CHAPTER XIV
CALAMITY
Bideskúty 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 relating 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 Bideskúty was not altogether satisfied with himself. He felt just a little ashamed of his unwarrantable 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. Kemény András' 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 purse, he regretted not having concluded some amicable treaty, by which he might have persuaded András not to charge such usurious interest on his capital, as that blood-sucking intermediary of his, Rosenstein, demanded. Ry making a mortal enemy of his creditor, Bideskúty foresaw every kind of hostility to which he might in future be subjected, and probably the finding of the purse strings tightly closed, when next he would require a loan.
Most of the afternoon Bideskúty 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 interrupted. She little guessed, that it was her own unconscious beauty which had averted from her father’s head, what might have proved a death-blow, and from a man’s soul, what would have been life-long 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 enjoyment. Topsy-turvydom was called to assist, in making the walls of Bideskút ring with laughter, that shook them to their foundations, and made stern Attila totter on his pedestal. Truly it was a motley throng 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 generations of Bideskútys had stored away apparel, which had become too antiquated to wear, and in great oak chests, dainty, high-waisted dresses of the beginning of this 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 great-grandfather’s gorgeously 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 cloak 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 clasp. There surely never had been a more fascinating Hungarian magnate. Against that, her partner, Madách Feri, whose sentimental love for the pretty girl, never damped his spirit of fun and merriment, looked irresistibly comic, in Countess Irma’s national “párta,” a tiara-shaped head-dress of gold lace tied at the nape of the neck, with a large bow and long ends; the tight-fitting corselet, with its jewelled clasps, would not close 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 red-cheeked, bright-eyed Kantássy Mariska. She had elected to appear as a lowland peasant, and the full white lawn shirt and ample trousers 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, Bartócz Feri as a Hungarian “mennyecske” (maiden), was decidedly not graceful. His “párta” 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 skirts, anything but fulfilled the preconceived ideas of the dainty coquettes of Louis XV.’s court. Ungainly shepherdesses of Watteau’s days, acted as a foil to the most charming shepherds that ever stepped out of the artist’s canvas, and heavily bearded gipsies in petticoats, to fascinating czigány in picturesque rags.
As for Géza Vécsery, 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 still one of the fine arts; on his ungainly figure, the pink bodice, and airy fleshings 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 Bideskút; the valets and maids had been pressed into following the topsy-turvy rule of the evening, and grey-haired Jankó 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” (a military frock-coat) decidedly too large for their slim waists, and very shapely-looking legs, encased in the tight-fitting characteristic Hungarian breeches.
Never was there so lively a csárdás in the lowlands, as the one, that was danced in the great hall of Bideskút, that night, after supper. The graceful cavaliers were a dainty picture to behold, stepping the csárdás with their tiny booted feet, clapping their heels together in most jaunty fashion, as if they never had been encumbered with petticoats in their lives; but their ladies, unaccustomed to the embarrassing folds of their brocade and satin skirts, managed to put an amount of grotesqueness in the graceful 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 hussars.
The czigány needed no incentive to alternate dreamy lassu (the slow movement of the dance) with the liveliest csárdás, without rest or respite, needed no shouts of “Ujra!” (encore) and “Húzd rá czigány!” (play on tsigane) to put strength into their lean arms. Sometimes 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 Géza Vécsery, the acknowledged patron of every gipsy band, in the land, executed an approved pirouette, 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 csárdás, that Jankó, still wearing the grotesque feminine travesty, 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 almost livid, and follow his valet out of the room.
Some twenty minutes later the csárdás came to a crashing end, with a wild twirling and turning, like some Bacchanalian dance of classic times. The men 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 immediate vicinity of the band, to spread themselves, a laughing 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 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 outhouse labourers, servants and peasants, ran excitedly down the acacia drive, while kitchenmaids and housemaids stood in awed groups, whispering, and gazing, horrified beyond. Hardly had the crowd of aristocratic merry-makers realised the terrible catastrophe which had occurred, than a huge column of flames, not half a league away to the right, rose with a distant hissing sound into the air, while to the left and straight ahead, a burning glow seemed to turn the entire landscape 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, clung 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 break-neck speed, as that race of born 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, fluttering in the wind 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 towards 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 consequences, 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 grotesque mummers appeared upon the scene, all, 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, destroying all things as it spread, to right and left, untrammelled and merciless. And, dotted here, and there, against this fiery background, the black silhouettes of men and beasts, rushing hither and thither, frightened, like some pigmies, face to face with 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 melancholy 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 outlying 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 frightened 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 herdsmen worked with a will. With relentless energy they tried to keep their herds together, hoping to get them 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 further buildings. Bideskúty, who, with the greatest calm had up to this point, given directions to every one of his outdoor and indoor servants, 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 Bideskúty had sent for assistance in every direction, neither from Arokszállás not from the outlying cottages on the road to Gyöngyös 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 Bideskút 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.
Bideskúty knew nothing of human nature; his careless 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, Kemény András, rich or poor, educated or ignorant, would always remain the low-born 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 András, 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-born miscreants, 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 mostly 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 cavalcade of mummers stood about in fantastic groups, like an army eager to fight, but disorganised and leaderless; while the ladies, forgetting their masculine attire, added to the confusion by sobs of terror, anxious questionings, and loud, wailing prayers.
“My lord,” suddenly said a voice close to Bideskúty’s elbow, “we shall have to organise, and very quickly too, a chain of buckets from the nearest well to those further 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 Kemény András on his beautiful thoroughbred 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.”
Bideskúty, 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 András rode away, the entire cavalcade of grotesque figures followed with a lively shout.
Astonished, frowning, Bideskúty 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 Bideskúty himself felt that quietening influence, which was András’ 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 András, 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 puffed 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 Bideskúty 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 Kantássy, 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 Kemény András, 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 effectual check to the flames in that direction, in any case.”
“Do you think anybody can save the house?” asked the Countess drearily.
Kantássy 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 if there was nothing that could prevent the flames from spreading even as far as the house of Bideskút 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 Bideskúty might not hear, “as if they had arranged it among themselves not to help in any way.”
But Bideskúty 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 Árokszállás,” said Count Kantássy, “and see if I cannot bring a few idle hands with me.”
“It is useless,” said Bideskúty, “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 Bideskúty surlily, “I would sooner see every stick of mine burnt to ashes.”
His two friends had no time to reply, for the next instant, András had galloped past them, shouting as he went,—
“We want more hands, my lord. I am going to Árokszállás to get them. In the meanwhile, will your honour order every scythe, 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.
Bideskúty 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 frightened to do anything save cling 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 conviction, 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 services, and he is only doing his duty. Your papa is his lord.”
Bideskúty smiled bitterly to himself. He alone understood the unconscious irony of his wife’s words.