A Son of the People/Chapter 13

would not allow himself to think, would not allow his mind to revert, even for one instant, to the last awful moments, he had just gone through. The sun still shone fiercely, though it was beginning to sink low down in the west, and the wound on his forehead burnt at times, like the newly-made brand-mark on the convict’s back, the badge of shame. He avoided the main roads and the fields, dreading to meet the comrades who must be waiting anxiously for the fulfilment of his promise to them, not daring to tell them, how he had failed in his trust, how he had allowed his own pride, and then, a pair of forget-me-not eyes to force him to quit the battlefield, to turn his back on the enemy, before the victory was won.

On he spurred Csillag across the desolate plain, and, her hoofs as she thundered past, roused the rooks from their evening rest, and the drowsy little lizards from their sleep. As he neared Kisfalu, from every field shouts hailed him, but he heeded them not, and never stopped Csillag in her wild career, till she reached her own stable door foaming and panting.

With the same tender care as usual, András began grooming the lovely creature, wiping the foam from her quivering haunches, stroking her ears patting her neck. It seemed as if Csillag understood the bitter thoughts which swelled her master’s heart to bursting, and felt that a kindly feeling of sympathy would perhaps ease this overburdened heart. Gently she rubbed her sleek nose against his hand, asking for a caress, some fondling in return. Her great eyes looked so affectionately, so sorrowfully at András, that his wounded heart at last eased itself in a passionate outburst of tears. No one saw him, there was no one who could ever record having seen this sturdy, powerful man for once in his life under the spell of an emotion which completely overmastered him. That one act of weakness seemed to take the bitterness from out the wound. His head resting against the mare’s sleek neck, he cried as he used to do at his mother’s knee, when the stern father’s blows had been more than the child could bear; great sobs shook his powerful frame, and one of his hands was placed across the mare’s eyes, lest she should see the stigma of shame, that burnt unavenged upon his forehead.

When a quarter of an hour later he went into the house to kiss his mother, there was no trace of tears in his eyes, not a vestige of the torrent of emotion, which had, for a brief moment, threatened to crush this passionate native of the Hungarian soil. But Etelka’s keen eyes noted at once the look of dejection on his face, and she shook her head sadly, for she understood that her son had failed.

“Mother,” said András, taking a sheet of paper from his breast pocket, and spreading it out on the table before him, “will you put aside your spinning and listen to this a moment. I want your advice.”

Obediently, Etelka pushed the spindle aside, and, folding her hands before her, prepared to listen. The rays of the now rapidly setting sun, found their way through the small windows, throwing a halo of light round the old peasant woman, She was accustomed that her son always consulted her about every business he did. Though she invariably approved of what he had done, he was not happy until she had said that she was satisfied

“You remember, mother, all three documents which I hold from my lord, about the money I have lent him, and about the interest.”

“Yes, my boy, I remember them all.”

“I want to read them over to you, mother, and I want you to weigh again very carefully in your mind, if there is anything unfair in the dealings.”

“I know there was nothing unfair in them, András, and the interest was very low, too low, in fact, I thought. …”

“Ah, but mother, this is important,” said András earnestly, “it is a matter of life and death to me. You must listen to every word, as if you had never heard them before.”

“I am listening, András.”

“One of these papers is now five years old, mother, it is dated in April 1855. It says: ‘I owe you 300,000 florins in gold, for this, until I repay you in full, I will pay you interest every year, one hundred head of cattle, of which there will be ten bulls and ninety cows, and five thousand measures of wheat. If in any year I fail to pay you this interest, and on then your demanding the repayment of the principal, I am unable to give it to you, then the farmhouse of Kisfalu and all the fields, vineyards and buildings from the Nádasdy puszta to the town of Bé1a, and from the banks of the Tarna to the high road opposite, shall belong to you absolutely, and you will then have no further claim on the 300,000 florins you have lent me.” This is signed Bideskúty Gyuri, and below is Rosenstein’s name as witness. There is the stamp on it which the government demands, and for which I paid.”

András paused and looked anxiously at his mother.

“I remember,” she said, “you wanted to increase your herd of cows; it is reasonable, my son, quite fair; for each cow which you sold for money to Rosenstein afterwards you had from 150 to 200 florins. It is not only fair, my son, it is generous.”

“The second paper, mother, is for 300,000 florins, and it says: ‘I will pay you five thousand measures of wheat, twelve thousand measures of maize, and one hundred head of sheep, of which five shall be rams, and if I fail to pay the interest in any one year, and, on your demanding it, also fail to repay you the principal, then my fields, vineyards, and dependencies of Bideskút, and all buildings save the house I live in and the adjoining stables, shall become yours absolutely.’ This paper is dated three years later, and is signed like the other.”

“That is as generous as you could allow it, András. You know the Jews would exact ten times that amount, and more.” “The third paper, mother,” continued András, “was signed two days ago: it is for 250,000 florins, for which my lord has promised me in writing, five thousand measures of wheat, and forty head of cattle, and for which he has given me Zárda as security, on the same conditions as the others.”

“He is a spendthrift, and improvident man,” said the old woman, shaking her head, “if he had borrowed all that money from the Jews, he would by now be a ruined man.”

“You do firmly believe, mother,” repeated András earnestly, “that I am doing no deed of usury, which would cause you to blush for your son?”

“Yes, András, I firmly believe that!”

“Will you swear it, mother, on the crucifix?”

He detached a rough wooden image of the Saviour of mankind from the whitewashed wall, and with trembling hand held it close to his mother's lips.

“I swear it, by our Lord Jesus Christ,” she said, reverently kissing the dumb piece of wood. A deep sigh of relief escaped András’ oppressed chest; he placed the crucifix back in its place, then drew a chair close to his mother’s knee.

The old woman did not quite understand what her son was driving at, but her motherly heart felt that he was in some trouble, and she was content to ask nothing, only to try and soothe her boy now, as she had done ever since he was a wee lad, and had come to her, after his stern father’s bufferings for comfort. Gently she stroked the hair away from his forehead.

“András,” she asked, “where did you get this blow?”

“The lord of Bideskút dealt it, mother!” he said impetuously, “and it has remained unavenged.”

“My lord struck you, András?”

“Yes mother, and I was coward enough not to return the blow.”

“Tell me, András, I am anxious, I do not understand.”

And András tried to tell her from beginning to end, his fruitless interview with the noble lord; he told her how he had explained at first, begged from that man, who was, even then making merry with a hundred guests, to have some pity for the weak, the ignorant and unhappy. He told her of the noble lord’s arrogance, his insults, his blows. It was such a relief to tell her all. The mother’s heart, ignorant uneducated as she was, understood and sympathised, knew how to soothe and to make him forget. He told her all, of how a girlish arm had placed itself protectingly, round her father’s neck, making numb his own, which had been raised ready to return blow for blow. But what he did not tell, not even to the gentle consoler, the fond, indulgent mother, was that, since that moment, a fairy vision, crowned with golden curls, always danced before his gaze, making fun of him, with smiling forget-me-not eyes; that he had galloped across the plain to try and leave that vision behind, but that she followed him, even to this simple farmhouse, which suddenly had begun to András, to look so bare, so poor, so unworthy even to hold the flitting vision of an aristocratic girl. What he did not tell was that suddenly his peasant clothes seemed rough and dirty, his hands hard and brown, his step heavy, that he would have longed to stretch out his arm and grasp the enchanting vision, but felt how rough he was, how far, very far away beneath it, and that his arms then, dropped numb down his side, and great tears of shame and envy trickled slowly down his cheeks.

The mother though dimly guessing, that something else was weighing heavily on her son’s soul, besides the insult and the blow, yet found in her heart plenty of love, with which to make him forget all save the happiness of home, the joys of sitting at his mother’s knee. The sun had quite sunk down, far out in the west; great dark shadows collected in the corners of the room. Sári and Kati brought in the candles, and the evening meal. But it was eaten in silence, mother and son felt weighted with the presentiment of coming evil.

The meal was cleared away, András had asked that the candles might be taken away, he longed to sit quietly in the dark, close to his mother, her fond sympathising hand, resting on his burning forehead, so as to chase away the devils of hatred and revenge, which ran riot in his brain. He longed for peace and darkness too because he wanted to indulge in the nursing of a certain fairy vision, which in broad, prosy light, his own common-sense told him to chase away, but which in the gloom, became akin to a dream, from which the awaking, perhaps, would not be so bitter.

How long mother and son sat there, in the dark, they hardly knew, the flight of evening hours, are not counted on this spot of earth where clocks are rare.

Etelka who had no flitting visions on which to dwell had closed her eyes, and her quiet breathing made a soothing accompaniment to András’ wakeful dreams. Suddenly it seemed as if a curious light was discernible through the open casement, out beyond the desolate plain, on the horizon far away. András had sprung to his feet, and gazed out, not understanding at first, the lurid light which gradually illumined the sky. A hurried, anxious knock at the outer door, had also aroused Etelka, and the two little maids had run in, looking very frightened. Every mind even the simplest, had been on tension the whole day, and when Sári and Kati, had first noticed the curious light which came from neither moon nor sun, they rushed, terror-stricken, to their master, for comfort and explanation.

But András had become very pale, and Etelka now was gazing out, horrified, her cheeks blanched with fear.

“Fire!” she whispered awe-struck, under her breath.

“Yes! it is fire, mother, fire, on the Bideskút estate. The maize fields lie just there” replied András, “and there has been no rain for two weeks, the fields will burn like hay.”

“The fire seems to come from two or three different points.” “It is God’s judgment on my lord,” said Etelka, superstitiously crossing herself.

“Mother, I am going to see if I can be of any help; let Sári and Kati run out and send any of our fellows they may meet, as fast as they can. Here are the keys of the stables, they must choose the fastest horses, and follow at once. And you, mother dear, while I am gone,” he added, solemnly, “kneel down before your crucifix, and pray to God that He may stay His vengeance from the heads of those who have planned this murderous deed.”

And hastily kissing his mother, András was once more at the stable and soon had started off to ride towards Bideskút.

Far out ahead, the deep, red light, had spread right across the horizon. Through the absolute silence of the night, across the vast immensity of the plain, could be heard weird, terrified cries from afar: the frightened lowing of cattle, the bleating of frightened sheep, the cries of the juhász (shepherds) as they endeavoured to drive their herds for safety on the bleak and arid plain.

Faster and faster the red light spread, and, as András galloped on, herds of wild horses thundered past him, terrified, their manes flying, their tails lashing out furiously.

Already he could see the flames, spreading with terrible rapidity, across the fields, where he knew the corn lay, stacked, the most helpless prey to the fury of the flames. The plain, usually so silent and peaceful at night, under the blue vault of heaven, beneath the glittering stars, was now alive with terror-stricken cries, which seemed to rise from everywhere. A slight summer breeze fanned the flames, and spread them eastwards over rich maize fields, wooden sheds and even stables. András galloped on, his heart full of dark foreboding, gazing at the fire kindled by God’s hands, his mother had said, to punish the arrogant lord.