had a single case for six
weeks."
** Of course we never sufiered quite as badly over at
Arokszdll&s as you did here in Z&rda. Actually the
last fatal case we had was old Rosenstein — the Jew.
He was very distressed, poor fellow, that he did not
see you before he died. I was with him to the last,
and it was quite painful to see the intense straining ex-
pression in his face, listening for some sound that
would not come."
'* It was a great disappointment to me, too. Pater,
for now we shall never know what it was that lay so
heavily on the poor man's conscience. It surely could
not have been his numerous deeds of usury on our
poor peasant lads, for I do believe the Jews, in the low-
lands at least, do not regard the demanding of ei^orbi-
tant interest as a sin."
** No, I am sure it was not that," said Pater
Ambrosius musingly ; ** it was your name that was
constantly on his lips, and as he lay dying, he pressed
my hand in entreaty, and murmured, ' Do you think he
will forgive ? ' Ah ! my son, it is sad indeed for those
who, not being Catholics, have not the supreme
consolation of the Holy Sacrament of Confession,
302 A Son of the People
which brings the only true comfort to the departing
soul.''
** Beyond that he told me many a lie in his lifetime, I
am not aware that I had anything to forgive the man.'*
** When he ultimately pressed the paper into my
hand which proved to be his will and testament, he
still repeated, * This will atone. . . . This will atone.
• . . Itishis!"'
** After all," added Andr&s, ** the funny old scare-
crow had no one to whom he could leave his shekels ;
that is perbaps the only reason why he made me the
heir to his hoarded-up wealth. God knows I did not
want it. I am very sorry indeed I did not see Rosen-
stein at the last, if my shaking his hand could have
eased his mind of its imaginary burden. I arrived just
half an hour after his eyes were closed. The roads
were in a shocking condition ; even Csillag could not
get through in time ; and, you know, there was a great
deal to do over here.**
*' Yes, I know ! there is not one mouth this side of
the Tarna that does not speak in gratitude of your un-
swerving kindness and devotion. At Arokszdllds, the
two doctors you got down from Budapesth did absolute
wonders ; and Btelka was a perfect angel to the women.
. • . She . . . and another. . . . *'
The Pater paused half shyly. Andr&s was gazing
out before him across the desolate, snow-covered
landscape.
** She is a good woman, Andrds,** added the Pater,
at first with timidity, then gradually more emphatic-
ally ; " she may have her faults, her pride may amount
to a sin, but she is an angel of pity to those who are
sick and in trouble."
'' Tell me more about the village folk/* interrupted
Love Lies Bleeding 303
Andres quietly ; *' remember, I have seen and heard
nothing of them since the day on which I arrived too
late to see poor old Rosenstein/'
Well ! " said the Pater, with a disappointed sigh,
after that day the cholera certainly seemed to have
spent itself, and God at last had mercy upon us. But
the little churchyard is very full, Andrds, and ... on
Sundays I see many vacant places in the church."
** The young ones will soon grow up. Pater," said
Andr&s, with some of his wonted cheeriness. '* Why,
Sdndor the smith's boys must be growing lads, and
F6nyes Margit had twins this summer ; all those mites
whom last I saw in swaddling clothes must be begin-
ning to toddle. Why ! I have a veritable army of god-
children in the villages this side of the Tama."
'* Yes, there are a good many wise mothers, Andrds,
in those villages " said the Pater, with a smile ; " it is
no wonder that Aroksz&llds is getting jealous of
Zdrda."
''They need not be," said Andrds, while a deep
shadow seemed to fall over his face ; '* it has not been
an abode of joy."
** It has been the home of truly Christian devotion
and generosity, my son, all the greater since no one
seems to know yet its full extent. But the epidemic
is over ; you have provided for every misery till God
once more brings merry harvesting round ; you need a
rest, my son, and will be happier at home."
** Happier?"
. Evidently the word was involuntary and had escaped
him unawares, for he closed his lips tightly, as if to
check any further sounds, while the lines on his face
became harder, more accentuated. The priest was
wanting to say something more. He looked up
304 A Son of the People
once or twice at his young friend, took out his snuff-
box, and toyed with it nervously. There had been
such intense hopelessness, such a depth of sorrow
in that one bitter word, that his kindly nature shrank
from further touching a wound which was still so sore
and bleeding.
*' Your mother must have missed you a great deal,
Andrds," he said at last.
** Yes ... I know ..." replied the peasant, ** we
are apt to be selfish in our griefs. The house was
distasteful to me. . . . Without thinking of the dear
soul, I fled from it. Then, when the distress and
cholera became so terrible here, I was forced to stay,
for they wanted me. ... I think it was selfish . . •
for she must have been very lonely. . . . But I am
going back soon. . . • Perhaps to-morrow."
*'Ktelka has, of course, spent many lonely days,
Andrds, . . . but during the terrible time of the chol-
era she was not absolutely alone. ..."
Timidly the priest looked up at the young face, on
which sorrow had written such deep lines. Pater Am-
brosius knew next to nothing of the terrible tragedy
that had caused the bridegroom of one day to flee
from his home, which had brought those streaks of
grey in the dark hair, and had given to the kindly eyes
that look of hopeless misery.
** She was with your mother, Andrds, so that Etelka
might not be lonely."
* * I know. Pater ; God will no doubt reward her for
that."
'' She has been the good angel of the village, An-
drds. Next to you, there is no one who did more to
comfort and cheer the sick, to help the orphan, and
console the widow,"
it
tl
ti
ti
Love Lies Bleeding 305
" Yes, Father/* repeated Andrds, "there is a heav-
enly reward for all that charity.*'
All the people bless her, and pray for her."
We all have need of prayer, you see, Pater."
They all pray ... for her happiness."
God, I think, will soon grant it," said Atidrds
quietly.
Pater Ambrosius looked scrutinisingly at him. He
did not quite understand what Andrds meant, but it
suddenly struck him how very deeply the lines of suf-
fering were graven on the young face, and he wondered
how long it would be before that iron constitution
succumbed altogether beneath this weight of over-
whelming sorrow.
It was uphill work to pursue the subject. The old
priest, who possessed his young friend's confidence, did
not care to seem to pry into the one secret the proud
peasant had thought fit to keep from him.
The village gossip, fortunately, had not reached An-
drds' ears. He must have guessed, of course, that
they gossiped. He knew life in his own village far too
well to suppose that they would keep respectful silence
over the extraordinary events of that great day in
May. But Andrds had never troubled himself about
the gossip, and then, after a while, the dreaded cholera
came, with grim hand, stopping the mouths of all to
every talk save that of anguish.
Silently the two men walked on side by side,
crunching the crisp snow beneath their feet. They
had left the straggling village of Zdrda behind; only a
few lonely cottages now broke the monotony of the
low-lying land before them. All was desolate and
still ; the snow lying like a glistening pall over the few
trees, the thatched roofs of the huts, and the short
ao
3o6 A Son of the People
stubble of the maize fields. Overhead a flight of ravens
sent a melancholy croaking through the air, and far,
beyond, the tiny steeple of the village church threw
the only note of colour — a brilliant red — upon the dull
canvas, whilst to the left, through the stripped branches
of the acacia trees, there glimmered the yellow and the
green of the walls of Bideskdt.
'* Andrds," said Pater Ambrosius, suddenly chang-
ing the subject of talk, *' there is something else which
lies very near to my heart, and which, coward as I
am, I hardly like to speak to you about . . • "
'' I did not know, Father, that I was so formidable
as all that ; I seem to have made a lovely muddle of
my life." added Andrds bitterly, ** since even you have
ceased to look upon me as a friend."
'*God forbid, Andrds, that you should so misunder-
stand my meaning. It was stupid of me to talk as I
did, and I am, moreover, an ungrateful wretch not to
have told you at once what it is that lies so near my
heart,"
'* It is not too late, Pater ; we are far from the cross-
roads yet."
** It is about the school, Andrds,"
The peasant frowned.
" I know that you do not altogether approve of the
idea," continued the Pater hurriedly, **but God has
entrusted me with a sacred mission on this earth, and
I must not be coward enough to shirk it. You and I
have often discussed the grand idea of a school for onr
little ones in the village. You were as enthusiastic
about it as I was ; you have, I know, happy recollec-
tions of the three years you spent under my teaching,
and you told me more than once that the happiest day
of your life would be when every soul in the county
Love Lies Bleeding 307
of Heves knew how to read and write ; and now ..."
** Now I have changed,'' said Andrds, with a certain
amount of roughness, ''and whenever you have
broached the subject before me, I have refused to dis-
cuss it with you. Yes ! I have changed a great deal
since the days when, after the terrible fire of Bideskdt,
you first propounded your great scheme to me, and did
me the infinite honour to ask me to help you in carry-
ing it through. Since then, Father, I have had such
bitter, such terrible longing after a state of brutish
ignorance, with no aspirations save after daily bread,
no ideals save those of plenty of wine, good czigdny
music, and buxom village maids, a longing after the
happiness bom of content with these aspirations and
ideals, the happiness of the beasts upon the fields, and
I have no longer had a craving to snatch that same hap-
piness from my fellow-men in the villages of the low-
lands. There is so little they would receive in
compensation."
** Andrds," said the priest very gently, ** you have
suffered a great deal, and, like all those who have a
terrible malady, you look about you blindly for its
cause, so blindly that, as one who plays at blind man's
buff, you go tumbling very far short of the mark.
Education gave you high aspirations ; on their wings
you went wandering into the kingdom of ideals, and
suddenly, when you thought to grasp them — ^your hand
had, as it were, almost touched them — something
snapped, and you were precipitated back to earth, very
sore and bruised. You blame the aspirations that bore
you upward, the ideals which you tried to grasp, and
do not see that perhaps, after all, they were over-
weighted with a burden of human passions that
dragged them back to earth."
3o8 A Son of the People
*' Nay, Father, I have not ventured to blame my
ideals. Perhaps, as you say, they were just beyond
my reach. When I was a young boy, they consisted
of seeing the ears of com on my father's fields fuller
and more golden than those of any other man ; later
on, I dreamed of a quiet homestead, with my mother
sitting placidly in her big armchair, while I gave her
every comfort she could want, and perhaps, in my old
age — when she was gone — ^with a good-looking wife,
whose baking and weaving should be famed through-
out the land ; of those ideals. Father, most of our village
lads have dreamed. They are dreams such as are fitting
for the descendants of serfs. Ideals such as those are
not difficult to attain, and even if the peasant mind
soars too far towards these regions, humble though
they be, well I the altitude has not been a high one.
The fall is gentle and leaves but easily healed wounds
in its trace. Contentment, a certain quiet philosophy,
helps to make old age pleasant. But I, with the arro-
gance bom of newly-found riches, began to dream of
other things. Tentatively, I stretched out my coarse,
brown hands after other things than spade or scythe.
You led my tottering footsteps into a new region of
learning and culture. A delightful feeling of well-
being crept over me. I began to think that this
entrancing realm was really my home, that I had for
ever left behind the sordid ignorance of the peasant,
his gross pleasures, his vulgar, common nature, and
that henceforth I could wander on, at will, for ever
unmolested, higher and higher, through many man-
sions, to a region of entrancing ideals, which my
delighted vision suddenly saw beyond the doudland in
which I dwelt. Then, astride on my dreams, I set
forth to seek that ideal among the stars. I had reached
Love Lies Bleeding 309
it, the clouds had parted, and I saw such a vision of
paradise as has been given to no mortal man to see.
But, as I stretched forth my hand to grasp it, suddenly
there rose before me the grim and inexorable fury
* Prejudice,* guarding the entrance to my paradise.
With scornful finger, the monster pointed at my rough
hands, my heavy gait, my sheepskin mantle, my linen
shirt ; then, with loud, mocking laughter, plucked at
my heart-strings, and, wrenching them out of my
breast, hurled me back from the giddy heights down to
earth and hell. Ah, Father, it was a terrible fall ! You
see I had dared to gaze at the stars ! Nay ! I do not
blame them. They cannot help their own unattainable
loveliness, and the fury that guards them has placed
a solid bandage over their eyes. It is my own folly
which I blame, my own arrogance, my passions, if you
will; but also I blame the invisible Hand that first
pulled away from before me the blissful veil of igno-
rance, and showed me glimpses of that paradise, which
must for ever, to one of my caste, remain unattainable.
You see. Father, I fell from a fearful altitude. I am
bruised and wounded unto death ; but in the midst of
my weakness I still have strength enough to whisper :
* Strive not, ye fools ! in ignorant content lies the only
true happiness.' *'
His voice had broken down in a sob. The priest
did not reply. His experience of human nature, such
as he had usually found it, in the simple folk who
came to tell him their sorrows and their wrongs, was
at a loss how to deal with the complexities of this
strange and passionate creature who had all the sensi-
tiveness of the cultured man coupled with the unrea-
soning headsttongness of the rough Magyar peasant.
His kindly nature felt deeply for this great sorrow, at
310 A Son of the People
which he only guessed vaguely, but which he could
not understand, and his hand stole timidly up, as if
consolingly, to Andrds's shoulder.
They had reached the crossroads, and the young
peasant had stopped before saying '' Good-bye." He
had spoken with a good deal of vehemence, and his
face looked paler and more careworn than ever. He
pulled himself together, however, on feeling the kindly
pressure on his shoulder. Gently he took the old
priest's hand in both his own and pressed it warmly.
Pater Ambrosius looked long and sympathetically
into the dark eyes that had such sombre, hopeless
yearning in them.
** Don't you think, Andr&s,** he said very kindly,
" that it would do you good if you were to tell me your
trouble?"
Quickly Andr&s's grasp relaxed ; he dropped his old
friend's hand, and the frown appeared, deep and dark,
upon his forehead.
** I have none to tell," he said indiflFerently.
Pater Ambrosius sighed. He looked disappointed
and hurt, and busied himself with his horse, preparing
to mount.
** Won't you say good-bye. Pater? " asked Andrds.
The priest took the hand which the young peasant
held out to him, but looked reproachfully at him the
while.
'^Andrds, you have ceased to care for your old
friend."
"That was a wicked speech. Pater," said Andrds
earnestly, " you will have to write to the Bishop for
special absolution for so monstrous a falsehood. . « .
There ! there ! . . . you must forgive me ... I am
an ungrateful wretch . . . and . . . Pater . . . you
Love Lies Bleeding 311
shall have what money you want for the schools . . •
Let them start building the moment the frost breaks up.
. . , You settle it all . . . it is your idea . . . you
carry it out as you think best. . . . Good-bye ! Tell
my mother I will be back to-morrow,"
** God bless you, Andrds ! I '*
" Hush ! I think perhaps He may do that later on.
... At present He is not thinking of me I ...
Good-bye ! "
The old priest had hoisted himself up on his horse.
He seemed loth to go. Once or twice he looked back
as Ddndar started off at a slow majestic trot. The tall
figure of the peasant stood for a long time looking
after him at the crossroads ; Pater Ambrosius could see
him well, outlined against the brilliant sky. The kind
priest fumbled for his large handkerchief and blew his
nose very violently. He had felt an uncomfortable
lump in his throat.
CHAPTER XXIX
HONOUR THY FATHER AND THY MOTHER
Once more the walls of Bideskdt rang out with
excitement and laughter. Once more the great kitch-
ens were filled with busy maids and scullions; oxen
were roasted whole on gigantic spits ; sheep and lambs
were slaughtered ; there was rushing hither and thither
up and down the great staircase and along the stone-
paved walls. It was the Countess's birthday to-mor-
row, and at last, after two years, Bideskdt would see
gaiety, hear czigdny music once more.
The Countess Irma felt more agitated and nervous
than she would, in the ordinary course of events, have
thought it good form to be. So many terrible things
had happened since the last time, when a bevy of
guests had filled Bideskdt with that atmosphere of aris-
tocratic gaiety which she loved so well ; she knew that
the time had at last come when she would have to face
the covert sneers and satirical sympathy, the astonished
questions of her friends over the preposterous marriage
of the loveliest heiress in the county. As she gave
her orders in the kitchen and stables, saw to the deco-
ration of the tables, the tapping of the wine casks, the
airing of the guest chambers, she hardly realised that
there had been any great change in her life since
when, two years ago, after that terrible and mysterious
fire, the guests all left hurriedly, leaving sorrow and
3xa
Honour thy Father and Mother 313
desolation behind. Only when she met Ilonka on the
stairs, and when during meal-time was aggravated by
the strange silent ways of the merry girl of two years
ago, and felt the unaccountable sensation of not being
able to order her own daughter about, or find fault with
her curious, independent ways, then only did she
unpleasantly remember the many events that had been
crowded in upon her thick and fast in the past two
years.
That Ilonka would very soon leave her vulgar hus-
band's home had always been a part of her scheme,
without which, perhaps, she never would have given
her consent to the terrible marriage; but she had
always, at the same time, reckoned that her child
would come back to her very much as she had been
before the awful peasant suitor had o'ershadowed her
life ; that, in fact, Ilonka, as a grass widow, would
be perhaps a little more fascinating to the men, a little
more free and loud in her manner, but in other ways
would be very much the same, and that she would join
in merrily with her mother in a mutual effort to (Wve
all ideas of the peasant husband well out of the pre-
cincts of Bideskdt.
When, the day after the wedding, Ilonka returned
to her former home, the very shadow of her original
self, the mother's heart felt at first a pang of remorse
and sorrow. Full of genuine sympathy, she tried to
fold the poor ill-used child on her fond motherly breast,
and prepared to hear with horror and with tears the
confidences of the deeply-wounded, aristocratic girl,
thrown into the arms of the common brute who was
her husband.
Instead of this, her daughter, evidently weak and ill
from all she had gone through, refused to speak a
314 A Son of the People
word to her mother on the subject of her brief stay
beneath her husband's roof. Silently she had allowed
both father and mother to kiss her ; silently she had
resumed her accustomed place at meals, and silently
taken possession, after one night's absence, of her girl's
room, and continued her scarcely interrupted ways.
Ilonka was strangely changed, her mother thought.
She seemed to have forgotten how to smile, spoke very
little, and brought strange, curious notions back with
her from her short stay in the peasant's cottage. Her
mother had no authority over her. Countess Irma felt,
herself, how ridiculous it would be to attempt to dic-
tate to a daughter who, after all, was a married woman
and had the right to do as she pleased. Certainly it
was very irritating that Ilonka insisted on going so
often to see the old peasant woman at Kisfalu whom
she persisted in calling ** mother." A strange friend-
ship appeared to have sprung up between the young
grass widow and her mother-in-law. The Countess
Irma could not understand it ; but she had it, on the
most reliable authority, that Kemeny Andrds had lived
alone at Zdrda ever since his wedding-day; she was
therefore, to a certain extent, satisfied that her
daughter did not so far demean herself as to keep up
any relationship with the presumptuous peasant who
had dared to call himself her husband.
As for that odious Kemeny Audrds, the Countess
did not trouble her head much about him. The day
after his marriage he had sent over to Bideskdt a pon-
derous paper, which turned out to be a deed of gift to
Ilonka of the whole of the Bideskdt property. That
was as it should be ; of course, he could not expect his
aristocratic wife to be dependent on him or on her par-
ents. Countess Irma thought it all for the best. The
Honour thy Father and Mother 3^5
child had never known that Bideskdt had passed out
of her parents' hands. She need never know it now.
She never asked questions ; seemed altogether not to
trouble herself as to whence her maintenance came, or
who was responsible for her food and clothing. She
supposed her father to be still the wealthy nobleman
she had always heard him described, who was well
able to look after his only daughter, if she did not
choose to live with her husband ; her parents treated
her most generously. She had everything she wanted ;
even during that terrible cholera time, Bideskdty gave
her all the money, the wheat, the wine she asked for,
for the poor in the village. The Countess Irma put up
her hands in holy horror when Ilonka announced her
intention of staying at Kisfalu until the epidemic was
over. Ilonka had said *' I am going,'' in a tone that
brooked of no gainsaying. Moreover, what could pre-
vent her ? She was a married woman. She was no
longer under her mother's tutelage.
She stayed away for four months ; Countess Irma
could not imagine what the child could be about.
Kem6ny Andrds was at Zdrda, where the cholera
was at its worst ; the noble lady at Bideskdt fondly
hoped that the epidemic would do its full duty, as far
as the odious man was concerned.
The cholera in the village and consequent fear of
infection was sufficient excuse for ceasing to see Pater
Ambrosius. The priest had developed a most unpleas-
ant habit of talking for ever of Andrds, and all the
money which he spent in order to alleviate the horrors
of the epidemic. Ilonka was away, so she did not
hear this perpetual chorus of praise, but she seemed to
have caught some of her vulgar husband's fondness for
the wretched peasants in the dirty hovels of Arokszdllds.
3i6 A Son of the People
At last, in the winter, Ilonka came home again.
She seemed brighter and pleasanter than when she left,
though she never would tell her mother how she had
spent the last few months. The Countess Irma began
to look forward to the spring and summer. Last year
she had had no guests at the house at all for her
birthday. The cholera was just at its worst in the
county. But this year she knew many would come,
and half-forgotten traditions would be revived. Curi-
osity would bring many guests to Bideskiit. Countess
Kantdssy would be tiresome. Mariska had just mar-
ried Bart6cz Zsiga, who had a brilliant appointment at
the embassy in lyondon, while Bideskdty Ilonka, the
far-famed beauty of the county, had married one of her
father's peasantry. However, that annoyance would
have to be got over. The hospitality of Bideskdt this
year, the wines, the meat, the fruit, would surpass
anything the neighbours could ever do.
There always was plenty of money now, and this
year the harvest had been splendid, and had well com-
pensated for the terrible floods last year.
Kem6ny Andrds certainly seemed to understand the
management of the estate. This was only natural.
All peasants understood the growing of wheat and tur-
nips. He managed everything ; Gyuri merely enjoyed
the produce and the revenues, and of that there was
now ** plenty and to spare.**
" It seems quite like old times,** said the Countess
Irma to her husband, who sat smoking in his study.
** Do you remember, Gyuri, two years ago you and I
sat just like this, discussing the arrangements for
my birthday party ? Who would have guessed all the
events that have crowded in upon us since that day ? *'
Bideskdty Gyuri was suffering from the gout; he
Honour thy Father and Mother 3 ^ 7
could not put his foot to the ground, which made him
cross and irritable. He grunted savagely, as he smoked
his pipe.
" I daresay, now, you see how right I was," added
the Countess, ** to warn you against those inventions of
Satan. Everybody warned you, Gyuri. You must
see how wrong you were.*'
Bideskdty said nothing. He was armed with infi-
nite patience. Moreover, he had heard reproaches and
recriminations so often that they had no longer any
eflFect upon his temper. He drew great clouds of smoke
out of his long pipe, giving occasional grunts of pain,
and adding two or three strong words under his breath.
When his wife was silent he said quietly :
'^ I am sure all your menus are not settled yet. And
you said half an hour ago that you were going to cut
the verbenas for your table decorations.**
** That means that you want me to go. Do you
expect any one ? * '
'•Yes. I do.**
*'Whoisit?'*
" Some one on business."
" Business, Gyuri ? *' she asked suspiciously. ** Not
some Jew money-lender, surely ? **
** No ! No ! What in Heaven's name has it got to
do with you whom I am going to see ? **
" I do not understand the word * businees. ' That son -
in-law of yours sees to all the business, usually. You say
it is not a Jew money-lender — surely it is not ...?**
** Well, yes, it is. I have a right to see whom I
please in my own house, I presume? *'
'* You do not mean to say that man is coming here?"
"And why not?**
** With Ilonka in the house ? *'
r
318 A Son of the People
Well! he is not going to eat her, I suppose ?•'
Gyuri, you must think of her feelings. She cannot
meet that man here."
** Stuflfand nonsense ! He is her husband, is he not?
You are not going to imagine that they will for ever
live apart, like this ? And if they do, all I can say is
that Ilonka must have aggravated him beyond meas-
ure, just as you aggravate me. He had no gout, so he
ran away."
** Gyuri, I do believe that vulgar peasant has
bewitched you, as he has bewitched that stupid old
priest. Talk about aggravation I I endure a perfect
martyrdom from hearing his praises sung by all. A
horrid brute I call him, after the way in which he has
behaved to your daughter. She is far too kind and too
considerate to tell you all she has endured at his hands ;
but she would not have left him so soon unless he had
been a more vulgar beast than even I took him for."
** You women have no sense of honour ! " thundered
Bideskdty ; '* you talk of that man as a brute and a
beast, and you are content to take every generous gift
from his hands. He rescued this very house we live in
from the clutches of that blood-sucking Rosenstein ;
he handed over to Ilonka the entire property, which,
from beginning to end, must have cost him hundreds
of thousands. Quietly he manages everything for us,
in order that she may live in luxury, and that neither
her pride nor ours should suffer. And you talk of his
shameful conduct to our daughter ? What do you say
to her conduct then ? "
** Gyuri, remember that the poor child does not
know that Bideskdt ever passed out of your hands. She
knows nothing of any money transactions that passed
between you and that man."
Honour thy Father and Mother 3^9
'' Well, it was not my fault that these abominable
secrets were concocted. Ilonka was old enough to be
told all. The man did not stand a fair chance. You
did your best to place him in an odious light before
the child's eyes, and then threw her in his arms, leav-
ing him to fight his own battles. It was not fair."
** Gyuri, you are taking leave of your senses ! To
tell Honka what passed between Kem6ny Andr&s and
yourself would have shown you in a very humiliating
light before your own child. How could you have
expected her, after that, to honour her father and her
mother? You would have destroyed all the respect
she ever had for us.**
" I do not know that it would not have been better,
Irma, that she respected us a little less, and her hus-
band a little more. I tell you I positively groan under
the load of gratitude she and all of us owe to that
man.**
** Gyuri, these are more of those progressive notions
which you get out of the foreign books you read,
notions which have already caused your ruin.**
** Do not harp on that string, Irma, or *'
** Hush 1 it is no use losing your temper, Gyuri;
what is done cannot be undone. We must tr}'^ to make
her as happy as we can, and get her to forget the past.
She is very young ; he is close on middle age, I be-
lieve. There is every chance that she will be a widow,
perhaps, before she is thirty. Then she will be very
rich ; she can make what marriage she pleases, and she
will be the first one to be thankful to us for the way
we arranged her life for her. In the meanwhile I must
try to keep her out of this part of the house. To-day
I **
The door had been gently opened, and Ilonka came
320 A Son of the People
in with a pretty smile, which gave her a look of her
former self. Her mother darted a suspicious look at
her, but the girl appeared unconcerned, and merrier
than she had seemed for many months.
** Well, I must go and see to my flower decorations,"
said the Countess with indifierence. *' Ilonka, I think
you can help me. You might get me a large basketful
of those pretty verbenas from the back of the green-
house. I do not want the maids to cut them, as they
pull the plants up by their roots. I can do with quite
a great many, Panna will give you a basket ; when
you have filled it, you might join me in the bakehouse,
where I shall be arranging them."
** I will follow you at once, mama. But," she added
with a coquettish little smile, ** may I not stay and
talk to papa for a little while ? "
** Only a few moments then ; I am waiting for the
verbenas, and your papa is expecting one of his bailifiFs
on business."
*' Five minutes, mama, and I am with you."
The Countess Irma was reluctant to go. She never
liked to leave her husband alone with Ilonka. However,
she threw a warning look at Bidesktity, and went out.
Ilonka waited till her mother's footsteps were heard
no longer down the passage ; then she turned to her
father, and said quietly:
** Papa, will you tell me what is the * load of grati-
tude ' I and all of us owe to my husband ? "
Ilonka, you have been listening ! "
Without meaning to, I assure you. I was coming
into the room ; that phrase caught my ear, as I was
about to open the door. I confess I tried to hear more,
but could not catch what mama said. You will tell
me, won't you?"
Honour thy Father and Mother 321
** I . • • I . . . only spoke in a general way," said
Bidesktity nervously. ** You cannot have heard
properly/*
** Now, papa," she said coaxingly, " I want you to
try and remember, please, that I am no longer quite
such a child as I was. Two years are a long time,"
she added wistfully, ** and I have had a great deal to
go through, since then. I . . . am married . . . and
a great deal older ... I think I have a right to know
in what way we owe a debt of gratitude to the man
whose name I bear."
**You must get your mother to tell you all you
want to know, Ilonka," said Bidesktity.
** You know quite well, papa, that she will tell me
nothing. It is no use fighting against it, dear ; I shall
not go out of this room until I have been told what I
want to know."
*• There is nothing to tell."
** What debt of gratitude do I owe my husband ? "
**You misunderstood me," persisted Bideskiity,
obstinately.
** Papa, I have asked you, with a child's respect.
Do not force me to demand what I have the right to
know."
** Ilonka, you are perverse. What good can you get
out of knowing things which only concern your mother
and myself?"
*• What money did Kem^ny Andr&s give you for
allowing me to marry him ? "
*' Ilonka, you have taken leave of your senses," said
Bidesktity, furiously.
" No ! I have not. You will not tell me the truth,
and I jump at conclusions. If you refuse to tell me
everything, it will be impossible for me to remain
91
322 A Son of the People
under your roof another hour, and ..." she added,
with a catch in her throat, '*as, of course, my husband
would not have me, I shall have to go away . . .
elsewhere."
' ' Ilonka, listen I You women are most unreasonable.
You say you are not a child. You must know that a
fire one year and a flood the next are enough to ruin
any proprietor. Coupled with that, a blood-sucking
usurer cheated and swindled me, till all my land passed
into alien hands. Your husband had lent me a great
deal of money on the security of my lands. He charged
me a fair interest. That brute Rosenstein, whom, I
hear, the devil has at last fetched away, made me sign
a paper agreeing to pay usurious interest. I paid it
year after year, not knowing that it went into the
Jew's pockets, and that Kem6ny never saw a penny
of it. The fire and the flood completed the usurer's
work. I was a ruined man. Then, there were some
papers which I had signed without reading them —
acknowledgments of money which I had never received
— that brute Rosenstein threatened me with the Lord
knows what. It appears that he had right on his side,
since I had signed those accursed papers. Kem6ny
Andrds came to me. He stopped the Jew' s mouth with
gold, bought back all those papers for me, paid the
mortgage on this house, from which Rosenstein was
threatening to turn us all out. The land was his
anyway. You, I, your mother, were beggars, Uke the
gipsies without a home. He told me he loved you.
He wanted to marry you. The land, he said, would
thus be secured to you and your children. What could
I do? . . . The knife was at my throat. • . . I
consented."
Ilonka did not speak. She was very pale and her
Honour thy Father and Mother 323
eyes were fixed, staring at her father in hopeless
bewilderment.
**He paid the mortgage on this house. He took
over the property and managed it, as only he knows
how to manage an estate. It all was his, but no one
ever knew it. He consulted me in everything, and
acted as if he were merely my bailiflf. At times I quite
forget that I am not really the owner of the land, and
give him my orders, which he always carries out. He
once told me that he was only your administrator. . . .
He has more heart, that man," added Bidesktity,
bringing his fist heavily down on the table, **than any
one I have ever known ; he "
** Please, papa," interrupted Ilonka, **tell me only
the facts. Do not overwhelm me with shame more
than you need."
** You never told your mother why you left your hus-
band. He has told me nothing. The day after your
marriage he sent me a paper. I read it through very
carefully. It is a document by which he makes over
to you the property of Bidesktit, absolutely, reserving
himself the right to look after the management of the
estate. He did not quite trust me, you see," added
Bidesktity with a smile ; ** he does not consider me a
good manager. But he is a splendid one himself,
Ilonka," he exclaimed enthusiastically; ** you see
yourself in what princely style this house is being kept
up, and there is always plenty of money, in good hard
cash, besides ; plenty of com to sell, and the beasts
fatten and prosper like anything: I never had so many
colts and calves to sell, such quantities of com and
maize. That man knows the value of every foot of
land. He looks after everything. And I sit at home,
approve of all he does, pocket the money when he has
324 A Son of the People
done a good sale for me . . . that is to say, for you,
Ilonka, for it is all yours. . . . And you have never
wanted anything, have you, that you did not get? "
** Then, the money which I had to give to the poor,
at cholera time, came not from you, but from him ? "
asked Ilonka quietly.
** No ! . . • not exactly from him, my child ; the
property is yours/*
** He gave it to me."
" Well, is he not your husband ? "
** Yes!" said Ilonka vehemently, while her voice
shook with tears. ** Yes, he is my husband. He paid
dearly enough for the pleasure of calling the penni-
less daughter of the lord of Bidesktit his wife. Oh,
the shame of the whole thing ! " she added passion-
ately ; ** how could you ? how could you ? "
" I don't know why you talk of shame— except that
you and he seemed to have had a disagreement, and
there is no shame in that. Your mother and I have
had plenty in our day, though she was never head-
strong enough to run away from me ; and a disagree-
ment is soon put right."
** Soon put right? Oh, papa ! you don't know ! you
don't know !"
There were great sobs in her throat now ; she buried
her face in her hands, while she repeated :
*^ Oh ! the shame of it ! The shame ! How could
you?"
'^ I do not see that there is an occasion for making a
scene," said Bidesktity a little irritably. * * I don't know
what is the matter with you women ; you always con-
trive to be aggravating, whatever you do. You
wanted to know ; you forced me to tell you, much
against my will, things which your mother had decided
Honour thy Father and Mother 325
were far better for you not to know. I must say, I
see no occasion for tears/'
'* No, papa,*' said Ilonka, hastily mopping her eyes,
and coming dose up to her father, ** as you say * . . I
wanted to know . . . and you have told me. ... I
am very . . . very grateful to you for this.'*
**You won't tell your mother?" he suggested
anxiously.
'* No," she said, smiling through her tears, at his
nervous expression of face, ** I will not speak on the
subject before her. There is no reason to do that. I
will join her now . . . and cut the verbenas."
She stooped down to kiss her father.
•* And, Ilonka ... I think you might try to settle
up your differences with your husband. He is such a
good fellow. Your mother says it is no concern of
mine, but . . . Andrds ... is coming here, presently
. . . and "
**I must join my mother," interrupted Ilonka
quietly ; " she must be waiting for the verbenas."
And before Bideskdty could say another word, she
had slipped quickly out of the room.
Good old Gyuri did not understand his daughter.
It seemed to him as if a great deal of fuss was made
about nothing. The peasant had turned out to be a
very decent sort of fellow, and Bidesktity had a cer-
tain uncomfortable feeling that Andrds had not been
granted fair play ; moreover, it was very annoying that
there were no prospects of those grandchildren for the
sake of whom the preposterous marriage was to a cer-
tain extent bearable. He still had notions of winning
Andrds over to his own idea of his machinery and
steam-mill. The latter stood desolate and solitary:
inntunerable spiders had woven their webs among
326 A Son of the People
the massive wheels and pulleys which had weU-nigh
caused the ruin of a Hungarian nobleman. The obsti-
nate peasant would hear nothing of it, and Bidesk^ty
had not the courage to start it again on its career with-
out the approval and influence of his wealthy son-in-law.
He was glad that he had unburdened his heart to his
daughter about those money affairs. He hated every-
thing to do with money, and he had a vague feeling
that there was something low and shabby being done
by himself to somebody. He would not acknowledge
to himself that he had a strong liking for "that con-
founded peasant/' who was such a splendid manager ;
that he loved riding over his fields with him, and had
the true Hungarian's admiration for so perfect a rider
as Kem6ny undoubtedly was. Moreover, Andris
always had pleasant news to tell him, about some
lucky stroke of business ; and now, when the lord of
Bideskut met any of his peasantry, he was always
greeted with quite a merry cheer, especially when he
had his son-in-law with him. As for his threshing
machines, there was no doubt that they had been quite
popular during this last harvest time.
Ah, well ! the worid was getting topsy-turvy !
Thank goodness ! Bideskdty was getting old, and
would not see the day when peasants would own every
bit of land, and nobles would live in small houses in
the provincial towns. For the present, his son-in-law
always called him ** my lord " ; but he called Andr^
" my son," and was always glad when he had the
proispect of seeing him during tiie day.
Even now, his face quite beamed as he heard a
heavy step on the flagstones of the hall ; he tried to
raise himself in his chair, but his foot was very painfuL
The door was thrown open ; the well-known tall figure
Honour thy Father and Mother 327
appeared in the oak framework; but Bidesktity,
unobservant as he was, could not help noticing how
ghastly white and strange was the peasant's face, how
wild the look in his eyes, and, shaking his head, he
held up a warning finger.
God has brought you, my son," he said cheerily,
but where in the world do you come from ? and what
wine have you got into your head ? You look as if, at
last, you had come face to face with Satan 1 '*
CHAPTER XXX
THE GRAVE OF LOVE
Ilonka came away from the interview with her
father in a state which was half one of bewilderment,
and half .one of acute suffering.
That pride which is the inalienable characteristic —
virtue or vice— of those Magyars who have held the
lands of Hungary in uninterrupted succession of gen-
erations, while the empires of Europe fell and rose
again, that pride that rules their every action, which
has prevented their accepting modem progress, and
built a barrier round them which nineteenth-century
civilisation could never pierce, that pride in Sonka
had received a deadly wound. The descendant of a
line of noble warriors who helped to build up a king-
dom had been shamed by the chivalry and generosity
of a peasant.
For the first time in her life, Ilonka broke the spirit
of the commandment which bade her honour her
father and her mother. She resented bitterly the part
she had, in her ignorance, been made to play. She
felt her conduct to have been odious beyond what
words could say. In ignorance of the real state of the
case, she had been thrown into the amis of one of
those men whom, all her life, she had been taught to
despise ; and, wilfully, she had been kept in ignorance
of the fact that this man, among all men, was notde
and generous and proud above all.
338
The Grave of Love 329
Yes, proud, with the pride of noble deeds, with the
pride that disdained even to reply to insults so
absolutely unmerited.
Oh, how he must have despised her ! He, the peas-
ant, the descendant of serfs, with what contempt he
must have looked upon her, the penniless aristocrat,
the noble beggar, who turned on the hand that fed her
and hers.
Oh, it was horrible ! — a burning shame brought the
tears into her eyes. She tortured herself with the
recollection of all the taunts, the insults, she had, in
her blind ingratitude, hurled at this man, who had
loaded her and her family with gifts, and in return
asked for such a very little love.
The silence which she took to mean shame and
remorse was one of unutterable scorn for her. He
disdained to explain to her how little he had merited
those taunts of cupidity and arrogance. Ilonka remem-
bered that he bore everything silently, until . . . until
. . . oh, that was a cruel blow she dealt I she wondered
now what demon had suggested it. He had done so
much to win her, and she calmly told him that she
loved another. Then only did he say to her that she
had gone too far ; then only did the rough peasant's
wrath threaten to avenge the bitter insults, and silence
for ever the ungrateful tongue.
Oh, why had Btelka then intervened ? Why was
not her life allowed to pay the penalty of her odious
conduct ? one blow would then have ended the bitter
conflict between a man's passion and a woman's pride.
Then . . . oh, then . • . the terrible duty would not
have been before her which now her very pride com-
pelled her to perform.
A peasant could not outdo an aristocrat in chivalry.
33^ A Son of the People
She had wounded him and his pride ; she would make
amends. He had made every sacrifice to gain her love ;
she would try and give it Humbled before him, she
would ask his forgiveness. She would return to that
home from which her cruelty and injustice had driven
him that fatal night. She had done a great wrong,
but the reparation would be equally great. Love she
could not give him. Oh, no ! she had loved once . . .
long ago ... in her early youth, a man who was
refined, aristocratic ... so respectful, when he whis-
pered gently, ** Ilonka, I love you, " without even
daring to touch her hand. Oh, no ! she could never
love this man, whose voice was rough, and whose eyes
seemed to look into her very soul ; whose strange, wild
words made her shudder with an indefinable feeling
which must be horror. Ilonka remembered his last
farewell to her, when his voice had ceased to tremble,
and he swore to her that never again would he speak
of his dead love to her.
Dead love ? could love be dead ? Hers for the hand-
some young hussar was surely still alive in her heart.
It seemed so cruel to talk of love as dead. No wonder
that, when he swore his strange oath, a terrible pain
had seized her heart, and had remained there ever since.
It was a curious pain, which she could not understand,
but which, at times, became unbearable, whenever the
sighing of the wind through the poplar trees brought a
faint echo of the rugged voice to her ear. Then at
night, when the moon shone cold upon the plains, she
felt sometimes as if her heart would break. And she
always wondered why.
Oh, no I no ! no ! a thousand times no I She, Ilonka
of Bideskiit, the daughter of those who had owned this
beautiful land while ages came and went — ^no! she
The Grave of Love 33 ^
could never love the peasant. But she could be grateful ;
she could make amends for her wrongs, and repay by her
submission, her obedience — if need be, her deference —
the deep debt her family had contracted in her name.
She had strolled out into the garden. The mid-day
sun was hot and scorching. Dreamily she wandered
down the acacia drive, where the ground was cool and
fragrant, covered with a carpet of sweet-scented petals.
She looked out through the open gates, and there, far
away across the plain, she saw a tiny speck upon the
horizon. Her heart beat fast. She was angry with her-
self, at her own cowardice ; she had nothing to fear.
The humiliation would be great, but the greater it was,
the more contented would be her pride, for then the
greater would be the atonement.
Andrds dismounted at the gate, leaving Csillag to
wander at her sweet will, while he walked up the drive
to the castle. Ilonka heard him saying farewell to his
horse, and telling her he would not be long, just as if
the mare was a human creature and his dearest friend.
Then she stepped forward.
Andr&s did not start. He looked at her so quietly,
almost as if he had expected to see her there. Ilonka
saw, at once, how very much older he seemed than on
the day when he had first kissed her hand. And as he
lifted his cap, she saw how grey his hair had turned at
the temples. Silently he would have passed, but she
said timidly :
** My father is Waiting to see you ; but I came out
here, as there is something I wished to say to you.
. . . Will you hear it?"
He stopped, with his cap in his hand, looking down
at her, with a half-vacant look in his eyes, as if his
thoughts were very far away.
332 A Son of the People
If it is necessary," he said, **I will listen."
I, accidentally . . . to-day ... for the first time
. . • heard something which should never have been
kept from me. ... I ... I did not understand . . .
when I married . . . the terrible position in which
my poor father was placed . . . and from which
your . . . your . . . generosity rescued him. . . .
I '*
'* Noble lady," he said very quietly, ** I must ask
you not to distress yourself, or waste your valuable
time, in speaking of things that are long past and for-
gotten. What business dealings I had with my lord I
can assure you that he has acknowledged in the way
he thought fit."
'' Yes ! but that is not all," she continued more ve-
hemently, while her cheeks gradually began to glow,
" I myself had a great part — one unknown to me — ^in
these dealings. My ignorance blindly led me into
what must have seemed to you the basest ingratitude,
when . . . when ... on that night ... I spoke to
you as I did. . . . Believe me ... I did not know
... all you had done. . • . Oh, I see it now 1 how
contemptible I must have appeared . . . the shame of
it is more than I can bear . . . and now I could not
rest . • . till I had told you . • . how infinitely sorry
I am. • • •
She looked exquisitely beautiful as she spoke, with
the flush upon her cheeks, her eyes glowing with ex-
citement and tears, looking up at him with the gentlest
look Ae had ever received from her.
'* I assure you again, noble lady," he said with an
effort, *' that you distress yourself unnecessarily. The
simple services which I had the good fortune to render
to your father were such as any man would render
The Grave of Love 333
another, if he saw him struggling against a somewhat
undeserved fate."
•* You are trying to shame me worse/* she said, ** by
depreciating your generosity. It is cruel of you ! I
have come to you, full of gratitude . . . tardy, perhaps
. . . but, nevertheless, truly felt. I had been deceived
by my parents, who no doubt thought they acted for
the best, but who have caused me to wound you deeply,
whom I should have honoured for your kindness and
chivalry. . . . Hearing that you were coming to
the castle to day, I stole out that I might tell you
how ..."
He put up his hand with the quick commanding
gesture so habitual to him.
** Pardon me, noble lady, for interrupting you.
There is absolutely no occasion that you should say
the words which, I feel sure, in a calmer moment you
will bitterly regret The events of the night to which
you refer have faded from my memory. If, as you
say, you have some consideration for the few services
I rendered your family, might I appeal to it in request-
ing you to allow this interview to cease, since it must
be equally painful to us both ? "
He bowed very low, and had turned to go before
Ilonka could make the slightest attempt to stop him.
She stood in the drive, beneath the acacia trees,
watching his tall figure moving quickly towards the
castle. He did not turn once to look behind him,
although he must have heard the sob which involun-
tarily broke through her throat. She watched him till
he had disappeared within the castle ; then, unreason-
ingly, blindly, she fled through the gates, down the
alley of poplar trees, towards the plain where, at least,
she could be alone with her shame and her humiliation.
334 A Son of the People
Oh, what a fool she had been ! Acting on blind,
mad impulse, she had humbled her pride before that
man, o£Fered him her gratitude, her friendship, and he
would have none of it. With absolute scx)m he refused
to listen to her explanations and to her sorrow ; he
despised her too much even to touch her hand. Fool,
fool that she was I
What did she think? what had she hoped? She
knew his love was dead ; he had s^id so that fatal
night. She with her own hand had killed it, and in
its place scornful indifference sat, against which she
had just bruised her pride. Oh, he knew how to take
his revenge ! he had returned insult for insult, taunt
for taunt ; his cool contempt had struck her in the face,
as once her cruel words must have struck him. She
hated him now ten times worse than before, now that
he took a pleasure in humiliating her, and in making
her suffer, now that she was powerless to wound him,
since he did not care. Yes ! of course she hated him,
and that was the reason that the pain in her heart
seemed more unbearable than it had ever been. She
hated him for that indomitable pride, a pride akin to
her own; he, a peasant, dare to be proud — a slave bom
but to be kicked and despised ! The untamed Magyar
blood in her veins boiled with indignation. Her mind
tried to conjure up a picture of that man suddenly
thrown into bondage, as his ancestors had been, and
made to obey humiliating orders, with a rough fore-
man at his back, who would strike him in the face
with a whip if he dared disobey. She gloated on
that vision, the abasement of him who had dared to
look down at her from some high altitude of inches
or of pride, gloated over it till the tears refused to be
kept back any longer by wrath, and she threw herself
The Grave of Love 335
down, passionately, on the hot, dry soil, and, burying
her face in her hands, she sobbed her heart out with
shame and with longing.
It was late in the afternoon when she at last roused
herself from this passionate weeping. A feeling of
utter hopelessness, of the deepest shame, made her long
to fly at once from Bideskdt. But she was inexperi-
enced ; she did not know to whom to turn for help in
this terrible emergency. Of course Bidesktit must be
returned to him as soon as possible. Thank God ! she
yet had the power to return scorn for scorn, and throw
back at the feet of the arrogant peasant the rich gifts
with which he thought to shame her. Then . . .
when that was done, she would go where he could find
no trace of her. She would be as dead to him as that
vaunted love which did not live a day.
She hoped that she could make him suffer once
again. She knew she had wounded him once, but
this, he said, he had forgotten. She would try to find
the weapon again with which she had struck him that
night, and which, in striking, had wrung from him
the cry : ** Woman, you have gone too far ! " She had
allowed that weapon to become rusty from want of
usage ; it was lying by, somewhere, half-forgotten, but
she would find it to-morrow, when the walls of Bidesktit
rung out with gaiety and laughter, and she, as the
young matron, the grass widow of the mysterious
peasant, would be courted, respected, as he now scorned
to do. The echo of her merriment, her laughter
would reach his ears, the leaves of the poplar trees
would repeat the soft words others would whisper
on moonlight evenings; then, perhaps, though love
lay buried, it would rise again from the dead, to suffer
bitter agony once more.
336 A Son of the People
She wandered homewards, where she found the
house in a whirl of excitement for the coming festivities.
Her mother had been anxious about her, and looked
suspiciously at her eyes, still swollen with tears. But
Ilonka threw herself, with almost feverish energy, into
the plans for picnics, parties, and music ; she displayed
a keen interest in the list of probable arrivals, and
delighted her mother with her eagerness over the new
frock she would wear on the morrow.
Bideskiity was in the highest spirits. Andr&s had
brought him good news and a handful of money. He
hoped his daughter would have the good sense to hold
her tongue before her mother. Ilonka certainly seemed
so eager, so merry, so excited, that the lord of Bides-
kilt quite modified his views as to all women being
aggravating.
CHAPTER XXXI
WV^ TRIUMPHANT
NkvkR had Bideskiit been so full : even the riding-
school was converted into a huge dormitory. It was
the grandest time the old walls had ever witnessed.
Morning, noon, and night there was no interruption to
the laughter, the czigdny music, the dancing, and
merry-making. Last year, the terrible cholera epi-
demic had kept every one away from the county of
Heves, but now all that trouble was over. The har-
vest had been plentiful, the hospitality at Bideskiit
would be sure to be regal, and every one was burning
to see the beautiful heiress, whose mysterious marriage
to a rich peasant had consumed every one with curios-
ity. The mothers with marriageable sons wanted
to know if papal dispensation had not already been
obtained, and the rich maid, wife, or widow, free once
more to contract more congenial ties ; the men, young
and old, were ready to flirt with her, now that she had
been freed from her mother's apron strings. It was
generally supposed that the peasant husband would be
kept in the background, and well known that Ilonka
had gone to live with her parents the very day after
her wedding.
Countess Irma had feared unpleasant questions. In
the lowlands of Hungary, where all families are more
or less closely related to one another, indiscretion
337
338 A Son of the People
counts for no crime, and Bideskiity and his wife were
well armed against boisterous chaff or covert satire.
The Countess Kant&ssy, who had married two of her
daughters to most eligible partis, was inclined to
be sadly sympathetic over Ilonka's extraordinary
mhailiance.
** My dear," she said, ** what terrible grief for you !
How could you ever give your consent to the horrible
match?"
'' Ilonka was fretting herself to death/' said the
mother, with tears in her eyes ; '* she fancied herself in
love with the brute, and would neither eat nor sleep till
she had her way about marrying him. We thought,
after all, that it was better to see her nominally the
wife of a peasant than lying in her cofBn."
" I call it unpardonable weakness," asserted an old
lady, who was a relation, and, therefore, had a right
to express strong views ; '' young girls do not die so
easily. You should have taken her to Budapesth ; she
would have forgotten such nonsensical follies."
'* Gyuri was always so weak, where Ilonka was con-
cemed," said Countess Irma, with a sigh.
'* But where in Heaven's name can it end ? Are you
trying to get papal dispensation ? "
** Yes, of course, we shall try to get the marriage
broken off. At present the poor child is very happy
with us . . . and he is very rich. . . . We never
mention his name before her, and ..."
** She certainly does not look heart-broken at this
moment," said Countess Kantdssy, looking across the
room at Ilonka, who, radiant with youth and beauty,
almost boisterous in her gaiety, laughed and chatted,
sorrounded by a group of men who were, evidently,
busy helping the young grass widow to forget that
Love Triumphant 339
there existed a mystical husband somewhere in the
background.
** That young Maddch is as much in love with our
Ilonka as ever, I see," said the old aunt.
** After all, my dear," suggested one of the ladies
placidly, ** here you have the best possible solution out
of the difficulty. Young Maddch is the best revolver
shot in the army. Invite your son-in-law here to see
Peri making love to Ilonka. . . . Let him provoke
his rival to a duel. . . . Maddch can kill the peasant
first . . . and step into his shoes afterwards."
**A nobleman cannot fight a peasant," said the
Countess dreamily.
** My dear, there are always exceptional circum-
stances."
** I had never thought of that. Certainly his money
would all become Ilonka' s after he died."
** Is he, then, so very rich ? "
** Fabulously, I believe. We never really troubled
ourselves as to how much he actually has."
'* Of course, Maddch has not a silver florin of his
own, but that would not matter, if Ilonka is so rich.
Think about it, my dear. We will all be very kind to
the peasant. Take my advice, and invite him to the
castle, or make some arrangements that he shall see
Feri devouring the lovely grass widow with his eyes.
Those peasants are terribly jealous."
It was after dinner, and the ladies were sipping coffee
underneath the verandah. The czigdny were playing
slow, dreamy Hungarian songs outside in the garden.
It was the hottest time of the day, and the scorching
atmosphere would allow, even to the young people,
nothing more active than wandering in the shady parts
of the garden. Ilonka had been among the merriest
340 A Son of the People
all day yesterday. She had danced the csdrdds half the
night through, and allowed Peri to make violent love
to her. She hardly realised whither she was drifting,
and forced her mind to wander back to the girlish
days of two years ago, forgetting the strange and dark
shadow which had since then lain across her path.
A bitter feeing of revenge and hatred made her heart
ache, and she made sacrifice to her pride by forcing
herself to flirt, dance, and make merry, in spite of that
numbing pain. She half hoped, as she allowed the
young man to lead her apart from every one else,
down the shady acacia drive, that he would come and
see her there, in the arms of another man, whom she had
loved — as she told him — for two years. She wondered
what he would do then ; if he would suffer as she had
suffered the last time she had stood in the acacia drive.
She and Peri had reached the great gates ; she looked
out upon the alley of poplars, and beyond it, far away
upon the plains, beyond which lay the tiny farmhouse
where, with her own hands, she had crucified lyove, and
struck him so bitter a blow with her cruel tongue that
he had died, since he could no Ignger bear the pain.
Wearily she passed her hand over her eyes. The
sighing of the poplar trees in the hot noonday air, the
distant melancholy cry of the storks, brought back
memories of that night in May, and made her heart
ache with sorrow and with longing. Peri's voice, as
he spoke to her, wearied her. She longed to fly down
the sandy road, towards the plains, where the gallop of
the wild horses, the flight of the birds overhead, the
very sand and rough soil all spoke to her of him.
**Ilonka!"
She started, as the tender, pleading accents of the
young man by her side reminded her that he was
Love Triumphant 341
there, that she loved him, of course, and that she
meant to forget, in that boy and girl love of long ago,
the rough storm of passion which had swept over her
and left her broken and bruised.
** You must go back," she said, with a nervous little
laugh ; I believe every one has gone indoors, and we are
alone in the garden. What will mama say? The
ladies will be so shocked."
** Ilonka ! " he said, vehemently, ** are you trying to
drive me mad? Is this some cruel game you have
devised to torture me ? All day you ..."
" Well ? " she said, coquettishly, ** all day, I what ? "
He came very close to her, and tried to take her
hand, though she started back a little.
** All day, Ilonka," he whispered, ** with every word,
with every sigh, you led me to hope that the word
which, two years ago, made me so happy, which dwelt
in my memory and made my life a paradise, that word
you would repeat."
** I do not understand."
"It was two years ago. ... Do you remember?
... a hot summer day like this. . . . We were very
young, you and I . . . you were a lovely child, and I,
then, already worshipped you. . . . Do you remem-
ber? . . . You said * perhaps ' ! "
Oh, yes ! she remembered . . . remembered the
delightful thrill she had felt, when the softly whispered
ardent words had first reached her ears . . . when first
she realised that there was one being in the world who
seemed more perfect than all. . . . And now ... of
course, . . . she loved him as dearly as ever . . . she
felt the same responsive happiness on hearing his voice
whisper again the fond words she had longed for so
long. ... Oh ! why did the sighing of those poplar
342 A Son of the People
leaves bring back the echo of that other voice, trem-
bling with passion, masterful, yet so exquisitely tender,
which she had silenced for ever?
** Ilonka, you do not answer."
She looked at his eager young face, earnest and
pleading, at his slight, graceful, aristocratic figure, his
fine, white hands, and a strange mist came across her
eyes, for she remembered that tall, picturesque figure
which, in this same acada-scented alley, had looked
down with such scorn upon her. Impatiently, she
brushed the mist away.
"Ilonka,*' he pleaded, ** God knows that I loved
you, for you were an exquisitely lovely child. If He
had given you to me, then I would have worshipped
and cherished you as the most priceless treasure on
earth. But some devils stepped between you and me,
and after living for two years on thoughts of that ' per-
haps,* Fate tried to change that word into * never.' I
suffered so, Ilonka, I could not have lived had I not
seen you again. You are ten thousand times more
beautiful than you were . . . and I . • . God help me
. . . love you ten thousand times more ! "
Half dreamily, she listened to him ; through the
open windows of the house, the faint sounds of wild
Hungarian melodies were wafted on the sweet-scented
air.
** I said * perhaps '," she said ; ** it was you, and not
Fate, who said * never * ! "
"I, Ilonka?"
** Yes, you ! they told me you cared for another, that
you were married, and ..."
** And you believed them ? Did you not remember,
then, that I loved you ? ' '
** lyove soon dies."
Love Triumphant 343
** lyove such as mine never dies, Ilonka ! " he said
earnestly.
I/)ve never dies ? . . . After two years of absence, of
weary waiting, he loved her still ? And she ? . . . oh !
of course, she loved him. She had meant to forget, in
his arms, the scorn, the contempt, of that other man
. . . and yet she felt irritated. The young earnest
face, the pleading voice, grated on her nerves. She
had always . . . ever since that night in May . • .
pictured love like this . . . soft, respectful, and plead-
ing . . . and she wondered why there remained such
a chill at her heart.
** Ilonka, won't you speak? *'
Wrapped in her thoughts, she had forgotten him ;
forgotten that he was pleading for that very love she
had been so ready to give.
•'What must I say?"
** Tell me that that sweet word * perhaps,* which
you spoke as a child, you will repeat, now that you are
a woman. That the evil fate which stepped between
us is but as a hideous dream, which our love can soon
dispel. See Ilonka ! the earth is vast, there are other
beautiful lands besides our own lovely plains : there
we can go, you and I, and take our love with us, se-
curely hidden from the eyes of the world ... we can,
like the birds that, in winter, fly away from the
plains, build our nest beneath some other skies • . .
Oh, Ilonka ... if you will say * perhaps,' . • .
if you will grant me leave to make you forget
the past ... I will show you such glimpses of
heaven as human beings have never yet dreamed
of."
He was covering her hand with kisses, kneeling
before her in the lonely acacia alley ; she turned her
344 A Son of the People-
head away from him towards the poplar trees which
were sighing so strangely in the wind.
** Fate has said * never ' ! ** she said.
'* But we can yet say * perhaps/ ** he pleaded.
** Ilonka, you were a child. You did not know what
you were doing. They forced your will, and dragged
you to the foot of the altar, where they made you
swear an oath ..."
*' Which, now, you would have me break ! "
" You swore it against your will, Ilonka."
** Yet I swore it at the altar, before God and before
man. You say you love me, and you would make me
base."
*' Base only in the eyes of an unjust world. Love
makes laws for itself, apart from mankind. I can pro-
tect you, Ilonka. What matters it what the world
says, since I love you, and if you say — ' perhaps * ! *'
It all seemed so unreal — ^this thing which she had
longed for, which she had pictured to herself as the
happiest moment of her life, when her early love would
rise triumphant above the dark shadows which had
overclouded her life. It seemed like a strange dream,
this same acacia alley, the fragrance of the same flow*
ers, and from afar the dying echoes of Magyar love-
songs played by the gipsy band.
Beneath these same trees, he had turned in contempt
from her and her gratitude, and she, forlorn and lonely,
had tried to blow on the ashes of another love, only to
find that each dying ember, as it flickered, left her
more cold and more alone.
" I love you, Ilonka ! "
Oh, why did not his voice thrill her? Why did
his pleading jar upon her ear like something oat of
tune ? A wicked desire seized her to wound him. too;
<(
(<
Love Triumphant 345
to make him suffer as he suffered, to goad him into
mad, unreasoning passion, which would perhaps revive
the handful of burnt ashes on which she tried to blow.
Feri," she said sadly, ** I cannot say * perhaps.' '*
Why, Ilonka?"
Because, that love you spoke of, the childlike ad-
miration for the first man who thrills a* girl's heart,
was not strong enough to battle against Fate. It has
sickened during these two years, and, now that I
thought to see it revive, I find that it is dead."
" Ilonka, you mistake," he pleaded eagerly ; ** you
are good and sweet, and believe that an oath binds you
to another man, and that it is a sin now to listen to my
love. But, remember ... he swore an oath, too . . .
he swore to love and honour you . . . but he has
broken his vow ... he has left you ... he cares
nothing for you ..."
" Stop ! " she said ; ** you have no right to say this.
And I have no right to listen."
*' You have every right to hear," he pleaded ; ** your
own pride must have told you that he, the peasant^
only cared for an aristocratic wife, that he was too
gross to appreciate the priceless treasure an all too
kind Fate had placed in his arms. He should have
guarded and cherished it, as I will guard and cherish
you. But, like a blind and ignorant lout, he threw
the precious gold away, and is no doubt now forgetting,
among the base pleasures of his class, the heavenly
happiness which lay for a moment so near his grasp."
She tried to stop him, but he would not hear. He
saw the strange look of agony in her eyes, but he did
not understand. His arms tried to close round her.
He would have drawn her to him.
^' Ilonka I as he has forgotten you, so you must try
346 A Son of the People
to forget him. No power in heaven or hdl could bind
you to an oath which you made against your will.
That man is not worthy that you should harbour one
thought of duty towards him. Your duty is to your-
self, who are bom to taste of happiness, to me who
have loved you so long, and who still worship at your
feet."
He had drawn her to him. With the look of a con-
queror he looked down into her eyes. His face was
close to hers ; she could feel his warm breath upon her
cheek. The leaves of the poplar trees beyond the gates
sent forth a long, melancholy sigh.
A terrible pity for him seized her : pity for his weak-
ness, pity for his love. Gently she pushed him away
from her.
** Feri," she said very quietly, " I seem to have sinned
very deeply against you ; if, as you say, by look or
word, I led you to think that my love for you was not
truly dead, then I am indeed sorry, and, in the name
of that past love, I must ask you to forgive me."
** I have nothing to forgive, Ilonka. ... I . . . "
** Do not interrupt me," she said, ** I have one thing
more to say. It is an appeal to your chivalry. You
must promise me . . . that you will forget . . . that
I ever listened to words such as you had no right to
speak to me ... "
'* I care not for right or wrong, Ilonka ; I know that
I love you ! "
**You must care," she almost pleaded. "We all
have to give up some hopes in life. . . • You must
give up all hopes of me ..."
** I cannot, Ilonka ; my love for you is my very life."
** It is better," she said earnestly, " to give up life
than to do what is base."
((
Love Triumphant 347
" But I will not give you up, Ilonka,'' he retorted
savagely, '* for I know that you are unhappy and alone,
that I love you, and that he scorns you, who ..."
** Yes ! " she interrupted quietly, ** you need not say
it I know that he scorns me. But, nevertheless, in
spite of that, I shall keep the oath I made at the altar."
I will kill him, Ilonka; and then you will be free ! **
Yes," she said dreamily, **then, perhaps, I will
be free."
** Till then, give me a word of hope, Ilonka."
* * A word of hope ? Listen, Feri. In my heart there
is an infinite love, and an infinite hatred : when I know
which of these two is the stronger, I will speak of love
to you."
Love for me? " he pleaded.
I cannot say, I do not know/'
Hatred for the peasant, the low-born serf, whom
Fate has made your lord ? "
" Perhaps ... I cannot say. . . . But now go.
. . • Leave me here a little while. . . . Go — go !
I am tired . . . the heat has made me dizzy. . . .
I will come back . • . but ... in Heaven's name,
go!"
She was trembling as if with fear, and her hand,
which he tenderly raised to his lips, was icy cold. His
heart ached for her; but he obeyed her and turned
to go.
When he had disappeared down the acacia alley, she
also turned and went out at the gates. The road lay
parched and arid before her, the hot mid-day air trem-
bled. The vast immensity of the plain lay silent and
drowsy before her.
Swiftly she walked down the hard, dry road, riddled
by great deep ruts. She felt neither the heat nor the
348 A Son of the People
hardnessof the road. On she walked, she knew not
whither. Away from that acacia-scented alley, away
from that house, those trees, which would not let her
forget
When she reached the edge of the plain, she left the
main-road and wandered on upon the soft sand. Par
away, from the tumble-down chimney of the little
wayside inn, there rose a thin column of smoke. The
sky was dense and blue, and on ahead, the line of the
horizon, hot and ruddy, was lost in a purple mist.
From time to time the wild cry of the herdsmen, driv-
ing their herds before them, broke the absolute stillness
around, or a flight of cranes, with dismal croaking,
would rise, affrighted, at her approach.
On she wandered, hoping, perhaps, that far ahead,
where sky and earth met, behind that purple veil, there
would lie forgetfulness, for which her heart nearly
broke with longing.
Then, as she wandered on, suddenly that veil was
lifted, and behind it there arose the glorious picture
of fairyland — golden towers and castles, delicious silver
streams, trembling as if shaken by fairy breath.
Never had she seen it in such splendour ; never had
she so longed that the elusive fairy might lend her
wings with which she might wander down the silent,
solitary streets of that mysterious golden city.
No ! Not solitary, for, see ! from out one of its
golden turreted castles a horse and rider seem to have
emerged, and to be coming towards her. Ilonka
looked, and her very heart seemed to stand still.
Where could she hide, on this vast arid plain, where
the orphan's hair alone, or the rosemary, broke the
evenness of the sand. . . .
She could not move . . . her feet seemed rooted to
Love Triumphant 349
the ground. The rider had not seen her yet, for the
August sun was in his eyes, and he held his head
down, as if under some heavy load.
Then he dismounted, and, patting the horse gently
on the neck, he let it roam about at its own will, whilst
he himself came straight towards her.
Suddenly he saw her, standing there before him,
white and fragile underneath her broad-brimmed hat,
the hot mid-day sun forming a golden aureole round
her dainty figure.
Helplessly he, too, looked round him, as if he would
have fled. But the plain is vast, and Csillag far away !
He gazed at her, with that strange, far-off look of
his, as if he were gazing not at her, but at a dream,
while his lips involuntarily parted to breathe her
name:
**Ilonka!*'
But she put up one tiny hand.
•* No ! No ! " she said, " not now ... not till the
fairy has gone, and taken her lovely picture away. . . .
I could not bear cruel words . . . just now ! *'
She was gazing out towards the brilliant, trembling
Fata Morgana afar. And he looked at her, for he did
not understand.
"Seel" she said dreamily, ** there lies, perhaps,
the land I seek. . . . They tell me I was born for
love and happiness. ... I have vainly sought both.
. . . Once they lay within my grasp . . . with pride
and arrogance I pushed them both away. . . . Since
then I have wandered alone upon the plain seeking
for that which I have lost. . . . Perhaps out there in the
fairy palace I shall find the grave of love, and then,
the Fairy Morgana, who guards it, will have pity om
my weariness, and let me lie down in it to rest."
350 A Son of the People
The air was so still that, from afar, the sound of the
tiny bell from the village church sounded silvery and
clear, and from the wayside inn there came the echo of
merry laughter.
He did not understand her strange, wild words, but
only thought how beautiful she looked, with her eyes
veiled in tears, and he held his arms tightly crossed
over his chest, lest the longing prove too great to dasp
her in his arms.
The heat overhead was intense. Her eyes, now,
had a wild, scared look ; she passed her hand once or
twice over her forehead, then looked helplessly at him.
" This is a dream, I know . . . presently I shall
wake ...,** she said, "but ... in the meanwhile
we are alone . . . you and I. . . . Do not look so
strangely at me . . , it ts sl dream, and we shall soon
wake up ! . . . But, while it lasts . . . take me in
your arms once again . . . and . . . perhaps . . .
God will be merciful, and the awakening will be only
in heaven. ..."
She had become deathly pale. She staggered for a
moment, and almost fell. The next his arms were
round her, he had called to her, ** Ilonka ! " But she
put up one tiny hand against his mouth.
** Nay, sweet ! my sweet ! '* she whispered, do not"
speak. . . . Do you remember . . . 3'ou swore a
cruel oath that love was dead. . . . Oh, how I have
suflfered since then ! . . . you do not know. . . .
Your heart would have ached to see my pain. . . .
You must not sp^ak ... for you might break that
oath. • . . But . . . stoop down . . . you are so tall
. . . and I want to whisper. . . • My husband!
Ilonka 1 "
Love Triumphant 35 1
«
Ay, she had said it truly ! it was a dream ! so en-
trancing, so beautiful, that even the Fairy Morgana' s
fitful visions seemed pale and dull beside it. He could
not speak, for happiness was too great. His arms
closed round her. She raised her sweet face up to his,
and in her blue, forget-me-not eyes he read at last
that love had risen triumphant from the grave.
''Ilonka . . . my love . . . my wife! "he mur-
mured in the midst of half-choked sobs, as his trem-
bling lips sought her sweet mouth in one long,
passionate kiss. How long they stayed there, alone
betwixt earth and sky, neither knew nor cared. He
had fallen on his knees before her, and the strong,
rough man, his head buried in the soft, clinging folds
of her gown, was sobbing as a weak child, for very
happiness.
Then, when he was calmer, she had to tell him all !
Oh, how sweet it was to hear her speak of her love !
She could not say when it was bom ; it had always
been there, she said ; her cruelty was but an outcome
of that very love which her pride had tried to trample
down.
When the sun sank down towards the west, and Fata
Morgana vanished behind her purple veil, they wan-
dered home towards the farmhouse beyond the puszta !
EPIi:<OGUK
Ah I that loveliest of all the days in the year ! that
merriest of all the festivals in June ! the feast of our
I^rd Himself, when, glad with the beauty, the bril-
liancy of the Hungarian sky, He leaves His dwelling,
within the village church, and spends twenty-four
hours beneath His own blue vault, safe and snug in a
sweet-scented bower of roses, built for Him by rough
yet reverent hands, outside in the tiny churchyard.
Roses and jessamine, honeysuckle and rosemary, in
gorgeous plenty, form a fragrant altar for this brief
dwelling of Our Lord, right in the very midst of His
children upon the lowlands, and there He sits, in a
sweet nest of white roses, surrounded by the bevy of
gaily-decked worshippers, the merry peasants of the
tiny village assembled at His feet to-day, not only to
worship, but also to see the most gladsome sight it has
ever been the good fortune of Arokszdll&s to witness.
Pater Ambrosius, having read the open-air Mass,
and having safely housed his Divine Master among the
flowers, is filling a large vessel with holy water. A
merry smile plays round the comers of his kindly old
mouth. There is eager expectancy on the faces of all,
when, hark! a tiny cry proceeds from the vestry beyond.
This is answered by a vociferous shout of *' Long
live ! '* as the door of the church opens, and there
appears, beneath the porch, my lord Bideskiity Gyuri,
in all the gorgeousness of his national attire, canying
352
Epilogue 353
in his arms, somewhat nervously, a tiny bundle, all
encased in lace and fine linen. Behind him, Kem6ny
Andrds's kindly face, beaming with happiness and
pride, smiles radiantly at the crowd of peasants who
have shouted themselves hoarse with ** Eljen our An-
drds ! Eljen our Ilonka ! '* Close to him the noble
Countess, impassive, slightly contemptuous, tries not
to look towards the tiny bundle, which, in spite of
herself, she constantly does, with an anxious^ maternal
eye.
Which of the two men is the prouder to-day — the
papa, or the godpapa ? The latter, though decidedly
nervous with the unwonted burden in his arms, looks
triumphantly on, as Pater Ambrosius, in the Name of
the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,
pours a deluge of holy water on the lace bundle,
which contains the heir to Bidesktit, Kisfalu, and
Zdrda. Gyuri, Andrds, and a host of other names
does the little bundle get, and, finally, a good kiss
from the kind Pater, whose throat is so choked that
he cannot say anything, but grasps Andrds* s hand and
that of my lord, and finally takes out his handkerchief
and blows his nose vigorously.
Then, when the ceremony is over, and the heir to all
the wealth and all the lands is richer by the promise of
the heavenly heritage, there is more cheering, more
shouting. Every one talks at once, every one wants
to see the son of Andrds, their own Andrds, and of the
gentle lady who has been their good angel through sad
times, and who has brought the happy laugh to An-
drds' s throat once more, and caused his cheering voice
to be heard again from one end of the village to the
other. Presently, there is a loud jingle of bells, a
sound of wheels, and the gorgeous turn-out, with its
33
354 A Son of the People
bright-red leather harness and silver bosses, and
drawn by five milk-white thoroughbreds, draws up
before the church porch, to convey the heir of Bidesktit,
Kisfalu, and Zdrda back to his farmhouse home.
Andrds, proudly carrying the precious burden, tries
to thank them all for their welcome. He is longing to
be home again, in the small, lonely house by the plain,
where the proud descendant of a hundred chieftains
awaits her peasant lord with a smile of infinite love.
And when he comes home, and places the tiny
bundle close to her ; when he kneels beside her and
folds her tenderly in his arms ; when, through a mist
of happy tears, his eyes tell her, more clearly than
words, "I love you, Ilonka !** then there is before
her such a golden vision — which is a reality — that
before it the Fairy Morgana's pictures appear but pale
and cold.
Jk Selection from the
Catalogue of
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Complete Cfttftloffues sent
on ftpplicfttion
"Somethins: distinctly out off the common, well concelvedi
vividly told* and stirrins: from start to ilniBh,"—LoadoaTeIegnph»
The
Scarlet Pimpernel
By Baroness Orczy
Author of** The Emperor's Candlesticks" etc,
A dramatic romance of the French Revolution and
the]&migr6 Nobles. The "Scarlet Pimpernel" was the
chief of a daringband of young Englishmen leagued to-
gether to rescue members of the French nobility from
the Terrorists of France. The identity of the bril-
liant and resourceful leader is sacredly guarded by
his followers and eagerly sought by the agents of
the French Revolutionary Government. Scenes of
intrigue, danger, and devotion, follow close one upon
another. The heroine is a charming, fearless wo-
man who in the end shares the honors with the
" Scarlet Pimpernel." In a stage version prepared by
the author The Scarlet Pimpernel was one of the
dramatic successes of the last London season, Mr.
Fred Terry and Miss Julia Neilson acting the leading
rdles. ^^^^
Crown 800, with illustrations from, Photographs
of the Play, fl.SO
New York ^G. P. Putnam's San^*' London
Bound to excite a great deal of favorable commeat
A Lost Cause
By
Guy Thome
>lutKor of "^WHen It 'W^n D^rK.**
CroiMrn Octavo - - - $1.
Mr. Thome, the author of tfeit much-discussed re-
ligious novel, IV^n It Was Dark, which has become
the theme of hundreds of sermons, and has receivea
the highest commendation in the secular pre^ as
well as in the religious publications, has written
another powerful book which also deals with present-
day aspects of the Christian religion. The new story
is marked by the same dramatic and emotional
strength which characterized his earlier work. The
special theme deals with certain practices which have
caused dissension in the Church, and the influence
of ardent religious convictions on character and con-
duct Written in all sincerity, the book can hardly
fail to arouse wide and varied attention and is
destined to take its place as one of the most interest-
compelling works of fiction in recent years.
New York— Q. p. Putnam's Son»— i^mmIob .
••MIM RMdtsdeltghtfallj wtttj, deltghtfallj humorom. de-
llghtfallj cynical, delightfully Mne, and above all, dellfhttally
At the Sign of
The Jack o' Lantern
By MYRTLE RBBD
Anthor of «• Lavender and Old Lace,** •• The Matter'a Violin,*' etc.
Uniform wItH ««I,«v«nder and Old Laoe**
S*. ClotK* net, Sl.50s Red L,e*tHer, net* S3«00
Antique C*lf, net, S2.50
LrA^vendeir SilK. net* Sd.50
A genial story of the adventures of a New
York news|Miper man and his young wife, who,
at the end of their honeymoon, go to an tmex.
plored heirloom in the shape of a peculiar old
house, where many strange and amusing things
happen. There is a mystery in the house, as
well as a significant portrait of an uncanny cat.
A vein of delicate humor, and a homely philos-
ophy runs through the story.
A complete descriptive circular of Miss Reed*s
books sent on application.
New York — Q. P. PUTNAM'S SONS — London
Love Alone is
Lord
By F. FranKfort Moore
Author of " The Jessamy Bride,'' eU.
This latest story by the author of The yes-
samy Bride has for its theme the only really
ideal love affair in the romantic life of Lord
Byron. The story opens during the poet's
boyhood and tells of his early devotion to
his cousin, Mary Chaworth. Mr. Moore has
followed history very closely, and his descrip-
tions of London society when Byron was the
rage are as accurate as they are dramatic.
Lady Caroline Lamb figures prominently in
the story, but the heroine continues to be
Byron's early love, Mary Chaworth. His at-
tachment for his cousin was the strongest and
most enduring of his life, and it failed of re-
alization only by the narrowest of chances.
Crown Svo, $L50
G. F. Putnam's Sons
New York London
8546 5
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