A Son of the People/Chapter 12

rode, gaily and full of hope, across the desolate puszta, his mind busy in arranging the best plan with which to overthrow my lord’s resistance, should he prove obstinate in the nursing of his folly. The peasant never for a moment supposed that the lord of Bideskút would not immediately see in their right light all the evils which were gathering over his head, and all the sorrows and haunting terrors his unnecessary fads were causing among those who were to a great extent dependent Upon their lord for wage. He had left his own fields behind and to the left, and his mare galloped across the plain, throwing clouds of dust round her, as her hoofs fell on the sandy soil. The sun shone glaring overhead. The heat was intense, but András felt neither dust nor glare of sun; his eyes were riveted on that distant column of smoke, which he hoped to smother by the strength of his will, exerted to its fullest extent on behalf of his fellow-workers, his servant comrades. Of the lord of Bideskút he knew nothing. When years ago he decided to place the vast wealth his father had left him at small interest with my lord, a certain shyness, born of long suppression and loneliness, had induced him to employ the Jew Rosenstein as an intermediary; and as years went on and the transaction continued, the inborn hatred of every Hungarian peasant for all money-lending business, had kept him away from the aristocratic borrower. He longed to buy Kisfalu. This was his dream. He was willing enough to pay double or treble its value for the happiness of owning that beloved land. But Rosenstein who made a usurious profit, out of trafficking with András’ money, kept lord and peasant apart; neither knew how willing the other would have been to conclude the transaction once for all. The interest, paid in kind, Rosenstein collected for, and, subsequently bought from Kemény. The rents of Kisfalu, András paid entirely in money, and the noble lord always in want of cash, sent his bailiff every quarter-day for the gold. Thus the game of hide-and-seek went on, in which Rosenstein was the only winner, the other two merely dupes. András however, firmly believed that though Bideskúty had repeatedly refused to sell Kisfalu to a peasant, yet a feeling of gratitude must exist in his heart towards that same peasant, who was willing to keep him out of the Jew’s clutches, by exacting but a nominal interest for his money. On that feeling of gratitude András meant to rely when formulating his request; he was willing enough to part with more money, if he could buy and destroy what caused so much sorrow in the village and on the fields.

Bideskút lay the other side of the wide plain, and to reach the big house, András had to gallop many miles, through the lord of Bideskút’s property. Here, as in Kisfalu, the work in the fields was idle; András could see small groups of labourers talking excitedly and pointing with menacing fists towards the steam mill close by on the left. He would not stop to speak to them, though many hailed him with a shout. He was sick at heart with these terrors he could not alleviate. He kept to the main road, down the alley of poplars, which threw narrow gaunt shadows across, that looked like long arms stretched menacingly towards the mill. It was still emitting volumes of smoke through its tall chimney, and András was glad that it lay well to the left, away from the main road, and that he was not obliged to lead Csillag past the dreaded building.

He wished to keep his spirits up, and talked gaily to the mare. A group of a dozen labourers barred the way ahead, in front.

“Hey! friend András! whither so quickly?" they shouted from afar. András, perforce had to slacken the mare’s speed.

“Let me pass," he said cheerily, “I am on my way to Bideskút.” “Do not go there, András, the devil is at work!”

“It is to drive the devil away, that I am going.”

“You cannot do it, go back.”

And they all stood in a ring round horse and rider, so that András perforce had to stand.

“Do you see those stacks, András?” said one of the men, “that wheat is to be threshed and ground into flour, all within a day, and never the hand of thresher or miller is to touch it.”

It was the eternal story told with blanched cheeks and quivering lips. Oh! for wings with which to fly to Bideskút, and stop this worship of devil’s work, before it be too late.

“Let me pass, Miksa,” said András cheerily, “we will stop the devil and his work.”

“How will you do it, friend?”

“That is my secret, let me pass.”

“You can do nothing; and if harm comes to you, there will be nobody to look after us in winter, now that my lord employs no labour and lets Satan do his work.”

“Hey! leave me alone about Satan,” said András impatiently. “Leave Csillag alone, or she will rear, I tell you I am going to stop the devil and his work. I give you my word no wheat shall be ground inside that mill.”

“Your word?”

“Yes, my word! There! let Csillag go! God be with you all.”

The men obediently stood aside, and with a merry farewell he galloped off down the road, towards the great gates of Bideskút. The peasants turned a while to look after him; some shook their heads, but all murmured, “God be with you, András.”

At the gates András brought the mare to a standstill. He had never ridden up the majestic acacia drive, and a certain feeling of awe, born of centuries of peasant submission to their lord, made him dismount and start to walk up towards the house. Csillag remained outside, waiting patiently for her master, as safe from thieves’ hands, as she would be in her own stables. No one could have mounted her, against her will, except her master. She looked about for a shady spot, and there she retired, content to wait till he came back.

András followed the long sweet-scented alley; from afar he could hear the sounds of gaiety within the castle, loud peals of boisterous laughter, and lively czigány music, shouts of “Eljen!” and the clinking of knives and forks against the china. The long taught deference of the peasant for the noble induced him to avoid the main entrance and noble staircase. He turned towards the left side of the building from which proceeded laughter of no less boisterous kind together with delicious scents of roast meats, and fragrant fruit.

András pushed open the wide double doors and found himself in the vast kitchen, where two days before, Rosenstein, the Jew, had been made to break the laws of his religion in order to gratify the whim of a spendthrift lord.

As merry as ever, but busy beyond description, the cooks, kitchenmaids and scullions filled the vast kitchen with laughter, chatter, and animation, A universal shout of astonishment, but of real joy, greeted András as he entered.

“God has brought you, András!” shouted Benkó, the portly cook. “Here, Zsuzsi, bring a chair, quick! No, not that one! the big armchair! Panna, wipe the table, quickly! Miska, bring that fine piece of lamb! Friend András, you will surely honour it by tasting it!”

And young kitchenmaids and scullions busied themselves round the unexpected guest. He was a stranger to these walls, but not indeed to any of their inmates. Every peasant in the county knew him loved him, owed him gratitude for some kindness or other, whether he were labourer or servant, man or maid.

“Thank ye! Thank ye, all!” said András, putting up his hand, to parry some of the more boisterous welcomes. “I have not come to eat my lord’s meat in his kitchen, though all of you are welcome to eat mine at my mother’s table. To-day I have come to speak with my lord.”

“Ah! but I do not think you can do that,” said fat Benkó, the cook. “My lord has company, nearly two hundred barons and baronesses, counts and countesses are dining up there in the great hall. Hey! if you could only taste some of the delicious things I have dished up for the midday meal!” he sighed with professional pride.

“But my lord cannot stay all day at his meal, and what I have to say to him is of the greatest importance.”

“If you will wait,” said Benkó, scratching his head, thoughtfully, “till Jankó comes down, he can whisper in my lord’s ear, that you would speak with him, and then, perhaps. … And here is Jankó,” he added, as that worthy appeared at the door, “Jankó, come here, this is Kemény András from Kisfalu. Bow to him, Jankó, as you would to my lord. … And now listen, Jankó, András wishes to speak to my lord.”

“His lordship does not like being interrupted at dinner,” said Jankó, thoughtfully scratching his head.

“Look here,” says András impatiently, “you are all very good and kind fellows, but there is a little too much talking. I am in a hurry. Go up, Jankó, there’s a good man, and whisper in my lords ear that Kemény András, from Kisfalu, wishes to speak with him at once.”

“He will reply,” said Jankó meekly, “that Kemény András may go to the devil.”

“No! he will not say that, Jankó,” said András quietly; “but if he does, tell him that it is a matter which may cost him very dearly, if he does not hear it in good time.”

It was a curious thing that everyone always did exactly what Kemény András wanted. There was a great deal of familiarity between him and every peasant for leagues around. His wealth, he did not in any way consider, as having placed him above his equals, but he had learnt to command, because his will was strong, and self-centred, and having in his early youth, learnt implicit obedience, he knew how to enforce it, now that he was his own master. Jankó went off shaking his head dubiously.

Silence had fallen on the inmates of the kitchen. Perhaps they felt, that they had been a little too familiar with the rich farmer who came to speak with my lord. Panna, shyly had dusted the big armchair, and stood irresolute as to whether she should draw it near the table. Benkó had sent the scullions flying in every direction, and had respectfully placed a bottle of wine and a glass on the table.

“Won’t you honour us all, András, by drinking this wine?”

“Hey! with the greatest pleasure, Benkó, my good fellow! If it was your wine, I tell you I should drink that bottle full, and ask for more. But till I know if his lordship is friend or foe, I will not drink his wine. Panna my soul, give up dusting that chair, it is almost as smoothly polished as your own pretty cheeks. No! I will not drink the wine of Bideskút, but I tell you what! I will kiss all its pretty girls.”

And laughing, Kemény András took each pretty kitchenmaid by the waist, and since they did not struggle very hard, he soon had made each one as pink as a peony. This restored merriment all round. Kemény András was not proud! Long live Kemény András! When Jankó came back with the astonishing announcement that my lord would see Kemény András in his smoking-room, he found the latter sitting, all smiles, in the big armchair, with a dozen pretty faces beaming at him from every side of the kitchen.

To reach my lord’s smoking-room Jankó had to lead András up the great staircase and across one end of the main hall, where the noble lord of Bideskút was exercising his boundless hospitality towards his aristocratic guests. András as he hurried through, behind the czigány, so as to pass unperceived, caught a sudden fitful vision of bright coloured dresses, pretty faces and gay uniforms, that reminded him, of the tangled bit of garden where roses and lilies grew wild, and which his mother tended, outside the house at Kisfalu.

Jankó left him alone in the smoking-room, and Kemény András looked round him, astonished at what seemed to him visions of beauty and luxury, of which he had never dreamed. He thought of his own little low-roofed sitting-room, where his mother sat spinning all the day, so different to this place, which simple as it was, surpassed any ideas he may ever have had of gorgeousness and elegance.

How long he stood, waiting planted there, where Jankó had left him, he could not have said. Dreamily he gazed out, on to the park with its standard rose trees, and many-coloured glass balls which glittered in the sun, and his ears were agreeably tickled by the merry peals of laughter from the big hall; one or two high silvery tones, struck him now and then as the prettiest tune he had ever heard. He looked at all this luxury, and wondered how a man could wilfully risk losing all that, for the sake of a cursed fad, how he could risk being forced to leave this gorgeous house, those rose-bushes, and the sight of those gaily-decked butterflies, who laughed so merrily in the great hall. Any man owning all these things, calling the land on which he stood his, was a fool to jeopardize an inch of it, for the sake of a wicked caprice. …

The opening and shutting of a door, and a very stiff:

“God has brought you,” interrupted András’ meditations, and forced him to turn round, to where stood the lord of Bideskút. He saw a merry, kindly face, a little haughty perhaps, but still. … András gazed ruefully at his own peasant attire, his hard brown hands, his leather belt, and shirt-sleeves, and understood how my lord would feel that there was, in spite of money affairs, still a wide difference between them.

“Well, what is it?” asked Bideskúty Gyuri, as he sat down and took one of his long pipes from the rack. He did not ask András to sit or to smoke and, while he filled his pipe, he looked with a great deal of curiosity at the handsome young peasant, whose riches were reported to be fabulous. Though he had often seen him in the village or in the fields, he never had had an opportunity of standing face to face with him, or of talking to him.

András had lost any latent shyness. He had frowned a little, when he saw that my lord sat down, and left him to stand, like one of his servants. However, he knew that he must be patient, if he wished to be listened to at all, and quite quietly he drew a chair towards him, and also sat down.

“What I have to say,” he began resolutely, “will not take long. I know your lordship is kept very much in ignorance of many things that happen on your property …”

“Surely you have not come all the way from Kisfalu to tell me of those things which I do not know?” laughed Bideskúty.

“I beg pardon, most noble lord,” said András. “It would save time if your lordship would let me tell you my errand without interrupting me. One of the things your lordship does not know is, that there is at the present moment, terrible dissatisfaction for leagues around in the village and on the fields. The peasantry are frightened. They do not understand things very clearly, and nobody has been at much pains to explain anything to them. To-day they are in a very dejected, terror-stricken mood, to-morrow, who knows? they might get infuriated, and it is not good to irritate a lowland peasant too far. He is like the puszta, smooth and at peace as a calm lake; but once let the winds from heaven stir it up, and banks of sand, which were harmless enough, rise like columns towards the sky; and woe betide then, if anything happen to stand in its way, Higher and higher the sand will rise, lashed by the fury of the wind, and when it can rise no more, it will sink crashing to the ground, burying beneath ft all human life, that has tried to stand up and oppose it in its wrath.”

“You talk like a book, my friend,” said my lord smiling, and puffing away at his pipe, “but you talked of saving time, and I do not yet know the purpose of your errand.”

“I have come to plead for the poor, the ignorant, on your lordship’s estate. There are hundreds there, who for generations have worked God’s bountiful earth for you and your forefathers, sowing and reaping, threshing and grinding the fine corn and flour, which is famed throughout the world. They have toiled and you have earned; but they are content, they want to go on serving you, my lord, they are willing to take wage from you, and remain poor but free from want, almost slaves, but happy on our beautiful lowland, on which God has sent a special blessing.”

“That is very good of them, I am sure, my friend, and I certainly have no intention of getting labourers to work for me from a neighbouring county. I shall not want as many hands at the mills, as I did, for I am thankful to say, my steam-mill is ready, and …”

“Forgive me, my lord, if I interrupt. It is that mill, which is causing so much trouble. Remember, we are not all so clever as your lordship, we do not understand all the means, by which fire and iron can be made to do the work of our hands. It has raised great fears in the minds of the women, the men themselves, though they will not admit their terror, curse under their breath the contrivance which will take the bread out of their mouth, for want of sufficient wage.”

“But, my good man, I have spent thousands on that mill. Surely you are not fool enough to suppose that I am going to give up the work of years, because a lot of superstitious old women have talked you all into some devilish nonsense.”

“No not because of that,” said András earnestly, “I do not think your lordship will give up all that work, for the sake of some nonsense. But I do firmly believe that you will do it, in order to save all the poor people on your estate from further sorrow and anxiety.”

“My worthy fellow, I have said before, you talk like a book. But there is much nonsense written in books sometimes. Did you not hear me say, that my steam-mill, which you all will presently be grateful for on your knees, has cost me a quarter of a million, do you think I am likely to throw that money away?”

“No, your lordship, need not do that,” said András eagerly, “the mill has cost a quarter of a million? well I will buy it from you if you will name what money you like; three, four hundred thousand florins.”

“Oh! that’s it, is it?” said Bideskúty sarcastically, “you take me for a bigger fool, than yourself, my friend. You want to buy the mill do you? and work it at your own profit! Oho! not a bad idea! and this pretty story, of anxious mothers, infuriated peasants, and storms on the puszta, was very clever no doubt. But remain assured, my friend, he mill is not for sale.”

“Your lordship thinks it sport to laugh at a peasant,” said András imperturbably, “but your honour is deceived: I offer to buy the mill, and when you have agreed to sell it, I will destroy it.”

“Destroy the mill!”

“Ay! all my labourers, who now stand about idly, letting the corn fall to earth, for want of mowing, will only be too happy to dig their pickaxes into the hated building, and my quarter of a million will have been well spent in seeing them all cheerfully at work again.”

“But man, are you made of money?” gasped Bideskúty, forgetting for a moment the point at issue in his admiration for the wealth, that was unconsciously flaunted before him.

“My father saved all his life: he was a clever worker, and he left me plenty,” said András proudly, “your lordship knows that I have enough.”

“How should I know? I hear many rumours, and you live in that tumble-down old farm at Kisfalu.”

“My mother loves the house, since I was born there, and I love it, because she dwells in it. I do not have a hundred guests at my table, but I would spend all the money I have, to see the county of Heves beaming with smiles.”

“Insolence!” said Bideskúty frowning, “are you trying to preach to me?”

“Forgive me my lord, I have no wish to be presumptuous. See! I have brought money with me. Plenty of it,” he added, tapping his ponderous leather belt, “will your lordship name the price, and let me bury my pickaxe in the very top of that tall chimney?”

“I tell you fellow, you are a fool. Ay! and a knave, trying to trick me to further your own ends; I tell you if anyone is to make money out of that mill, I will. I will not sell it, not if you were to lay out this floor with your Jewish gold, which you had better use for other Jewish tricks. For this one I am too sharp for you.”

“Most noble lord! you do not understand! Oh, God! teach me how to explain to him. The peasants are enraged. They will do themselves or you some terrible injury. Your honour! remember for God’s sake your own mother, your wife. The peasants think the devil drives the machinery, they are in terror now, they will be furious presently, and great, great harm will come of it.”

“What harm comes of it, will be of your own making, impudent peasant!” said Bideskúty enraged, rising to his feet “Come now, I have had enough of this. Get out of my house, I tell you! I will not sell my mill. Is that enough?”

András had become very pale; he too had risen to his feet, and he buried his finger-nails in his palms, to force himself by sheer physical pain, not to retort with angry words, but for the sake of his friends and comrades to try, by patient and moderate talk, to break this man’s blind obstinacy.

“My lord! in God’s name listen. The poor fellows are all standing about in the fields, the women whose sons, fathers, brothers are employed on the mill, are terrified of the evil that will come to them; they moan and sob fit to break a strong man’s heart. If by any chance—such things do happen—any accident should occur to one of them, oh, then think how will you pacify them? Infuriated they will look upon you as a murderer. They love me, they listen to me, though I am rich, I have remained one of themselves, but even I could not stop them from turning their wrath against you. Remember you have wife and child, they might come to harm, you never know where an ignorant man or woman’s revenge will stop.”

“And I tell you, insolent peasant, that if harm comes to me or mine, that your own hands will have guided the blow, your lying tongue incited the deed. I can read through your low, miserly peasant nature, ready for any lie to gain your own ends …”

“Hold on, your honour,” said András, still containing himself; “I came here in all deference, with patience and kindness. For the sake of my comrades I would bear much, but your lordship is forgetting your own dignity and mine. I have in all money transactions dealt liberally and squarely with you, and …”

“You have paid your rents punctually, for I should turn you out of the farm pretty soon if you did not.”

“But that is not all.”

“How do you mean not all? What not all?”

“Your lordship seems ready to forget that the insolent peasant’s purse has kept you out of the clutches of the Jews, for the past five years.”

“Your purse? Are you in league with that blood-sucking Rosenstein, then?”

“Your lordship surely knows that the money you spend so freely, originally came out of my purse, the papers …”

“Hey! what do I care about papers! How could I guess that for once in a life-time, the Jew’s tale of some other person who lends the money, happened to be true? Well, what matter? Your beastly, Jewish usury does not give you the right to interfere with my concerns, I pay you your interest, don’t I?”

Bideskúty was beside himself with fury. His otherwise good-looking face was distorted with passion. András was still apparently calm, though very pale, the veins on his forehead swollen like cords. He tried to remain patient with this raving lunatic, forcing himself to think that, in his hands, rested the hopes of the poor fellows, out there in the fields, who were still watching the clouds of black smoke darkening the horizon of their beloved plains.

“Your honour is trying to misunderstand,” he said quietly, “it is not my place, I own, to interfere in your lordship’s affairs. I do not wish to interfere. I came here with a fair offer, because for the past month, I have seen the dissatisfaction, the terrors of your peasantry grow, as you placed brick upon brick of that unfortunate structure. I did not expect your lordship to waste all the money you have spent upon it, therefore I came with a fair offer to buy the building and machinery so as to have the right to I destroy it. If your lordship suspects my honesty, I am willing to leave the money here, if you will give me your word of honour that the mill shall be pulled down.”

And András drew from his belt a heavy bag which jingled with the sound of gold and notes, and placed it on the table.

“Ay!” roared Bideskúty, losing the last lingering vestige of self-control, for the attack on his beloved fad had exasperated him beyond measure, “Ay! you want to lend me more of your accursed money, do you? to enrich yourself more and more at my expense, to extract more and more blood from me. I looked down upon you as an impudent, low-born peasant before, son or grandson of a liberated serf, whose female kind, a generation or two ago had to pay toll with their bodies to their lord, before their husbands could claim them as their own. But now, Kemény András, you, by your own words, have shown yourself to be but a dirty Jew out of the gutter. I have heard that you all descend from some bastard, born of a Jewish waif. Ay! I see you in your true light. There! take back your money, I have no need of it, it would sully my valet’s hand, if he should happen to touch it.”

And with eyes aglow with rage, cheeks purple, lips quivering, the lord of Bideskút picked up the heavy bag of gold, and threw it violently in Kemény András’ face.

The proud peasant, who had stood Bideskúty’s insults up to the last moment, with the determination not to yield an inch, and not to leave the house till he had succeeded in his mission, turned absolutely livid. The heavy bag had grazed his forehead, leaving an ugly red mark across it, from which two or three drops of blood began slowly to trickle. For a moment the blow had stunned him, but the next he had turned on Bideskúty as some caged lion suddenly let free, his cheeks were deathly pale, but his eyes literally blazed with pent-up rage, and his muscular arm was lifted high, menacing above, ready to chastise this arrogant lord for every insult uttered, ready to exact his life for the last deadly blow.

Bideskúty came from a race, that in spite—perhaps because—of its want of education, its semi-barbarousness, its love of gross material pleasures, had never known fear. He realised, by the look on András’ face, that he had gone too far; and at the same moment also saw how completely he, past the prime of life, was at the mercy of this young son of the soil, to whom the heaped-up insults would give superhuman strength. His anger cooled in an instant, his cheek turned pale, but he never for a moment thought of calling for help. Thus for one second only they stood face to face, the arrogant noble and the deeply-wounded peasant, András hand, raised ready to strike what might have been a death blow. Suddenly a merry laugh outside seemed to paralyse his arm. Still holding it aloft, he was now gazing bewildered, fascinated at the door, which had been noisily thrown open, and at a vision all in white, with bows of something soft and blue, and crowned with an aureole of golden curls, from under which peeped, half-frightened, a pair of eyes, like forget-me-nots. What was it? A bird escaped from its cage? or one of those fairies who, according to the tales his mother used to tell him long ago, dwelt inside the petals of the roses, or within the sweet-scented corolla of the violet?

But the bird sang, the fairy spoke, simple words: but they seemed to András, the sweetest music mortal ears had ever heard.

“Papa, may we have a carriage, to drive down and see the new fishes in the lake? … Why papa dear,” added the snow-white vision, “how pale you are! Are you ill?”

András’ hand had dropped numb by his side. His entranced gaze followed the flower-like vision, as it passed close to him, to throw a pair of lovely arms, so childlike, yet so protecting, round his enemy’s neck.

Bideskúty was not a young man; the strain of the last few moments was heavy for him to bear, and, exhausted, dazed, he sank in a chair. Ilonka had knelt by his side, and with pretty endearing ways, was stroking the matted hair from his forehead. András gazed on; he could not see her face for her back was turned towards him, but he could see her soft white neck, peeping from out the folds of her gown, and there were one or two golden curls just above that made him think of some earthly paradise. She had not vouchsafed another look to the peasant, who, she vaguely guessed, had been tiresome, and had angered “papa.”

Mechanically he passed his hand across his forehead, from which two or three drops of blood still trickled slowly down his pale cheek; he stooped and picked up the bag of gold, and fastened it inside his belt; then he looked once more at the golden vision, drank in every line of that graceful, girlish figure, as if he wished never to part from dreams of her again: it was a long, lingering look, so ardent, so magnetic, that Ilonka must, somehow, have felt it, for she turned half shyly round, and her tender forget-me-not eyes met András’ burning gaze …”

The next moment he had left the room, the castle, had crossed the shady acacia drive, and, calling to Csillag, he jumped upon her back, and without looking round again, had galloped away across the puszta.