CHAPTER XXIII
HOW THE NEWS WAS RECEIVED
Thank God! news travels very slowly on the lowlands, at all times, but more especially when the early spring rains have rendered the roads well-nigh impassable. 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 a 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 Madách, whom the Countess sincerely wished at the bottom of the Tarna.
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. Love, before marriage? Truly preposterous. She had never been in love with Gyuri till after the wedding 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 anyone 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 Madách 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-born 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 towards 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 sheepskin mantle, and had hands as rough and brown as those of the herdsmen. The Countess’ mind dwelt lovingly on ail the snubs, the disdain he would have to endure anon, when the marriage was actually accomplished; 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 simply 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 fingers. 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 position, by undue familiarity. She never allowed Ilonka to see her fiancé 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 Rosenstein; and all Gyuri’s foolish, careless, and compromising papers been handed back through Kemény András’ hands and destroyed. It was terrible to think that all the lands which had been in the Bideskúty family for seven hundred years, now belonged to the descendant of those peasants who had been the veriest slaves to their lords. Thank God! 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 kindred, 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 altogether; the boy would drop the very name of Kemény 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 Bideskút 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 succeeded 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. Kemény András evidently meant to leave upon the Countess’ 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 András did not care to speak about it, to brag of it, as people of his class surely would always do; only Pater Ambrosius had evidently been told, for, one Sunday, just before dinner, 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 grant 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 heartless 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 Kisfalu 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 Bideskúty and the Pater settled down in the afternoon to their game of “Tarok,” András would walk round the garden with the noble Countess and the young lady.
Much had been the gossip, many the conjectures as to this extraordinary condescension. Gradually, as from the kitchen the news spread to the village, various 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 András’ help and influence to start it once more on a more prosperous career. At first that idea, originally propounded by Vas Berczi, the village oracle, was treated with derision. Kemény András, 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 András’ visits to the castle were as frequent as ever, and his silence more pronounced, a certain feeling of suspicion, not altogether free from ill-will gained ground in Árokszállás. 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 perpetually saw something that was not there.
He never now joined his friends on Sunday afternoons in the big barn, to listen to czigány music or to twirl the girls round in the csárdás, in his wonted madcap way. He never now was found at the wayside inn, with pretty Lotti on his knee, making her husband wildly furious with jealousy.
Yes! 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 Kemény’s money bags had failed to do: it had made András proud. He no longer cared for the village, its music, its pretty girls, its dancing. He no longer dropped silver florins into the czigány’s fiddles, or bought bright bits of ribbon for the girls, András 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.
András 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 helpless striving to live the new. András 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, Jankó came riding down, all excitement, to the village, the news he had to tell was so great, so wonderful, he hardly knew how to begin.
András! Kemény András, the rich peasant, the young chap who had sung with them, danced with them, been brought up amongst them, was … no! Jankó could not go on! the words seemed to choke him … was going to marry. …
“Yes! Yes! Whom? Quick, Jankó! Long live András and his future wife! Oh! the sly dog! so silent! so taciturn! that was it then? Quick, Jankó, who is it? …”
And an anxious crowd gathered round Jankó. He was led in triumph to the inn, where a litre of the best wine was placed before him, to help him tell his wonderful news.
“Oh! won’t Zsuzsi cry! and what will Panna say? … as for Erzsi, she will surely break her heart. Speak, Jankó! is it Erzsi? … No? … Margit? … No? … Mariska? … No? … Speak, Jankó! or may you never speak again!”
Never had news travelled so quickly, which Jankó came to bring. Kemény András 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 listen to my lord’s blandishments! He would have someone to court, someone with whom to dance! Long live Kemény András!
“Jankó, 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 András, and have the best of husbands into the bargain?”
But Jankó would not speak till all were silent again, 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:
“Kemény András of Kisfalu is about to wed the most noble lady Ilonka of Bideskút!”
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 Jankó drank a deep measure of wine, for his news had made him thirsty.
Then, as the sound of a rising storm, questions, ejaculations, surmises began to be heard right and left:
“Impossible!”
“Jankó, you are a liar!”
“The first of April is long since gone!”
“Kemény András?”
“Our András?”
“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 Jankó. 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, Jankó!”
“Long live Jankó!”
On to a huge, empty cask, Jankó was pushed and 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 prepared 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. Jankó thought it prudent to descend. Pater Ambrosias had pushed his way through the crowd.
“You all seem very excited, my children,” he said, “what is it?”
“Kemény András, Pater.”
“Oh! that’s it, is it? Jankó 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 András, 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 András 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 Kemény András! Our András! 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 András—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. Kemény András has wooed the beautiful young lady at Bideskút, and her parents have decided to give her to him.”
“Does she love him, father?” came from the sympathetic, 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 guardedly; “and now will you all go back to your work or to your homes, and, when next András 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 András’ 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. András 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. András would have a son, who, if his mother had been a peasant girl, should have continued his father’s traditions 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 thing. András was evidently not beyond it. All the empty-headed young things would soon recognise that, in future they would have to put up with András’ condescension and patronage, which was not worth a particle of András’ 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 András 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 preposterous 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 Bideskút and his family were not much loved, for they were too proud to have found their way to popularity, but, at the same time, they were the owners of the land, until very recently the very owners of the peasants’ bodies themselves, 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 András 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 András 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, according to ancient traditions, with plenty of wine and dancing, and the best czigány 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 csárdás merrily, with them, in the big barn, 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 make the vast plain resound with their shouts. As for András, he would have, before his marriage, to make every girl dance till she could not stand and to make every suitor jealous, and every 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 András been so popular among the younger folk, though many tears were shed by pretty eyes at this sudden expiration 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 the solitary plain a lonely horse and rider roamed about beneath the stars, and a great and good heart was wearing itself out with longing.