CHAPTER XIX
A SON OF THE PEOPLE
András was nervous and anxious, when, having galloped all the way from Árokszállás, he saw the yellow walls of Bideskút close 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 Bideskút 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? Kemény András’ 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 understand 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 impossibility, to act the part of sorrow, as Bideskúty 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.
Bideskúty had watched anxiously for the peasant, through his window; and had given orders, that Kemény was to be brought to his room immediately, All the morning he had been unable to sit still, and Countess Irma had, in vain begged for an explanation of his moodiness. Bideskúty, with truly masculine exclusiveness, would not allow his wife or daughter, to participate 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 András’ manner, 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 Bideskúty looked so careworn, 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 András’ anger as the snow upon the plains, at the first kiss of the April sun.
“Do you bring good news, friend?” asked Bideskúty.
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 András quietly.
“Speak, man, cannot you see that I am in a fever. Speak! am I a beggar? …”
“Not so fast, my lord,” said András; “first let me 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 András with some nervousness, but trying to speak very kindly, “the Jew has a very different tale to tell, to the one your lordship has told me.”
Like a furious bull Bideskúty faced his creditor.
“Man, do you dare to say …”
“I only dare humbly,” interrupted András 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 assertion, 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 Gyöngyös, the papers you signed will weigh heavily against the words you speak.”
“I told you I never read those confounded papers,” persisted Bideskúty 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.”
“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 unreservedly in his hands.”
“My good name? …”
“In a court of law, my lord, we all stand alike. Pater Ambrosias will tell you that before the throne of the Divine Judge, lord and peasant, Jew and Christian, 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 Zárda, and of Bideskút, (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 Rosenstein’s demands. … Does your lordship understand me?”
Moodily Bideskúty nodded his head.
“As far, therefore, as law and justice are concerned,” resumed András emphatically, “Kisfalu, Zárda, and the lands of Bideskút become my property absolutely. I have paid 850,000 florins for them, which is more money, than any other estate of the same size would fetch in the lowlands.”
András paused a moment, for there was a look of such hopeless sorrow, on the ruined nobleman’s face, 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 gentleness, “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. Rosenstein 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 Bideskúty 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 Bideskút; two with Zarda, and one some eight months ago, when I mortgaged this house, grounds and stables for 100,000 florins.”
“And I only hold three of those papers, my lord; and I know nothing of this last loan.”
It seemed indeed hopeless; Bideskúty 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 extravagance, 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. András, 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 Bideskúty 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 sanguine. In a moment Bideskúty 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 Bideskúty, boiling over with impatience.
“Rosenstein, my lord, knowing that his money is in peril, and holding but one real security, namely that 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 András.
“Man! I have said before: you are made of money; 300,000 florins may mean nothing to you. I can no more 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 corn I 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 András very quietly.
To all appearances he had never departed from his attitude of absolute calm; and Bideskúty—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 Bideskúty, 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 lowest possible amount of interest would, with the present state of the floods, be absolutely beyond my power to pay.”
“I was not proposing to lend your lordship the money,” said András in a voice so low, that Bideskúty 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 powerful chest was bursting from within, and his hands were tightly locked together, whilst on his forehead great veins stood up like cords. Still, Bideskúty unconscious, did not understand.
“Give it to me, man?” he said with sorrowful dignity, “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 András with an effort, “but … from one near … very near to you …”
“I do not understand! … What do you mean? … I can accept money from no one … you cannot think such a thing possible! … What do you mean?” he repeated again.
“My lord,” said András at last, shaking off his nervousness, with a violent effort, and rising to his full height, so that he stood before Bideskúty, 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 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 humble bed of moss. Was it the birds 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 infinitely tender, it was clear, and without a tremor. The flowery mode of speech—the inalienable characteristic of the Hungarian language, when applied to deep emotion—sounded peculiarly sweet in the mouth of this handsome young son of the soil, and, instinctively, Bideskúty 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 András, “my mother would have punished that moss for its presumption, 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 protecting, cool and green, in the heat of the summer, warm and clinging in the winter, sheltering the roots of the glorious flower from every ill, the varying seasons may bring; adding nothing to the beauty and fragrance of the rose, but lying at her feet, unperceived and untended, ever growing strong, fulfilling the mission it has received from tiny birds or from Almighty hands.”
Did the first inkling of the truth dawn upon his hearer's mind? or was it merely the tender appealing tones of the rugged voice which still compelled Bideskúty’s attention.
“As that humble moss has dared to creep at the feet of the sovereign queen of flowers, I, most noble lord, I … Kemény András … the lowly peasant lad, have dared to raise my eyes to the stars, and among the myriads of glorious jewels, which render our lowland sky so incomparably lovely, they have rested upon one, who, among her brilliant sisters, is fairer than them all.”
Again he paused; in Bideskúty’s face he could read that the nobleman had understood. The proud lord had risen suddenly to his feet: his eyes flashed with anger, and his hand was raised, with a quick, wrathful gesture, as if to chastise the presuming peasant. András did not stir from where he stood, only he bent his own proud head very low, as if ready to receive the humiliating blow, which his presumption had deserved. But Bideskúty’s hand dropped by his side, the flash of wrath vanished from his eyes; once more the look of hopeless dejection and misery overspread his face, and without a word he buried his head in his hands.
“My lord,” said András, after a long pause, humbly and gently, “you cannot throw more contempt on my folly, than I have already done, or despise my arrogance more than I do myself; but if I am not smitten with blindness by an Almighty Hand, irate at my presumption, if in your just anger, you do not strike me dead, where I stand, then, will your Honour pause and remember, that, as the moss shelters that rose, so will I guard and cherish the treasure, if you will entrust it to my care. Never shall the breath of sorrow dare to disturb one golden curl on that queenly head; never shall the dust of the plains dare to sully the hem of her garment. My wealth, my lands—once all your own—would then become hers, and I will be happy in seeing her tiny hands dispose of them as she will; then, with the right of keeping every ill from her path, I will have earned that, of helping you now and always, in every difficulty. Then, in the future,” he added, whilst, for the first time his voice trembled, and a sigh of longing, which was almost a sob, escaped his broad chest, “if the Almighty Hand of God rests with a blessing on the union of the lowly peasant with the queen, and a tiny voice whispers in your ears: ‘Grandpapa!’ then you will feel, living your own life, again, in the baby one, that your beautiful lands of Kisfalu, Bideskút and Zárda are all your own once more.”
After these last words spoken by András, there was dead silence in the room. The young peasant, worn out by the long steady effort at self-control, had walked up to the window, and, resting his head upon the cool panes of glass, looked out through a mist of gathering tears at the garden, where the early spring flowers were opening radiant, beneath the first warm rays of the sun. Far ahead lay the plain, solitary and still, and all around the land he loved so well, which now, at last was his. This, the dream of his life, the ambition of his manhood, how poor, how unsatisfying it seemed, now that another longing had crept into his 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 Bideskúty, “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 learnt the lessons of this century. The idea that I should give my daughter to a peasant seemed to me so preposterous that for the moment I forgot … that you hold my life practically 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.”
András would have spoken, but Bideskúty 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 born 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 like a herd of wandering gipsies, homeless and friendless; and those who have fawned most on my hospitality will be the first to throw stones at me for my folly. In the midst of this hopeless ruin, you come to me, and offer 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 grandchildren. 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 things. 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 I 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 Bideskút 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 András 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 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 András 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, Bideskúty had not bidden him good-bye. He had said nothing definite. He had hurled a problematical “if” at András 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 punishments 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 András 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 Tarna, lent an additional note of sorrow and desolation to the land. It was late when at last Kemény András reached the quiet farmhouse where Etelka, at her spinning was waiting anxiously for her son. She went to the door, when she heard Csillag’s hoofs outside, and through the darkness watched András 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. Etelka’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 glorious June; and Etelka wondered, why her son touched each unopened blossom, with his hand, and then, stooped as if to kiss them.