PART II
CHAPTER XVI
EASTER MORN
“It is going to leave off!”
“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 close up again.”
“I have felt a drop.”
“You are dreaming, Laczi; 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.”
“Hey! but it has left off now, hasn’t it?” repeated 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 unquestionably 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 main road, 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 Kemény András will contrive to come to church this morning.”
“He has good horses, he will come on Csillag’s back, and bring Etelka behind him.”
“She will never miss Easter Sunday Mass, I know. Etelka is very pious.”
“And András won’t let her come alone.”
“Have you noticed, my children,” said the wise elderly prophet, “that András has not been himself lately.”
“He does seem so quiet,” said Laczi, “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.”
“András is not one to bear ill-will,” asserted a younger man hotly, “he has never spoken a word about that fire since it happened.”
“Yon 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 close to the Tarna. 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 Bideskút 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.”
The group of peasants was 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 Easter morn. 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 disturbed the peaceful immensity of the plain, and changed the entire landscape into a sea of mud. Far ahead towards the north, could be heard the melancholy roar of the Tarna, as her angry waters, swollen by the continuous rain, clashed furiously onwards, overflowing their shallow banks, and submerging in their muddy depths, the rich fields of Bideskút, 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, nevertheless,” 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.
“Sári and Kati have each a pair of new red boots!”
“András gave them, I know. He drove into Gyöngyös, 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 now is quite gone, and she cannot tell cornflower seed from the finest lowland corn.”
“It is easy to do good,” said old Berczi, sententiously, “if one has plenty.”
“Not so easy, evidently,” said one of the younger men, “my lord anyhow finds it more difficult than András. 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 meant to deprive us of wage, while the devil did the work,” asserted Laczi hotly.
The group from Kisfalu had in the meanwhile managed 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 heels and spurs, which 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 number of coloured petticoats, round the waist of any one girl. There were Sári and Kati now, not to speak of scores of others, who could, this Easter morn 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 girl 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.
From 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 colours, red, white and green, fluttering in the wind. The graceful párta 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 embroidered 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 pártas, with bright-coloured shawls to hide their shoulders, and all carry ponderous prayer-books, with gigantic clasps, of brass or silver.
At the church porch, greetings and blessings are exchanged, while the women squat down on the flagstones, 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, invitation to the simple flock to rejoice and worship on this bright Easter morn. 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 continues 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 Bideskút, “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, Rezsö, 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.
“Rezsö, you know I have forbidden you 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 csárdás 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!” 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 Kemény András!” came from one or two cheerful voices among the men.
The prophecy had proved correct; András had relied on Csillag to bring him through the muddy roads, and Etelka 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 Etelka off her saddle. While András tethered Csillag and her companion to a tree, the carriage from Bideskút, drawn by four black horses, with scarlet harness and brass bosses, had driven up to the church porch. Respectfully 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 peasants, acknowledging their respectful greetings like a very queen amongst her vassals. Ilonka, as bright and merry as ever, was smiling to all, like a gay child. Evidently 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, András stood, holding his mother by the hand; they too stepped aside, as the Countess crossed the porch, and Etelka 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 András, and had acknowledged his greeting, but when she was quite close 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 Bideskút desired me to say, that he would speak with you; if you will honour him, by breaking 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 magnificent 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’ commands.
“I will attend upon my lord,” he said with a bow.
The next moment the Countess and Ilonka had disappeared 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 commence. 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 audible prayers.
In respectful silence, the pious, simple folk listened to the words, prescribed by the Church, not understanding 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 grandfathers and many generations before them, had worshipped in this church, In this self-same way. Now and then a loudly intoned “Per omnia saecula saeculornm” broke the peaceful stillness of the service, responded to by the schoolmaster’s little droning harmonium, 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 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 religious 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 service, 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 Ambrosias had intoned “Ite! Missa est!” 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 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 churchyard, 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 bronzed-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 rain-drop glitter on the grass mounds like so many diamonds. Far away, the distant roar of the flood made a melancholy accompaniment 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 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 Heavenly Father, that He may in His mercy stay His wrath from our beloved county of Heves, and command the waters of the Tarnato return to their banks. We must pray to God to stay the catastrophe, which brings such sorrow upon the lord of Bideskút, Kisfalu and Zárda, who already has had so much grief last year, when a terrible fire devastated his land. Let 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 frowned when she heard Pater Ambrosius’ exhortation. Her pride rebelled 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 Bideskút.
As for András, 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 Bideskút, by the terrible flood, and, in simple faith, he prayed that this disaster would 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. Etelka 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 András 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 Etelka, anxiously.
“Never fear, mother,” replied András, “I will see what he wants and be home before Sári and Kati have laid our mid-day meal. You must walk Dándar 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. Sári and Kati, carrying their red boots, walked each side of the horse, and Kemény András stood watching the three women, till 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; 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 tucked up, was hurrying home to his presbytery; from every half-opened cottage door, could be heard loud peals of laughter, and, lingering in the churchyard, András 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 András, with a sigh, turned towards Csillag and kissed the pretty creature between her great gentle eyes.