CHAPTER XXIX
HONOUR THY FATHER AND THY MOTHER
Once more the walls of Bideskút rang out with excitement and laughter. Once more the great kitchens were filled with busy maids, and scullions, oxen were roasted whole on gigantic spits; sheep and lambs were slaughtered; there was rushing hither and thither up and down the great staircase, and along the stone paved halls. It was the Countess’ birthday to-morrow, and, at last, after two years, Bideskút would see gaiety, hear czigány music once more.
The Countess Irma felt more agitated and nervous, than she would, in the ordinary course of events, have thought it good form to be. So many terrible things had happened since the last time, when a bevy of guests had filled Bideskút with that atmosphere of aristocratic gaiety, which she loved so well; she knew that the time had at last come, when she would have to face the covert sneers, and satirical sympathy, the astonished questions of her friends over the preposterous marriage of the loveliest heiress in the county. As she gave her orders in kitchen and stables, saw to the decoration of the tables, the tapping of the wine casks, the airing of the guest chambers, she hardly realised that there had been any great change in her life, since, when two years ago, after that terrible and mysterious fire, the guests all left hurriedly, leaving sorrow and desolation behind. Only when she met Ilonka on the stairs, and when during meal-time was aggravated by the strange silent ways of the merry girl of two years ago, and felt the unaccountable sensation of not being able to order her own daughter about, or find fault with her curious independent ways, then only, did she unpleasantly remember the many events that had been crowded in, upon her thick and fast, in the past two years.
That Ilonka would very soon leave her vulgar husband’s home, had always been a part of her scheme, without which perhaps, she never would have given her consent to the terrible marriage; but she had always, at the same time reckoned that her child would come back to her very much as she had been, before the awful peasant suitor had o’ershadowed her life; that, in fact, Ilonka, as a grass widow, would be perhaps a little more fascinating to the men, a little more free and loud in her manner, but in other ways would be very much the same, and that she would join in merrily, with her mother, in a mutual effort to drive all ideas of the peasant husband well out of the precincts of Bideskút.
When, the day after the wedding, Ilonka returned to her former home, the very shadow of her original self, the mother’s heart felt at first a pang of remorse and sorrow. Full of genuine sympathy, she tried to fold the poor ill-used child on her fond motherly breast, and prepared to hear with horror, and with tears, the confidences of the deeply-wounded, aristocratic girl, thrown into the arms of the common brute who was her husband.
Instead of this her daughter, evidently weak and ill, from all she had gone through, refused to speak a word to her mother on the subject of her brief stay beneath her husband’s roof. Silently she had allowed both father and mother to kiss her; silently she had resumed her accustomed place at meals, and silently taken possession, after one night’s absence, of her girl’s room, and continued her scarcely interrupted ways.
Ilonka was strangely changed, her mother thought. She seemed to have forgotten how to smile, spoke very little, and brought strange curious notions back with her, from her short stay in the peasant’s cottage. Her mother had no authority over her. Countess Irma felt herself, how ridiculous it would be to attempt to dictate to a daughter who, after all was a married woman, and had the right to do as she pleased. Certainly it was very irritating that Ilonka insisted on going so often to see the old peasant woman at Kisfalu, whom she persisted in calling “Mother.” A strange friendship appeared to have sprung up between the young grass widow and her mother-in-law. The Countess Irma could not understand it; but she had it, on the most reliable authority that Kemény András had lived alone at Zárda, ever since his wedding-day; she was therefore to a certain extent satisfied that her daughter did not so far demean herself, as to keep up any relationship with the presumptuous peasant, who had dared to call himself her husband.
As for that odious Kemény András, the Countess did not trouble her head much about him. The day after his marriage he had sent over to Bideskút, a ponderous paper, which turned out to be a deed of gift to Ilonka of the whole of the Bideskút property. That was as it should be; of course, he could not expect his aristocratic wife to be dependent on him or on her parents. Countess Irma thought it all for the best. The child had never known that Bideskút had passed out of her parents’ hands. She need never know it now. She never asked questions; seemed altogether not to trouble herself, as to whence her maintenance came, or who was responsible for her food and clothing. She supposed her father to be still the wealthy nobleman, she had always heard him described, who was well able to look after his only daughter, if she did not choose to live with her husband; her parents treated her most generously. She had everything she wanted; even during that terrible cholera time, Bideskúty gave her all the money, the wheat, the wine she asked for, for the poor in the village. The Countess Irma put up her hands in holy horror, when Ilonka announced her intention of staying at Kisfalu until the epidemic was over. Ilonka had said: “I am going,” in a tone that brooked of no gainsaying. Moreover, what could prevent her? She was a married woman. She was no longer under her mother’s tutelage.
She stayed away for four months; Countess Irma could not imagine what the child could be about. Kemény András was at Zardá, where the cholera was at its worst; the noble lady at Bideskút fondly hoped that the epidemic would do its full duty, as far as the odious man was concerned.
The cholera in the village and consequent fear of Infection was sufficient excuse for ceasing to see Pater Ambrosius. The priest had developed a most unpleasant habit of talking for ever of András, and all the money which he spent in order to alleviate the horrors of the epidemic. Ilonka was away, so she did not hear this perpetual chorus of praise, but she seemed to have caught some of her vulgar husband’s fondness for the wretched peasants, in the dirty hovels of Árokszállás.
At last, in the winter, Ilonka came home again. She seemed brighter and pleasanter than when she left, though she never would tell her mother how she had spent the last few months. The Countess Irma began to look forward to the spring and summer. Last year she had had no guests, in the house, at all, for her birthday. The cholera was just at its worst in the county. But, this year, she knew many would come, and half-forgotten traditions would be revived. Curiosity would bring many guests to Bideskút. Countess Kantássy would be tiresome. Mariska had just married Bartócz Zsiga, who had a brilliant appointment at the embassy in London, while Bideskúty Ilonka, the far-famed beauty of the county, had married one of her father’s peasantry. However, that annoyance would have to be got over. The hospitality at Bideskút this year, the wines, the meat, the fruit, would surpass anything the neighbours could ever do.
There always was plenty of money now, and this year the harvest had been splendid, and had well compensated for the terrible floods last year.
Kemény András certainly seemed to understand the management of the estate. This was only natural. All peasants understood the growing of wheat and turnips. He managed everything; Gyuri merely enjoyed the produce and the revenues, and of that there was now, “Plenty and to spare!”
“It seems quite like old times,” said the Countess Irma to her husband, who sat smoking in his study. “Do you remember, Gyuri, two years ago, you and I sat just like this, discussing the arrangements for my birthday party. Who would have guessed all the events that have crowded in upon us, since that day?”
Bideskúty Gyuri was suffering from the gout; he could not put his foot to the ground, which made him cross and irritable. He grunted savagely, as he smoked his pipe.
“I daresay now, you see how right I was,” added the Countess, “to warn you against those inventions of Satan. Everybody warned you, Gyuri. You must see how wrong you were.”
Bideskúty said nothing. He was armed with infinite patience. Moreover, he had heard reproaches and recriminations so often that they had no longer any effect upon his temper. He drew great clouds of smoke out of his long pipe, giving occasional grunts of pain, and adding two or three strong words under his breath. When his wife was silent he said quietly:
“I am sure all your menus are not settled yet. And you said half an hour ago, that you were going to cut the verbenas for your table decorations.”
“That means that you want me to go. Do you expect anyone?”
“Yes! I do”
“Who is it?”
“Someone on business.”
“Business, Gyuri?” she asked suspiciously, “Not some Jew money-lender surely?”
“No! No! What in Heaven’s name has it got to do with you whom I am going to see?”
“I do not understand the word ‘business.’ That son-in-law of yours sees to all the business usually. You say it is not a Jew money-lender—surely it is not …?”
“Well, yes! it is. I have the right to see whom I please in my own house, I presume?”
“You do not mean to say, that man is coming here?”
“And why not?”
“With Ilonka in the house?”
“Well! he is not going to eat her, I suppose?”
“Gyuri, you must think of her feelings. She cannot meet that man here.”
“Stuff and nonsense! He is her husband; is he not? You are not going to imagine that they will for ever live apart, like this. And if they do, all I can say is that Ilonka must have aggravated him beyond measure, just as you aggravate me. He had no gout, so he ran away.”
“Gyuri, I do believe that vulgar peasant has bewitched you, as he has bewitched that stupid old priest. Talk about aggravation! I endure a perfect martyrdom, from hearing his praises sung by all. A horrid brute I call him, after the way in which he has behaved to your daughter. She is far too kind and too considerate, to tell you all she has endured at his hands; but she would not have left him so soon, unless he had been a more vulgar beast, than even I took him for.”
“You women have no sense of honour!” thundered Bideskúty, “you talk of that man as a brute and a beast, and you are content to take every generous gift from his hands. He rescued this very house we live in, from the clutches of that blood-sucking Rosenstein; he handed over to Ilonka the entire property, which from beginning to end must have cost him hundreds of thousands. Quietly he manages everything for us, in order that she may live in luxury, and that neither her pride nor ours should suffer. And you talk of his shameful conduct to our daughter? What do you say to her conduct then?”
“Gyuri, remember, that the poor child does not know that Bideskút ever passed out of your hands. She knows nothing of any money transactions that passed between you and that man.”
“Well! it was not my fault that these abominable secrets were concocted. Ilonka was old enough to be told all. The man did not stand a fair chance. You did your best to place him in an odious light before the child’s eyes, and then, threw her in his arms, leaving him to fight his own battles. It was not fair.”
“Gyuri, you are taking leave of your senses! To tell Ilonka what passed between Kemény and yourself, would have shown you in a very humiliating light before your own child. How could you have expected her after that to honour her father and her mother? You would have destroyed all the respect she ever had for us.”
“I do not know, that it would not have been better, Irma, that she respected us a little less, and her husband a little more. I tell you I positively groan under the load of gratitude she, and all of us owe to that man.”
“Gyuri, these are more of those progressive notions, which you get out of the foreign books you read, notions which have already caused your ruin.”
“Do not harp on that string, Irma, or …”
“Hush! it is no use losing your temper, Gyuri; what is done cannot be undone. We must try to make her as happy as we can, and get her to forget the past. She is very young; he is close on middle age, I believe. There is every chance that she will be a widow, perhaps, before she is thirty. Then, she will be very rich; she can make what marriage she pleases, and she will be the first one to be thankful to us for the way we arranged her life for her. In the meanwhile I must try to keep her out of this part of the house. To-day I …”
The door had been gently opened, and Ilonka came in, with a pretty smile, which gave her a look of her former self. Her mother darted a suspicious look at her, but the girl appeared unconcerned, and merrier than she had seemed for many months.
“Well, I must go and see to my flower decorations,” said the Countess with indifference. “Ilonka, I think you can help me. You might get me a large basketful of those pretty verbenas from the back of the greenhouse. I do not want the maids to cut them, as they pull the plants up by their roots. I can do with quite a great many. Panna will give you a basket; when you have filled it, you might join me in the bakehouse, where I shall be arranging them,”
“I will follow you at once, mama. But,” she added with a coquettish little smile, “may I not stay, and talk to papa, for a little while?”
“Only a few moments then; I am waiting for the verbenas, and your papa is expecting one of his bailiffs on business.”
“Five minutes, mama, and I am with you.”
The Countess Irma was reluctant to go. She never liked to leave her husband alone with Ilonka. However she threw a warning look to Bideskúty, and went out.
Ilonka waited till her mother’s footsteps were heard no longer down the passage, then, she turned to her father, and said quietly:
“Papa, will you tell me, what is the ‘load of gratitude I and all of us owe to my husband?’”
“Ilonka, you have been listening!’”
“Without meaning to, I assure you. I was coming into the room; that phrase caught my ear, as I was about to open the door. I confess I tried to hear more, but could not catch what mama said. You will tell me, won’t you?”
“I … I … only spoke in a general way,” said Bideskúty nervously. “You cannot have heard properly.”
“Now, papa,” she said coaxingly, “I want yon to try and remember, please, that I am no longer quite such a child as I was. Two years are a long time,” she added wistfully, “and I have had a great deal to go through, since then. I … am married … and a great deal older … I think I have a right to know, in what way we owe a debt of gratitude to the man, whose name I bear.”
“You must get your mother to tell you all you want to know, Ilonka,” said Bideskúty.
“You know quite well, papa, that she will tell me nothing. It is no use fighting against it, dear, I shall not go out of this room, until I have been told, what I want to know.”
“There is nothing to tell.”
“What debt of gratitude do I owe my husband?”
“You misunderstood me,” persisted Bideskúty, obstinately.
“Papa, I have asked you, with all a child’s respect. Do not force me, to demand, what I have the right to know.”
“Ilonka, you are perverse. What good can you get out of knowing things, which only concern your mother and myself?”
“What money did Kemény András give you, for allowing me to marry him?”
“Ilonka, you have taken leave of your senses,” said Bideskúty, furiously.
“No! I have not. You will not tell me the truth, and I jump at conclusions. If you refuse to tell me everything, it will be impossible for me to remain under your roof, another hour, and …” she added with a catch in her throat, “as, of course my husband would not have me, I shall have to go away … elsewhere.”
“Ilonka, listen! You women are most unreasonable. You say you are not a child. You must know that a fire one year and a flood the next, are enough to ruin any proprietor. Coupled with that, a blood-sucking usurer cheated and swindled me, till all my land passed into alien hands. Your husband had lent me a great deal of money on the security of my lands. He charged me a fair interest. That brute, Rosenstein, whom, I hear the devil, has at last fetched away, made me sign a paper agreeing to pay usurious interest. I paid it year after year, not knowing that it went into the Jew’s pockets, and that Kemény never saw a penny of it. The fire and the flood completed the usurer’s work. I was a ruined man. Then, there were some papers, which I had signed, without reading them,—acknowledgments of money which I had never received—that brute Rosenstein threatened me with the Lord knows what. It appears that he had right on his side, since I had signed those accursed papers. Kemény András came to me. He stopped the Jew’s mouth with gold, bought back all those papers for me, paid the mortgage on this house, from which Rosenstein was threatening to turn us all out. The land was his anyway. You, I, your mother were beggars, like the gipsies without a home. He told me he loved you. He wanted to marry you. The land, he said, would thus be secured to you and your children. What could I do? … The knife was at my throat. … I consented.”
Ilonka did not speak. She was very pale and her eyes were fixed, staring at her father, in hopeless bewilderment.
“He paid the mortgage on this house. He took over the property and managed it, as only he knows how to manage an estate. It all was his, but no one ever knew it. He consulted me in everything, and acted as if he were merely my bailiff. At times I quite forget, that I am not really the owner of the land, and give him my orders, which he always carries out. He once told me, that he was only your administrator. … He has more heart, that man,” added Bideskúty, bringing his fist heavily down on the table, “than anyone I have ever known, he …”
“Please, papa,” interrupted Ilonka, “tell me only the facts. Do not overwhelm me with shame, more than you need.”
“You never told your mother why you left your husband. He has told me nothing. The day after your marriage he sent me a paper. I read it through very carefully. It is a document, by which he makes over to you the property of Bideskút, absolutely, reserving himself the right to look after the management of the estate. He did not quite trust me, you see,” added Bideskúty, with a smile, “he does not consider me a good manager. But he is a splendid one, himself, Ilonka,” he exclaimed enthusiastically, “you see yourself in what princely style this house is being kept up, and there is always plenty of money, in good hard cash, besides; plenty of corn to sell, and the beasts fatten and prosper like anything: I never had so many colts and calves to sell, such quantities of corn and maize. That man knows the value of every foot of land. He looks after everything. And I sit at home; approve of all he does, pocket the money, when he has done a good sale for me … that is to say, for you, Ilonka, for it is all yours, … And you have never wanted anything, have you? that you did not get?”
“Then, the money which I had, to give to the poor, at cholera time, came not from you, but from him?” asked Ilonka quietly.
“No! … not exactly from him, my child; the property is yours …”
“He gave it to me. …”
“Well! is he not your husband?”
“Yes!” said Ilonka vehemently, while her voice shook with tears. “Yes, he is my husband. He paid dearly enough for the pleasure of calling the penniless daughter of the lord of Bideskút, his wife. Oh! the shame of the whole thing!” she added passionately, “how could you? how could you?”
“I don’t know why you talk of shame. Except that you and he seemed to have had a disagreement, and there is no shame in that. Your mother and I have had plenty in our day, though she was never headstrong enough to run away from me; and a disagreement is soon put right.”
“Soon put right? Oh, papa! you don’t know! you don’t know!”
There were great sobs in her throat now; she buried her face in her hands, while she repeated:
“Oh! the shame of it! The shame! How could you?”
“I do not see that there is any occasion for making a scene,” said Bideskúty a little irritably, “I don’t know what is the matter with you, women, you always contrive to be aggravating, whatever you do. You wanted to know, you forced me to tell you, much against my will, things which your mother had decided were far better for you not to know. I must say, I see no occasion for tears.”
“No, papa,” said Ilonka, hastily mopping her eyes, and coming close up to her father, “as you say … I wanted to know … and you have told me. … I am very … very grateful to you for this.”
“You won’t tell your mother,” he suggested anxiously.
“No,” she said smiling through her tears, at his nervous expression of face, “I will not speak on the subject before her. There is no reason to do that. I will join her now … and cut the verbenas.”
She stooped down to kiss her father.
“And Ilonka … I think you might try to settle up your differences with your husband. He is such a good fellow. Your mother says it is no concern of mine, but … András … is coming here, presently … and …”
“I must join my mother,” interrupted Ilonka quietly, “she must be waiting for the verbenas.”
And before Bideskúty could say another word, she had slipped quickly out of the room.
Good old Gyuri did not understand his daughter. It seemed to him as if a great deal of fuss was made about nothing. The peasant had turned out to be a very decent sort of fellow, and Bideskúty had a certain uncomfortable feeling that András had not been granted fair play; moreover it was very annoying that there were no prospects of those grandchildren, for the sake of whom the preposterous marriage was to a certain extent bearable. He still had notions of winning András over to his own idea of his machinery and steam-mill. The latter stood desolate and solitary: innumerable spiders had woven their webs, among the massive wheels and pulleys, which had well-nigh caused the ruin of a Hungarian nobleman. The obstinate peasant would hear nothing of it, and Bideskúty had not the courage to start it again on its career, without the approval and influence of his wealthy son-in-law. He was glad that he had unburdened his heart to his daughter, about those money affairs. He hated everything to do with money, and he had a vague feeling that there was something low and shabby being done by himself, to somebody. He would not acknowledge to himself that he had a strong liking for “that confounded peasant,” who was such a splendid manager; that he loved riding over his fields with him, and had the true Hungarian’s admiration for so perfect a rider as Kemény undoubtedly was. Moreover, András always had pleasant news to tell him, about some lucky stroke of business; and, now, when the lord of Bideskút met any of his peasantry, he was always greeted with quite a merry cheer, especially when he had his son-in-law with him. As for his threshing machines, there was no doubt that they had been quite popular, during this last harvest time.
Ah, well! the world was getting topsy-turvy! Thank goodness! Bideskúty was getting old, and would not see the day when peasants would own every bit of land, and nobles would live in small houses in the provincial towns. For the present, his son-in-law always called him “my lord”; but he called András “my son,” and was always glad, when he had the prospect of seeing him during the day.
Even now, his face quite beamed, as he heard a heavy step on the flagstones of the hall; he tried to raise himself in his chair, but his foot was very painful. The door was thrown open; the well-known tall figure appeared in the oak frame-work; but Bideskúty, unobservant as he was, could not help noticing how ghastly white and strange was the peasant’s face, how wild the look in his eyes, and, shaking his head, he held up a warning finger.
“God has brought you, my son,” he said cheerily, “but where in the world do you come from? and what wine have you got into your head. You look as if, at last, you had come face to face with Satan!”