A Son of the People/Chapter 25

the delights of that wild ride across the roads amid the fields of the beautiful Hungarian lowlands, with Csillag feeling, as it were, the same magnetic current, which filled her master’s veins, and flying along, swift and sure, like the very clouds driven by the wind.

Oh! how he had looked forward to this ride, with her frightened arms clinging perforce to him, for she would have to hold on tight, when Csillag flew like the wind.

How pale she looked! Her eyes were closed: perhaps she had fainted away. He had been forced to be brusque and rough, to mount Csillag and fly away with her, and give no one time to stop him, and this, no doubt had frightened her.

On, Csillag flew, the village was far behind! the shouts of “Éljen!” had died away, the plain, in all its immensity, in all its loneliness, lay before him, and, Csillag, who like her master loved its untrammelled freedom, loved the vast expanse of earth and sky, bounded onwards, as if God’s angels had lent her their wings.

On! On! She lay so still, and so pale, in his arms, scarcely a breath escaped the partially closed mouth; her long white veil lay round her like a shroud, and her tiny head rested upon his breast. Of such a moment he had dreamt long nights through, upon the plain, had half broken his heart with mad desire, longing for this. And now he gazed upon her, for the first time all alone. No eyes to watch his emotion; her loveliness lying passive in his arms. Oh! the joy of seeing her thus, senseless, helpless against his breast; fondly his eyes dwelt on every soft curl which escaped from beneath the veil, on the closed transparent lids, where tiny purple veins spoke of sorrow and of tears, on the small white nose, with its dainty tip, and delicate nostrils, and, above all, on that scarlet mouth, with lips half parted, through which András’ ardent gaze sought the tiny white teeth, and the tip of her rosy tongue.

Oh! it was joy unspeakable! joy beyond compare! save to most exquisite torture, to drink in every line of that fragile beauty, of which he was now the owner, and which, for very love, for great desire he would not, dared not touch.

On, Csillag! On!

She had not stirred; her very breath seemed to have stopped. She lay, as dead in his arms. All around, earth and sky were still. The noonday sun, poured down its radiance on the vast immensity of the plains. The heat made the air tremble with its waves. All signs of human life were far, very far away. The tiny wayside inn lay behind, the cry of the herdsmen was heard no more; only overheard the storks were calling to one another, and, down, from beneath the great leaves of the melons, bright coloured lizards darted to and fro, frightened by Csillag’s mad gallop. A fragrance of opening blossoms, of ripening fruit was in the air. To the right, a herd of wild horses cantered swiftly past. András looked up for a moment. Gazed round at the solitary, silent plain, which he loved so well, and his eyes rested with delight, on the blue sky, the ruddy soil, the distant outline of the long-armed well, against the purple mist beyond.

And, lo! as he gazed, on the hot, dry, trembling air, far away, upon the infinite golden distance, with rapid touches, the fitful fairy Fata Morgana drew her elusive pictures. To András’ excited brain, it seemed like the gold and white city of paradise glistening in the radiance of the sun; with cool, rippling streams, marble towers and green pastures, glorious and solitary, calling to him to enter, with that snow-white burden in his arms, there, to lay him down, and her, beside the cool streams, his burning head, resting against the soft green grass.

Long and earnestly he gazed, while it seemed to him, as if Csillag flew thither, with outstretched angels’ wings. Nearer and nearer the enchanting picture drew, half-veiled in a thin mist, which was made of tears.

Then he bent his head down, and his ardent lips sought the tiny half-opened mouth: and the soul of the young, rough, half-barbaric peasant passed from him to her inanimate form, in one long burning kiss. Far out, on the horizon, the fitful fairy had swiftly erased the golden image of that paradise city; overhead the storks had ceased their cry; the little lizards had gone to rest.

Peaceful, immense, solitary, the puszta lay! and Csillag galloped on.