A Son of the People/Chapter 15

, in the meanwhile had almost reached the village. He knew, as well as the noble lord, that the night’s devastation was the work of man and not of God, and that it was the poor superstitious frightened wretches, yonder in those cottages, whose hand had done the dastardly deed, and who now refused, surly and defiant, to try and check the terrible catastrophe, they, in their criminal folly had brought about.

The village seemed at first, strangely deserted; the little thatched cottages, to the right and left of the only street were dark and desolate looking; even the inn appeared solitary, not a sound emerged through its half-opened doors. András dismounted, and led his horse along the road, towards the presbytery; he reckoned on Pater Ambrosius to lend him the weight of his influence on the obstinate minds of the peasants, and inwardly wondered, how it was, that he had not met the kind old priest, on his way to the scene of the fire, with cross and sacrament, to pray to God to stay His just and wrathful hand.

The next moment, however, he saw the explanation to this, for he had reached the presbytery, which was literally blockaded by a crowd of men sitting and standing round, some smoking in surly silence, others discussing eagerly, all turning towards the glow which suffused the sky.

It was very dark, street illumination being still unknown in the Hungarian lowlands, and András could do no more than just distinguish the outlines of these groups of malcontents, and to guess their object in thus congregating outside Pater Ambrosius’ door; for though he could not see the good old priest himself, he could hear his voice, apparently from some window of his presbytery, expostulating, preaching, admonishing, scolding, and entreating alternately to be allowed to go and pray for my lord, who was in such dire trouble, and threatening a total suspension of absolution, and excommunication of the entire village, if he was not permitted to perform his priestly duty.

Surlily they all smoked on, not listening to the kindly voice, which always brought spiritual comfort to their simple minds. Obstinately they remained deaf to every appeal, determined to carry on their crime, their folly, to its utmost dire limit.

“Do not speak any more words to them, Pater,” suddenly said a voice in the darkness, “they are not worthy that you should let your kind eyes rest upon their evil forms, even for a moment.”

Calmly András stood among them, his usually so merry eyes looking with contempt and anger, at the men, who had all instinctively turned, as they recognised the voice of their friend.

“András! …” was the general cry of astonishment.

“Stop that,” he said peremptorily, “do not dare to speak to me by my name. It is the name of an honest man, and can but be polluted by passing through the mouth of miscreants.”

There was a dead silence; astonished the men looked at one another, thinking their favourite had gone mad. They had never heard such words from him.

“Miscreant, is an ugly word, young man,” said old Vas Berczi, with a threatening tone in his voice, as he advanced towards András.

“Ay! an ugly word, man, but not half so ugly as the dark, murderous deed your cowardly hands have accomplished to-night. Stand back, there!” he added, as one or two of the peasants in the foremost ranks came close up to him, “I forbid you to speak to me, to come within a foot of me, or to lay a finger on Csillag, for she would surely die of the pestilence.”

“Has he gone mad?” whispered one voice to another. “What does he mean?” suggested another. But all had retreated, none spoke to him, and one or two, as if in awe, looked at their brown hands, whose touch, he said, was pestilence and death.

“András,” came Pater Ambrosius’ pleading voice from the dark, “you used to have influence over them, speak to them, my son, persuade them, at least, since they are not Christians, and will not assist my lord, in his distress, to let me go and pray for the poor man, who must be sadly in want of God’s help.”

“I am here, father, to take you to your church, or to the terrible scene from which I have just come, and where I shall go back at once; as for speaking to these miscreants, I will not do it. Their very breath is offensive to me and to Csillag. You and I, father, will go back to where a poor old man, with his wife and daughter, is watching his all, fall a prey to ruin; to where poor frightened beasts rush helplessly about, only to meet with a terrible death, in the fire, which these children of hell have kindled. The pride of our county of Heves, of the entire Hungarian lowland is laid to dust, when dastardly hands wreak cowardly vengeance on innocent beasts of burden. Come father, let us go; you can come back, when your work of praying is done; as for me, if I am not fortunate enough, to bury myself and my shame in the flames that devastate the land of which I was so proud, I will to-morrow, collect my household goods and, like the czigány tramp wander away across the puszta, in search of a spot where I can once more speak to an honest man. Let Pater Ambrosius pass! He is waiting at the door!”

Never had they heard such cruel words, the tones of which were sharp and cutting as a two-edged sickle, and the contempt so bitter, so absolutely humiliating, that, even in the darkness they felt their bronzed cheeks burn with shame.

What did András mean? He, who in all their grievances, their complaints, had always stood by their side, ready to cheer, to explain, to alleviate. He, who had always with a bright smile, thrown down every barrier, which his riches and his influence would, otherwise have built between him and them, the humble labourers who worked for his liberal wage; now he even refused to allow them to speak his name, or to touch his horse; as if their words and their touch was the most abasing pollution. Was what they had done, then, so very awful? Was it not just revenge? was it really, as he said so very cowardly? A crime and not justice? True, there were the wife and daughter of my lord; they had had nothing to do with those cursed inventions of Satan … and, then, there were the poor beasts … the beautiful Hungarian horses … the stables of Bideskút are famed throughout the lowlands … and a good many of the mares were with colt … then the oxen, who could not run … and who were so timid, and easily scared ….

Silently the groups had parted, to make way for Pater Ambrosius, now as he joined András, and prepared to mount behind him, Kemény, in the meanwhile, though still retaining the contemptuous attitude, he had adopted, and, seemingly taking no further heed of the men, just as if they were the very dust upon the plain, was nevertheless, quietly watching the effect his hard words had on those, whom, in spite of their follies, he loved and sympathised with, tenderly. It was because there had been no time to waste in persuasion and argument, that he had adopted, what he firmly believed was the right mode of getting at those obstinate, foolish, but not absolutely evil minds. The fate of the lord of Bideskút’s home for one moment, trembled in the balance, and, for the space of a minute, perhaps, there was hesitation; but, when András had actually mounted Csillag, and it became absolutely evident, that he would not speak or look at them, again, a timid voice ventured:

“You are not, really leaving Kisfalu, for ever, András, are you?”

“Who spoke?” he said, looking carelessly over his shoulder, “has any man ever known me to say one thing, and mean another? Come father, are you safe? Put your arms round my waist firmly, Csillag will gallop fast”

“No, András, you are not going?”

“What is to become of us?”

“You would not leave us?”

“You will see us starve!” came from every side, and, anxious, really frightened at what would undoubtedly prove a calamity to them, the men crowded round their favourite, eagerly, not quite daring yet to touch the mare, since he had forbidden it, but preventing her from taking András away, if he was never to return.

“We thought, András, you would understand our troubles,” said old Vas Berczi, still surly, but very much humbled; “you have gone over to the enemy, and look down upon us poor folk, now.”

András heaved a sigh of satisfaction. This was the beginning of capitulation; he had gained his point; the rest would be easy work.

“I do always enter into all your troubles, my men. Your sorrows are my sorrows,” he said more kindly, “but you must have known, that when you chose the ways of crime, our paths would lie divided for ever. Now, good-bye, let Csillag pass!”

“You will come back,” they shouted, as Csillag reared, for her master had pressed his knees against her haunches.

“Never, except to press the hands of honest men, again.”

“Ours, András, ours!” they shouted again, as the mare started at a rapid gallop down the village street.

András turned round once more to face them.

“Of those who will help me to stay the fire from reaching the house of Bideskút”

“Mine, András, mine,” came from everyone now; and one and all, young and old, eager, forgetting their grievances, their superstitions, their terrors, longing only for that warm, promised handshake, started running after the mare and her double burden.

But András had halted just outside the little church, whose quaint square tower stood out black against the brilliant, awful background beyond.

“God bless you all, my children,” said Pater Ambrosius, as he slid to his feet, “but we must wait, and take our Lord with us!”

“Quick, father, there is not a moment to lose,” said András hurriedly; but he, like all the rest, had reverently lifted off his cap, and Pater Ambrosius having fumbled for his keys, let himself in through the heavy door, leaving it open, so that his erring flock after their wild outburst of revengeful passion should catch sight of the heavenly peace, within the house of God. It was almost entirely in gloom within, save for the fitful, lurid light, which glimmered through the small, deep-set Gothic windows; but the old priest knew his way well, through the rough carved pews, to the steps of the simple altar, from which, since nearly half a century he had called forth God’s blessing on his simple flock. With hasty genuflexions he rapidly opened the Sanctum Sanctorum, and took out the golden crucible which contained the true body of his sovereign Lord.

“For God’s sake, quick, father!” said András’ voice outside, and hastily wrapping the sacred emblem beneath his cassock, Pater Ambrosius, once more mounted behind the young peasant.

The men had stood reverently silent during this brief passage of God amongst them, then, as once more Csillag set off at a sharp gallop, they, with a shout, started to run after her: a troop of some two or three hundred of them, the entire able-bodied population of the little village, eager to redeem the past, to restore to their beloved lowland that pride which they, by their deed had humbled; and when they at last, reached the grounds of Bideskút, hot, panting, but as full of vigour as ever, they formed themselves in a line, ready to obey his orders, to whom they wished to prove, that they were still worthy of his regard and of his sympathy.

Bideskúty, in the meanwhile, had followed András advice; there was no doubt, that from the north now, very considerable danger threatened the old ancestral house. In that direction lay a very extensive field of maize, part of which was already ablaze, and helping to spread the conflagration, in serious proximity to the outhouses and stables. The unfortunate owner of all the devastated lands had collected round him the few willing hands that were available, and while his male guests in fantastic array were busy trying to rescue one corner of his property, he brought his few indoor servants and one or two of the more robust maids, to attempt the salvage of the other.

With scythes, sickles and spades, they endeavoured to lay as much of the field low as possible, but though the small band worked hard, and with a will, the enemy worked harder, drawing nearer and nearer, and, after the first half-hour, it became evident, that unless help arrived numerous and swift, the clearing would not be sufficiently wide to effectually check the flames.

Bideskúty paced up and down the approaches to his fields, scanning anxiously the horizon from which the help should come. He would not allow himself to dwell upon his thoughts and his suspicions; he knew too well now that, if after this terrible night, he retained the roof above his head, and any fragment of his threatened property, it would be thanks to the man, whom that afternoon he had insulted and struck in the face. That the fire had been kindled by human hand, of that there could be no doubt; all that was left to hope for now, was that the rich peasant would exert his influence to bring the criminals to the atonement of their own deed, before it was too late.

The ladies had all retired to within the park gates. They were far too anxious to go indoors, and, in groups of two and three, they paced up and down the acacia alleys, all wondering if the promised help would come, and all watching their fathers, brothers, husbands, still at work on the roofs of the threatened stables.

From afar, already, Bideskúty heard the shouts of the peasants, as they ran, headed by Csillag, carrying her master and Pater Ambrosius.

András brought his horse to a standstill, close to Bideskúty, and having dismounted, he said:

“My lord, the Pater and I have brought you three hundred willing pairs of hands, who, with God’s help, will at least, save your house and stables from this terrible fire. Now my men,” he added, pointing to the maize fields, “start clearing away that tinder at once. Hack, cut, mow, tear, uproot, let me see who can best devastate one of the finest fields of maize in the county. Take what tools you can; lose no time, and may God bless your work!”

Pater Ambrosius also dismounted. With simple faith he brought out the sacred vessel from under his cassock, and holding it high above his head, so that all might partake of the divine blessing, he reverently prayed for God’s help in this terrible emergency.

In a few moments the fresh band of willing workers had dispersed within the fields, and soon, from afar, could be heard the sound of the sharp scythes cutting through the tough stems of the maize.

Bideskúty from where he stood, could see the row of backs stooping to their work, tearing and cutting, without rest and pause. They had pushed their way very near the fire: dangerously near, Bideskúty thought; it seemed as if they were anxious even to risk their lives now, to save a few acres of land for him, to court danger, so as better to show their obedience and devotion. And yet, surely, the guilty were there too, amongst them, wrestling hard with that merciless fire, which their criminal hand had kindled. Bideskúty looked with a feeling that was akin to envy at the sturdy peasant by his side, who with a word had subdued all those recalcitrant hearts to his will. He would have wished to speak to him of his gratitude, for the incalculable service rendered, but, somehow, the ruling passion still choked the words within his throat. The proud aristocrat could not bring himself, even at a moment like this, to own himself bounden in any way to the low-born peasant at his side.

There was no doubt that almost imperceptibly, the area of the fire was being restricted. Already to the south and east, the arid plain and the wide high road had proved an insurmountable barrier to the spreading of the flames in those two directions, whilst to the north the group of outlying stables, deluged with water, had proved an effectual check. Hope began to revive in Bideskúty’s heart, as he saw the great bare patches in his fields of maize, against which every column of flame, which threatened to spread in the direction of the house, first flickered and then died. Pater Ambrosius had never ceased his prayers while the men worked, and Bideskúty watched. The proud lord had allowed András, without a word of protest, to take command in the work of rescue.

The young peasant seemed to Bideskúty’s feverish eyes to be in every place at the same time. Now close to the men, to direct their work, now at the park gates to send reassuring messages to the ladies within. For five hours the struggle went on, between man and the element, and, inch by inch, the element was made to yield. Everywhere now, could be seen black and smoky patches, which looked like desolate islands in a sea of flames. The intense glow had subsided. Darkness, which seemed doubly dense, owing to the lurid illumination of a few hours ago, had overspread two-thirds of the horizon. The vanquished foe made one or two attempts at regaining lost ground; in one or two places the, stubble of cut maize stems caught fire and smouldered for awhile, but, after the work of cutting down, the stamping out of those smouldering remnants was quick and effectual. As the flames had subsided, the mummers had joined forces with the peasants, and soon the barrier, which forced the fire back and back, became closer and closer. Bideskúty never left the ground, while there was a single spark to be seen; unceasingly he watched, while his terrible enemy was being driven back and vanquished. He felt no fatigue; he watched as in a dream; not seeking, in the gathering gloom, to note the fearful devastation, which now stretched before him, where yesterday, rich corn and maize fields, had nodded, gaily in the summer breeze.

He asked no questions as to the fate of his vineyards, which lay to the north, his turnip fields, his oats, which stretched for many leagues away, and of which he could not as yet know, how far they had suffered from the fury of the flames.

In the east beyond the plain, a faint streak of delicate rosy grey broke the gathering gloom. The air was filled with choking smoke. Ahead a group of peasants, and mummers, rendered doubly grotesque by begrimed faces and hands and torn finery, were stamping out the last remaining sparks on his dearly-loved maize fields, which had been the pride of the county. He thanked God that he could not see the wreck, that he could put off till the morrow the thought of the hopeless ruin of his rich crops, and, to-night only remember that, at least his house had been spared him, some of his beasts too perhaps.

From a distance he could hear those now, being driven back to their stables. He would not ask how many had perished, suffocated by fire and smoke All that he would hear soon enough … to-morrow. … To-night he thought he only wanted rest A great many of the peasants, he noticed, were wending their way, once more towards Arokszállás. The streak of rosy grey was getting wider, and brighter; even through the smoke, he could see overhead a few stars, looking pale and shy at the approach of dawn. Pater Ambrosius said many kind words to him, and each peasant, as he passed, touched his süveg (cap) respectfully before the ruined lord.

“Gyuri, won’t you come in?” said portly Count Kantássy very gently and very kindly, “you must be worn out with fatigue and anxiety. I have just come from the chateau, and have persuaded the ladies to go to bed.”

Bideskúty looked at his old friend vacantly; he did not quite grasp his meaning. His mind was numb, as his body was, from the strain and the fatigue of the night.

“There seems no more danger for the present, but pickets of watchers have been placed at different points to give the alarm, in case the fire should break out again.”

Bideskúty hardly knew who had spoken. It was a young man, who looked exceedingly comic in a limp satin skirt, saturated with water, and a bodice, cut décollétte in front, with lace frills, and bows of ribbons. It made him laugh so much that he tottered, and almost fell but for Kantássy’s arm, which supported him gently, just as if he had been drinking and could not stand. The portly old Count tried to lead his friend away.

“Come, Gyuri, there is no occasion for you to stay!”

But, though he was very tired, and it was, surely time for bed, Bideskúty felt, that there was something he ought to do, before going in, but he could not recollect what it was. Obstinately he refused to move, and stared with a vacant smile at the group of his young guests in limp, wet rags, the remnants of the merry masquerading, which had made him laugh so heartily … oh! ever so long ago.

A servant came running from the park gates. She said that the Countess begged my lord would come in, she and Mademoiselle Ilonka could not rest, till they had seen him.

Bideskúty at last prepared to go.

“The Countess asked my lord, to bring Kemény András of Kisfalu in with him,” added the maid, “for she wished to speak a few words of thanks to him, for his timely assistance,”

Then it was that Bideskúty recollected what it was he wanted to do, before going home to bed. There had been a man, who had not only toiled and slaved for him, helped to rescue his home from utter devastation, but had also induced others to give able and willing help, so as to render his ruin only partial, instead of whole. That man was a low-born peasant, descendant of a race of serfs, moreover a usurious money-lender, with Jewish ancestry; only that very afternoon he had been insolent, and Bideskúty had been forced to chastise him. Still, quarrels must be forgotten, as the man had truly made amends, and Bideskúty felt sincerely grateful.

He turned to seek for András among the group, which surrounded him. The peasant was not there. He asked after him; and called for him by name. …

But Kemény András was gone.