A Son of the People/Chapter 31

had Bideskút been so full: even the riding-school was converted into a huge dormitory. It was the grandest time the old walls had ever witnessed. Morning, noon and night, there was no interruption to the laughter, the czigány music, the dancing, and merry-making. Last year, the terrible cholera epidemic had kept every one away from the county of Heves, but now, all that trouble was over. The harvest had been plentiful, the hospitality at Bideskút would be sure to be regal, and everyone was burning to see the beautiful heiress, whose mysterious marriage, to a rich peasant had consumed everyone with curiosity. The mothers, with marriageable sons wanted to know if Papal dispensation had not already been obtained, and the rich maid, wife or widow, free once more to contract more congenial ties; the men, young and old, were ready to flirt with her, now that she had been freed from her mother’s apron strings. It was generally supposed that the peasant husband would be kept in the background, and well known that Ilonka had gone to live with her parents, the very day after her wedding.

Countess Irma had feared unpleasant questions. In the lowlands of Hungary, where all families are more or less closely related to one another, indiscretion counts for no crime, and Bideskúty, and his wife were well armed against boisterous chaff or covert satire.

The Countess Kantássy, who had married two of her daughters to most eligible “partis” was inclined to be sadly sympathetic, over Ilonka’s extraordinary mésalliance.

“My dear,” she said, “what terrible grief for you! How could you ever give your consent to the horrible match?”

“Ilonka was fretting herself to death,” said the mother, with tears in her eyes, “she fancied herself in love with the brute, and would neither eat nor  sleep, till she had her way about marrying him. We thought, after all, that it was better to see her nominally the wife of a peasant, than lying in her coffin.”

“I call it unpardonable weakness,” asserted an old lady, who was a relation, and, therefore, had a right to express strong views, “young girls do not die so easily. You should have taken her to Budapesth, she would have forgotten such nonsensical follies.”

“Gyuri was always so weak, where Ilonka was concerned,” said Countess Irma, with a sigh.

“But where in Heaven’s name can it end? Are you trying to get Papal dispensation?”

“Yes, of course, we shall try to get the marriage broken off! At present the poor child is very happy with us … and he is very rich. … We never mention his name before her, and …”

“She certainly does not look heart broken, at this moment,” said Countess Kantássy, looking across the room at Ilonka, who, radiant with youth and beauty, almost boisterous in her gaiety, laughed and chatted, surrounded by a group of men, who were, evidently busy helping the young grass widow to forget, that there existed a mystical husband somewhere, in the background.

“That young Madách is as much in love with our Ilonka as ever, I see,” said the old aunt.

“After all, my dear,” suggested one of the ladies placidly, “here you have the best possible solution out of the difficulty. Young Madách is the best revolver shot in the army. Invite your son-in-law here, to see Feri making love to Ilonka. … Let him provoke his rival to a duel. … Madách can kill the peasant first … and step into his shoes afterwards.”

“A nobleman cannot fight a peasant," said the Countess dreamily.

“My dear! there are always exceptional circumstances.” “I had never thought of that. Certainly his money would all become Ilonka’s, after he died.”

“Is he then so very rich?”

“Fabulously, I believe. We never really troubled ourselves as to how much he actually has.”

“Of course, Madách has not a silver florin of his own, but that would not matter, if Ilonka is so rich. Think about it, my dear. We will all be very kind to the peasant. Take my advice, and invite him to the castle, or make some arrangements that he should see Feri devouring the lovely grass widow with his eyes. Those peasants are terribly jealous.”

It was after dinner, and the ladies were sipping coffee, underneath the verandah. The czigány were playing slow, dreamy Hungarian songs outside in the garden. It was the hottest time of the day, and the scorching atmosphere would allow, even to the young people, nothing more active, than wandering in the shady parts of the garden. Ilonka had been among the merriest all day yesterday. She had danced the csárdás half the night through, and allowed Feri to make violent love to her. She hardly realised whither she was drifting, and forced her mind to wander back to the girlish days of two years ago, forgetting the strange and dark shadow, which had, since then, lain across her path. A bitter feeling of revenge and hatred made her heart ache, and she made sacrifice to her pride by forcing herself to flirt, dance and make merry, in spite of that numbing pain. She half hoped, as she allowed the young man to lead her apart from everyone else, down the shady acacia drive, that he would come and see her there, in the arms of another man, whom she had loved—as she told him—for two years. She wondered what he would do then; if he would suffer, as she had suffered, the last time she stood in the acacia drive.

She and Feri had reached the great gates; she looked out upon the alley of poplars, and beyond it, far away, upon the plains beyond which lay the tiny farmhouse, where, with her own hands she had crucified love, and struck him so bitter a blow with her cruel tongue, that he had died, since he could no longer bear the pain.

Wearily she passed her hand over her eyes. The sighing of the poplar trees, in the hot noonday air the distant melancholy cry of the storks, brought back memories of that night in May, and made her heart ache with sorrow and with longing. Feri’s voice, as he spoke to her, wearied her. She longed to fly down the sandy road, towards the plains, where the gallop of the wild horses, the flight of the birds overhead, the very sand and rough soil all spoke to her of him.

“Ilonka!” She started, as the tender, pleading accents of the young man by her side reminded her that he was there, that she loved him, of course, and that she meant, to forget, in that boy and girl love of long ago, the rough storm of passion, which had swept over her and left her broken and bruised.

“You must go back,” she said with a nervous little laugh, “I believe everyone has gone indoors, and we are alone in the garden. What will mama say? The ladies will be so shocked.”

“Ilonka!” he said, vehemently, “are you trying to drive me mad? Is this some cruel game you have devised to torture me? All day you …”

“Well?” she said coquettishly, “all day, I what?”

He came very close to her, and tried to take her hand, though she started back a little.

“All day, Ilonka,” he whispered, “with every word, with every sigh you led me to hope, that the word, which two years ago, made me so happy, which dwelt in my memory, and made my life a paradise, that word you would repeat.”

“I do not understand.”

“It was two years ago. … Do you remember? … a hot summer day like this. … We were very young, you and I … you were a lovely child, and I, then, already worshipped you. … Do you remember? … You said ‘perhaps!’”

Oh, yes! she remembered! … remembered the delightful thrill she had felt, when the softly whispered ardent words had first reached her ears … when, first she realised that there was one being in the world who seemed more perfect than all. … And now … now of course, … she loved him as dearly as ever … she felt the same responsive happiness on hearing his voice whisper again the fond words she had longed for, so long! … Oh! why did the sighing of those poplar leaves bring back the echo of that other voice, trembling with passion, masterful, yet so exquisitely tender, which she had silenced for ever?

“Ilonka, you do not answer!”

She looked at his eager young face, earnest and pleading, at his slight, graceful aristocratic figure, his fine, white hands, and a strange mist came across her eyes, for she remembered that tall picturesque figure, which in this same acacia-scented alley, had looked down, with such scorn upon her. Impatiently, she brushed the mist away.

“Ilonka!” he pleaded, “God knows that I loved you, for you were an exquisitely lovely child. If He had given you to me, then I would have worshipped and cherished you as the most priceless treasure on earth. But some devils stepped between you and me, and after living for two years on thoughts of that ‘perhaps,’ Fate tried to change that word into ‘never’! I suffered so, Ilonka, I could not have lived, had I not seen you again. You are ten thousand times more beautiful, than you were … and I … God help me … love you ten thousand times more!”

Half dreamily, she listened to him; through the open windows of the house, the faint sounds of wild Hungarian melodies were wafted on the sweet-scented air.

“I said, ‘perhaps’,” she said, “it was you, and not Fate, who said ‘never’!”

“I, Ilonka?”

“Yes! you! they told me you cared for another, that you were married, and …”

“And you believed them? Did you not remember then, that I loved you?”

“Love soon dies!”

“Love such as mine, never dies, Ilonka!” he said earnestly.

Love never dies? … After two years of absence, of weary waiting, he loved her still? And she? … oh! of course, she loved him. She had meant to forget in his arms, the scorn, the contempt of that other man … and yet she felt irritated. The young earnest face, the pleading voice, grated on her nerves. She had always … ever since that night in May … pictured love like this … soft, respectful, and pleading … and she wondered why, there remained such a chill at her heart.

“Ilonka, won’t you speak?”

Wrapped in her thoughts, she had forgotten him; forgotten that he was pleading for that very love, she had been so ready to give.

“What must I say?”

“Tell me, that that sweet word ‘perhaps?’ which you spoke as a child, you will repeat, now that you are a woman. That the evil fate which stepped between us, is but as a hideous dream, which our love can soon dispel. See, Ilonka! the earth is vast, there are other beautiful lands besides our own lovely plains: there we can go, you and I, and take our Love with us, securely hidden from the eyes of the world … we can, like the birds, who in winter fly away from the plains, build oar nest, beneath some other skies … Oh, Ilonka … if you will say ‘perhaps’ … if you will grant me leave to make you forget the past … I will show you such glimpses of Heaven as human beings have never yet dreamed of.”

He was covering her hand with kisses, kneeling before her, in the lonely acacia alley; she turned her head away from him, towards the poplar trees which were sighing so strangely in the wind.

“Fate has said ‘never’!” she said.

“But we can yet say ‘perhaps,’” he pleaded. “Ilonka, you were a child. You did not know what you were doing. They forced your will, and dragged you to the foot of the altar, where they made you swear an oath …” “Which, now, you would have me break!”

“You swore it, against your will, Ilonka.”

“Yet I swore it at the altar, before God and before man. You say you love me, and you would make me base.”

“Base only, in the eyes of an unjust world. Love makes laws for itself, apart from mankind. I can protect you, Ilonka. What matters it, what the world says, since I love you, and if you say—‘perhaps’!” It all seemed so unreal. This thing, which she had longed for, which she had pictured to herself as the happiest moment of her life, when her early love would rise triumphant above the dark shadows, which had overclouded her life. It seemed like a strange dream, this same acacia alley, the fragrance of the same flowers, and from afar the dying echoes of magyar love-songs, played by the gipsy band.

Beneath these same trees, he had turned in contempt from her, and her gratitude, and she, forlorn and lonely, had tried to blow on the ashes of another love, only to find that each dying ember, as it flickered, left her more cold, and more alone.

“I love you, Ilonka!”

Oh! why did not his voice thrill her? Why did his pleading jar upon her ear, like something out of tune? A wicked desire seized her to wound him too, to make him suffer, as he had suffered, to goad him into mad, unreasoning passion, which would perhaps, revive the handful of burnt ashes, on which she tried to blow.

“Feri,” she said sadly, “I cannot say ‘perhaps.’”

“Why, Ilonka?”

“Because, that love you spoke of, the child-like admiration for the first man, who thrills a girl's heart, was not strong enough to battle against Fate. It has sickened during these two years, and now, that I thought to see it revive, I find that it is dead.”

“Ilonka, you mistake,” he pleaded eagerly, “you are good and sweet, and believe that an oath binds you to another man, and that it is a sin now, to listen to my love. But, remember … he swore an oath too … he swore to love and honour you … but he has broken his vow … he has left you … he cares nothing for you …”

“Stop!” she said, “you have no right to say this. And I have no right to listen.”

“You have every right to hear,” he pleaded, “your own pride must have told you, that he, the peasant, only cared for an aristocratic wife, that he was too gross to appreciate the priceless treasure, an all too kind Fate had placed in his arms. He should have guarded and cherished it, as I will guard and cherish you. But like a blind and ignorant lout, he threw the precious gold away, and is no doubt now, forgetting, among the base pleasures of his class, the heavenly happiness, which lay for a moment, so near his grasp.”

She tried to stop him, but he would not hear. He saw the strange look of agony in her eyes, but he did not understand. His arms tried to close round her. He would have drawn her to him.

“Ilonka! as he has forgotten you, so you must try to forget him. No power in Heaven or hell, could blind you to an oath, which you made against your will. That man is not worthy, that you should harbour one thought of duty towards him. Your duty is to yourself, who are born to taste of happiness, to me who have loved you so long, and who still worship at your feet.”

He had drawn her to him. With the look of a conqueror he looked down into her eyes. His face was close to hers, she could feel his warm breath upon her cheek. The leaves of the poplar trees, beyond the gates, sent forth a long melancholy sigh.

A terrible pity for him seized her: pity for his weakness, pity for his love. Gently she pushed him away from her.

“Feri,” she said very quietly, “I seem to have sinned very deeply against you; if, as you say, by look or word, I led yon to think that my love for you was not truly dead, then I am indeed sorry, and, in the name of that past love, I must ask you to forgive me.”

“I have nothing to forgive, Ilonka. … I …”

“Do not interrupt me,” she said, “I have one thing more to say. It is an appeal to your chivalry. You must promise me … that you will forget … that I ever listened to words such as you had no right to speak to me …”

“I care not for right or wrong, Ilonka; I know that I love you!”

“You must care,” she almost pleaded. “We all have to give up some hopes in life. … You must give up all hopes of me …”

“I cannot, Ilonka; my love for you is my very life.”

“It is better,” she said earnestly, “to give up life, than to do, what is base.”

“But I will not give you up, Ilonka,” he retorted savagely, “for I know that you are unhappy, and alone, that I love you, and that he scorns you, who …”

“Yes!” she interrupted quietly, “you need not say it. I know that he scorns me. But, nevertheless, in spite of that, I shall keep the oath, I made at the altar.”

“I will kill him, Ilonka; and then you will be free!”

“Yes!” she said dreamily, “then, perhaps, I will be free.”

“Till then, give me a word of hope, Ilonka.”

“A word of hope? Listen, Feri. In my heart there is an infinite love, and an infinite hatred: when I know which of these two is the stronger, I will speak of love to you.”

“Love for me?” he pleaded.

“I cannot say, I do not know!”

“Hatred for the peasant, the low-born serf, whom Fate has made your lord?”

“Perhaps … I cannot say… But now go. … Leave me here a little while. … Go—Go! … I am tired … the heat has made me dizzy. … I will come back … but … in Heaven’s name! Go!”

She was trembling, as if with fear, and, her hand, which he tenderly raised to his lips, was icy cold. His heart ached for her; but he obeyed her, and turned to go.

When he had disappeared down the acacia alley, she also turned, and went out at the gates. The road lay parched and arid before her, the hot midday air trembled. The vast immensity of the plain lay silent and drowsy before her.

Swiftly she walked down the hard dry road, riddled by great deep ruts. She felt neither the heat nor the hardness of the road. On she walked, she knew not whither. Away from that acacia-scented alley, away from that house, those trees, which would not let her forget.

When she reached the edge of the plain she left the main road and wandered on, upon the soft sand. Far away, from the tumble-down chimney of the little wayside inn, there rose a thin column of smoke. The sky was dense and blue, and on, ahead, the line of the horizon, hot and ruddy, was lost in a purple mist. From time to time, the wild cry of the herdsmen, driving their herds before them, broke the absolute stillness around, or a flight of cranes, with dismal croaking, would rise, affrighted, at her approach.

On she wandered. Hoping, perhaps, that far ahead where sky and earth met, behind that purple veil there would lie forgetfulness, for which her heart nearly broke with longing. Then, as she wandered on, suddenly that veil was lifted, and, behind it, there arose the glorious picture of fairyland; golden towers and castles, delicious silver streams, trembling as if shaken by fairy breath.

Never had she seen it in such splendour; never had she so longed that the elusive fairy might lend her wings, with which she might wander down the silent, solitary streets, of that mysterious golden city.

No! Not solitary, for, see! from out one of its golden turreted castles, a horse and rider seemed to have emerged, and to be coming towards her. Ilonka looked, and her very heart seemed to stand still. Where could she hide, on this vast arid plain, where the orphan’s hair alone, or the rosemary broke the evenness of the sand. …

She could not move … her feet seemed rooted to the ground. The rider had not seen her yet, for the August sun was in his eyes, and he held his head down, as if under some heavy load. Then he dismounted, and, patting the horse gently on the neck, he let it roam about at its own will, whilst he himself came straight towards her.

Suddenly he saw her, standing there before him, white and fragile underneath her broad-brimmed hat, the hot midday sun forming a golden aureole round her dainty figure.

Helplessly he too looked round him, as if he would have fled. But the plain is vast, and Csillag far away!

He gazed at her, with that strange far-off look of his, as if he were gazing not at her, but at a dream, while his lips involuntarily parted to breathe her name:

“Ilonka!”

But she put up one tiny hand.

“No! No!” she said, “not now … not till the fairy has gone, and taken her lovely picture away. … I could not bear cruel words … just now!”

She was gazing out towards the brilliant, trembling Fata Morgana afar. And he looked at her, for he did not understand.

“See!” she said dreamily, “there lies, perhaps, the land I seek. … They tell me, I was born for love and happiness. … I have vainly sought for both. … Once they lay within my grasp … with pride and arrogance I pushed them both away. … Since then, I have wandered alone upon the plain seeking, for that, which I have lost. … Perhaps out there in the fairy palace, I shall find the grave of love, and then, the Fairy Morgana, who guards it, will have pity on my weariness, and let me lie down in it, to rest.”

The air was so still that, from afar, the sound of the tiny bell from the village church, sounded silvery and dear, and from the wayside inn, there came the echo of merry laughter.

He did not understand her strange, wild words, but only thought how beautiful she looked, with her eyes veiled in tears, and he held his arms tightly crossed over his chest, lest the longing prove too great, to clasp her in his arms.

The heat overhead was intense. Her eyes, now, had a wild scared look; she passed her hand, once or twice over her forehead, then looked helplessly at him. “This is a dream, I know … presently I shall wake …,” she said, “but … in the meanwhile we are alone … you and I. … Do not look so strangely at me … it is a dream, and we shall soon wake up! … But, while it lasts … take me in your arms once again … and … perhaps … God will be merciful, and the awakening will be only in Heaven. …”

She had become deathly pale. She staggered for a moment, and almost fell. The next his arms were round her, he had called to her: “Ilonka!” But she put up one tiny hand against his mouth.

“Nay, sweet! my sweet!” she whispered, “do not speak. … Do you remember … you swore a cruel oath that love was dead. … Oh! how I have suffered since then! … you do not know. … Your heart would have ached to see my pain. … You must not speak … for you might break that oath. … But … stoop down … you are so tall … and I want to whisper. … My husband! …”

“Ilonka!”

Ay! she had said it truly! it was a dream! so entrancing,so beautiful, that even the Fairy Morgana’s fitful visions seemed pale and dull beside it. He could not speak, for happiness was too great. His arms closed round her. She raised her sweet face up to his, and in her blue, forget-me-not eyes, he read at last that love had risen triumphant from the grave.

“Ilonka … my love … my wife!” he murmured in the midst of half-choked sobs, as his trembling lips sought her sweet mouth, in one long, passionate kiss.

How long they stayed there, alone betwixt earth and sky, neither knew nor cared. He had fallen on his knees before her, and the strong rough man, his head buried in the soft, clinging folds of her gown, was sobbing as a weak child, for very happiness.

Then, when he was calmer, she had to tell him all! Oh! how sweet it was, to hear her speak of her love! She could not say when it was born, it had always been there, she said; her cruelty was but an outcome of that very love, which her pride had tried to trample down.

When the sun sank down towards the west, and Fata Morgana vanished behind her purple veil, they wandered home towards the farmhouse beyond the puszta!