A Son of the People/Chapter 24

ad altare Dei!”

Pater Ambrosius has handed over his biretta to the tiny brown-faced ministrant, and is now bending with reverent head before the high altar, and reciting the opening prayers of the Mass.

Inside the church, the air is heavy with the scent of flowers: roses, roses everywhere, red, white, pink, yellow, in many tones of fragrant loveliness, tied in great posies at the feet of the Virgin’s statue, or on the big iron candlesticks, whilst a carpet of many coloured petals is strewn all down the nave. Half faded, these throw an intoxicating, faint perfume in the air, which mingles with the more penetrating fumes of the incense, as the little ministrants swing their simple censers to and fro. The tiny village church, with its rough stone pillars, its highly-coloured quaint images, its faded altar hangings, is turned into a very bower of sweet-scented blooms. Outside the day is warm—one of those early May days when the earth gives forth its first promises of coming vintage and harvest, when the air is filled with many cries of innumerable bird throats, when the stork calls loudly to its mate, the swallow is busy in perfecting his nest, the sparrow and the finch twitter in gladness at the warmth, the radiance of the sun. It comes peeping in at the tiny leaded windows of the church, and alights gaily on the holiday attire of the eager, curious throng of worshippers; on the bevy of pretty girls on the left, in the smartest of gay-coloured petticoats and embroidered corselets, with black hair smoothly held back underneath the gorgeous head-dress, with eyes no less bright than the glittering beads which encircle their pretty round necks, hang down on plump bosoms, and glisten in tiny ears. It smiles at the crowd of handsome young men, in all the barbaric splendour of their holiday attire, with great bunches of spring flowers fastened to their heavy mantles, their round hats held respectfully in their hands, and adorned with streaming ribbons of national tri-colour.

The Latin text of the Mass is all obscure to them; the prayer-books are only for show, since few of them can read; moreover, none could pray to-day, for there is such an extraordinary thing to be seen. All eyes are turned to where, by the communion rail, on a pair of well-worn crimson cushions, there kneel a man and a woman. He, tall, erect, his dark head, towering above all others, his great mantle worked in gold and silver threads, falling from his broad shoulders like the regal mantle of some barbaric chieftain; she, slender, fragile, in clinging, white muslin, with a long transparent veil, disguising the chaste, young form, and through which a few glints of golden curls can occasionally be seen. Side by side they kneel, enveloped in the penetrating smoke of the incense, with roses all round them: at their feet, in half faded masses, on the chancel rails and steps, in great heavy bunches, thrown everywhere by hands unaccustomed to fashion decoration, but in gorgeous picturesqueness of untidiness and plenty: side by side, to receive the blessing of God and the Church, on this union decreed on them by the high Fate which shapes our destinies. The girl, with tiny ice-cold hands clutching nervously at the ivory-bound prayer-book, trying to follow the obscure meaning of the Latin text, her blue eyes fixed steadfastly down on the pages, with not a tear falling from beneath the heavy lids; the man, upright and proud, with strong arms crossed tightly across his broad chest, forcing his eyes to rest on the sacred vessels, the altar before him, and not to dwell on that girlish figure by his side, whose every movement sends the flames of heaven coursing through his veins. The long folds of her veil disguises her before him, but, beneath it, he can guess the golden curls, the delicate outline of nose and chin, the slender, graceful curves of the throat, and his arms tighten across his breast, till the strong sinews crack, as if to still the exultant beating of the heart, and force the mind to reverence and prayer.

Pater Ambrosius, bending still lower, has begun to recite the “Confiteor”; his lean hand strikes his breast:

''“Mea culpa! mea culpa! mea maxima culpa!”''

Immediately behind them my lord kneels, with figure slightly bent, as if under some terrible weight too heavy for man to bear; he looks aristocratic and still young, among all these heavily-built sons of the soil, in his tight-fitting frock-coat, buttoned close up to the neck. At the “Confiteor” a great sigh which sounds almost like a sob, breaks through his tightly compressed lips.

“Indulgentiam, absolutionem et remissionem peccatorum nostrorum, tribuat nobis omnipotent et misericors Deus!” His hands are convulsively clasped. He too prays to God for pardon, for all transgressions, all obstinacies, pride and vain-glory, all the follies which have thrust his dainty, high-born child, into the arms of a peasant.

The noble Countess, in antiquated silk which stands in rigid folds round her, has recited the “Confiteor” under her breath, out of her prayer-book, merely as a concession, for she stands in no need of absolution, or of remission. She has accomplished her duty, sacrificed her very pride, her own child, her most treasured traditions, for the sake of her husband’s honour, and the future of her race.

Then, the worthy old priest mounts the altar steps; his new vestments, covered with lace and embroideries (a present from András for the great occasion), impede his movements. He stumbles and almost falls, causing a titter among the giddy young folk, at the back, while old ones shake their heads, and make the sign of the Cross, for the omen forebodes nothing good. The tension of suspense, of excitement, is so acute, that the most trivial occurrence calls forth nervous merriment, or flood of tears.

In the meanwhile the Pater is reading the beginning of the Introit—

“Deus Israel conjugat vos …”

András listens reverently. Yesterday the kind old priest had patiently gone through every word of the wedding Mass with him, so that he might understand what God enjoined him to do, and what he would swear to fulfil.

“May the God of Israel unite you!”

Yesterday, when he had read these words, they had seemed to him as words spoken by angels, when opening the gates of paradise.

The band of gipsy players, inseparable from any Hungarian function, grave or gay, has been stationed at the further end of the church. They know little of hymn or psalm tune; their music consists of dreamy Hungarian songs, which they play with soft, sighing sounds, and which fill the tiny, roughly-built church, as with an appealing whisper.

András closes his eyes. He has promised the Pater to keep his thoughts in check, to turn them wholly upon the sacred function, upon God’s blessing, worthily to be received.

The mellow tones of the czimbalom, the sighing accents of the fiddles fill the air, the half audible mutterings of Pater Ambrosius as he reads the Gospel, recites the Creed and Offertory prayers, all seem like sounds in dreamland, far removed from reality.

And still, as in a dream, through the thickening clouds of incense, András watches the priest as he pronounces the sacred words of the consecration. The tiny bell tingles and all heads are reverently bent: from Ilonka’s eyes a few tears are slowly falling upon her prayer-book. Before him, there floats a vision of the home at Kisfalu, rendered radiant with the presence of his young wife, flitting fairy-like through the low-raftered rooms, and … then … of the patter of feet, tinier even than hers, skipping merrily about the house, and of fresh, shrill voices, shouting “father” when he came home. An infinite peace is in his heart, forgotten are the torrents of passion which had well-nigh overwhelmed him, in these last weary weeks, he only thinks of her, as he does of the Madonna, serene, pure, the fountain of happiness, she, sitting on a throne aloft dispensing joys to the homestead, he, worshipping, devoted, at her feet.

But now, Pater Ambrosius is descending the altar steps, my lord has also left his seat, and is standing erect and very pale, close to the communion rails, while one of the ministrants holds a small plate in his hands on which two gold circlets glisten.

A sound, which is like a long sigh, seems to come from the hundred throats in the church, a sigh of intense, eager expectancy. András and Ilonka are standing before the priest, about to finally become man and wife. Neither of them hears what the priest says. Both feel as in a dream. Behind, all necks are craned to catch a glimpse of the two figures, one so tall and broad, the other so fragile; one or two less reverent feet, are standing up on the pews, while a nervous whisper and titter, a frou-frou of starched skirts, a jingle of beads and bangles breaks the solemn silence of the church.

Binecz Markó and his band are playing a dreamy song, a quaint half-sad melody; they whisper on their instruments, the music sounds like one long sigh, hardly audible, as if coming from some distant cloudland and wafted in, on the smoke of the incense.

Pater Ambrosius has taken the tiny, cold, white hand, and the other, strong, brown and rough, and placed one within the other. András hardly dares to breathe. Surely this cannot be reality. Pater Ambrosius holds both the hands clasped together, but through it all, András feels a flutter, like the wings of a tiny bird, just stolen from its nest. As her hand touches his, her white face has become whiter still and for one swift moment, her blue eyes have sought his own, with a terror-stricken, appealing look, that makes András’ heart well-nigh break with pity. Did she not understand then that he loved her,—as saints had loved their God? that he would tend and cherish her, and keep every sorrow from her path? Did they not tell her how he had begged for leave to lie at her feet, to keep stormy weather and and sun from her ways, and then be content to see her smile? why did she then look so appealingly at him? It seemed almost as if she were frightened! Frightened? Great and mighty Lord! when her hand rested in his! and God Himself was entrusting her to his care, to shield and to protect!

Pater Ambrosius now places the golden circlets, one in the hand of each. Then he whispers to András to slip the one he holds on the finger of one of those white hands. The Pater says something, which András repeats after him. There is a great deal about loving and cherishing, sickness and death, evil and good: András repeats it all, as in a dream; only vaguely does he understand that he is taking an oath before God and before men. What need has he of oaths, when his very heart-strings are bound up in the fulfilment of his own happiness?

Then she begins to speak. She also repeats what Pater Ambrosius says before her. Her voice,—oh! it was the sweetest music—sounds hardly above a whisper … hardly above the dying murmur of the czimbalom as it faintly echoes through the sacred edifice. She also swears, as, with icy hand she holds the ring on his finger, to love, to honour and to obey.

Firmly, triumphantly sounds the “Yes!” spoken by András in reply, when God through the mouth of his priest, the law, as represented by the Church, asks if he will have this woman for wife. His answer is like the triumphant echo, the expression of all his pent-up passion, of his longing, his deep, his infinite love. Firmly she too answers “Yes!”; her voice does not tremble, but once again two great tears detach themselves from her eyes, and fall, like glistening dew-drops, down her cheek.

A great sigh of satisfaction broke from the crowd of worshippers. The irrevocable deed had been done. Kemény András, the peasant lad whom as a tiny boy, many a homely mouth had kissed, who, older in years had been buffeted and beaten by a tyrannical lather, had toiled on farm and field as any labourer, who was one of themselves, like them, born and bred on the good Hungarian lowlands, was now and for ever, the rightful lord and master of a noble high-born lady, the daughter of him, who owned the land, the descendant of those who had owned the very peasants as their goods and chattels, to sell and barter at will, to maltreat, or even to kill. How wonderful it was! Like some grand dream, dreamt by all alike. The lights, the roses, the beautiful new vestments; the lord of Bideskút standing there, giving his daughter away to the peasant lad; the beautiful lady, all in white, looking like a saint, stepped down from one of the images; and amidst them all the tall powerful figure, the handsome dark head, bronzed by years of hard toil on the land, beneath the arid sun, the hard rugged hands ever opened wide to pour kindnesses, money, gifts to all who needed it, and who never asked in vain. It was a glorious day, a great event! so great and glorious, that not one eye remained dry, not one throat unchoked with sobs; so great and glorious that the czigány poured forth on the heavy scented air, their most sad, most appealing melodies! So great and glorious, that the chief actors therein, that powerful man and that fragile girl were both bowing, with bursting hearts and tearful eyes before the all-kind, merciful throne of God!

The rest of the Mass was listened to in silence. Dreamy quiet rested upon all. The simple words of the Lord’s prayer, though spoken in Latin, were known and felt by the humblest, the most unlettered in the flock. András had knelt down on the faded cushion. He had buried his face in his hands; before his closed eyes there was a haunting vision of that terrified look, which had implored him for pity. That vision seemed to rend his heart-strings. He held his teeth firmly set together, lest heart-breaking sobs should escape his throat. She was kneeling so listlessly, so icily beside him now. Reverently each took the white wafer, which Pater Ambrosius had placed in their mouth. In simple faith the young peasant accepted the great mystery, which the Catholic Church commands her children to believe. He did not understand, but did not question; scarcely a faint doubt crossed his fevered mind. The faded flowers seemed to make him drowsy; Binecz Marko’s plaintive music lulled him to dreamy insensibility.

Then Pater Ambrosius raised his hands aloft:

And he added, making the sign of the Cross towards the assistants:

“Benedicat vos omnipotentes Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus.”

The last “Amen” died away; the last Gospel had been read: Pater Ambrosius was wiping the sacred vessels.

Among the worshippers, the long, religiously kept silence was at last threatening to break. Excited whispers were heard among the young folk, as well as a general noise of closing the clasps of prayer-books, short nervous coughing, and an occasional titter. Respectfully, all remained in their seats, but craned their necks, to catch sight of the bride and bridegroom, and of the noble people. Eager questions were asked, excited comments made. Pater Ambrosius came down to the communion rail; with fatherly freedom, he had taken the bride’s pale young face between his wrinkled hands, and looking straight into her innocent eyes, was whispering something to her: a last admonition, a quiet prayer. Then he turned towards András and took his hand in both his own, and all heard him say: “God bless you, my son, you have well deserved your happiness!” After that, he put on his biretta, and was gone.

The noble Countess had gathered up her shawl and prayer-book, and had drawn near to Ilonka. Everyone strained their necks to watch the critical moment. In true time-honoured Hungarian tradition András, with a hand which visibly trembled, lifted the veil from his young bride’s face, and, stooping down towards her, his face as pale as death, he imprinted the first kiss on the pure forehead of his newly-made wife.

She seemed whiter than the white roses in her hair. Her eyes closed. She seemed ready to swoon. He had had the first kiss as every bridegroom on the lowlands: and, yet, how hungrily he watched as her father and her mother, each in turn, took her in their arms, and the noble Countess wiped copious tears from her maternal eyes. It seemed as if he could not allow anyone to approach her now.

The comments flowed freely. Feminine hearts ached at the sad white look of the bride. But then, all brides are coy and frightened on their wedding-day: it is their great charm; and András would soon bring a blush to those cheeks, and brilliancy to those eyes.

How handsome they both looked, as they walked down the nave; her hand hardly touching his arm, as he led her towards the door. Softly murmured: “God bless you both!” accompanied them to the porch. Then, behind my lord, and his lady, the crowd closed in, to see the departure.

For one moment András paused, as the brilliance of the May day sun half dazzled his eyes. Down the road, my lord’s carriage, with its Hungarian livery, its scarlet leather harness, its five milk-white horses, that had brought the bride to the church were eagerly, impatiently pawing the ground. The crowd, like the overflowing waters of the Tarna, had pressed its way out of the church, now much too small to contain all the people. All rushed eagerly forward, looking round for the rich peasant’s carriage, which was sure to be gorgeous beyond description, since it would convey the noble bride to her new farmhouse home, with glittering harness, and with its shiny brass bosses and silver hasps, that would shame that of the lord of Bideskút; moreover, no stables could rival the horses from Kisfalu. The Countess too, was looking inquiringly down the road, and anxiously at András, for no carriage but hers was in sight. What was András waiting for, with his young wife on his arm?

Suddenly, there was a loud start, a quick pawing of the air and the road, a whirl and a shout, and before the village folk’s delighted gaze, and the noble Countess’ cry of horror, Kemény András, with one quick gesture, had picked his young bride up in his arms, had jumped on Csillag’s back, and, before the spectators had time to realise what had happened, or the Countess to recover from the shock, the mare, with her double burden, was far away, throwing up a cloud of loose earth with her hoofs, galloping away towards the plain, her mane flying in the wind.

A gigantic cry of “Long live!” that shook the very foundations of the tiny village church, sent its echoes after the fast disappearing horse and rider; such a cry as relieved the tension of the intense excitement of the last two hours, and was the fitting, barbaric, primitive, intensely human comment on this novel home-going of a Hungarian bride.