Читать книгу A Son of the People - Baroness Orczy - Страница 4

Table of Contents

Do you love the mountains, English reader? the romantic peaks of the Rhine country, the poetic heights of the Alps, the more gently undulating slopes of your own South Downs? As for me, I must confess to an absorbing, a passionate fondness for the lowlands, the wild, mysterious plains of Hungary, that lie, deep down, between the Danube and the Theisz, and, whenever I stand on those vast pusztas, (The pusztas are the vast sandy plains in the lowlands of Hungary) it always seems to me that the mind must be more free, when the gaze can wander untrammelled to that far-distant horizon, which fancy can people at its own sweet will.

See how far away that horizon seems, there, where earth and sky meet in a soft-toned line of purple, the merging of the blue sky with the ruddy, sandy soil of the earth. The air trembles with the intense heat, and as the eye tries to define what lies beyond that mysterious vastness, lo! there suddenly rises on the distant horizon a vision of towers, minarets, and steeples, white and cool-looking, mirrored in some fairy pond that must lie, somewhere — there — beyond where the eye can reach. Fondly it rests on the mystic, elusive picture, thrown on the blue canvas by the fairy hand of the fitful Fata Morgana; entranced, fancy pictures those towers and minarets, peopled with beings of some other world, half earthly, half heavenly, who have found birth in that immeasurable distance, which begins where vision ends. Blinded, the eye closes for one moment, as a respite from the golden vision, and lo! when it gazes again, towers and minarets have disappeared, and, far away, only a few melancholy weeping willows or a cluster of slender poplars break the even purple line of the skies. Fondly then, fancy dwells on its dreams, and hardly now dares to call real that distant, muffled sound, the gallop of a hundred hoofs, falling on the soft, dry earth. Perhaps it is a fairy sound, and that herd of wild horses, thundering past, their manes shaking, their tails lashing, are some fairy beasts belonging to the ghouls who dwell in Fata Morgana’s distant minarets. Yet the sound is real enough; wildly the horses gallop past, followed by the csikós (herdsman) on his bare-backed mare, his white lawn shirt flying out like wings, as he passes, and cracking his lasso, as he drives his herd before him. For a moment all seems life upon the plain, for to the right and to the left the wild fowl rise affrighted overhead, and, on the ground, bright-coloured lizards rush nervously to and fro. Then the gallop dies away in the distance, the herdsman’s whip has ceased to crack, the birds have gone to rest, and the mind is left wondering whether this bit of tumultuous life was not another day-dream, painted, and then erased by fancy.

Silence reigns again: a silence rendered absolute through the drowsiness of all animal life, in the heat of the noonday sun. To the right and left, limitless fields of watermelons turn their huge, emerald-green carcases towards the burning sun; beyond them, the golden sea of wheat, the waving plumes of maize, tremble and nod at every passing breeze, whilst, from everywhere, the sweet-scented rosemary throws a note of cool grey-green on the glowing colours of the soil. Far, very far away, a windmill stretches out its long wings, like a gigantic bird of prey, and right across the plain, the high-road, riddled with ruts, wanders northwards, towards Kecskemét. And that is all! Nothing more. Only sky, and earth, and vastness—immeasurable vastness—all one’s own: to grasp, to understand, to love!

* * * * * * * * *

Midway between the two prosperous provincial towns of Kecskemét and Gyöngyös, on the very confines of the great Nádasdy plain, nestles the tiny village of Árokszállás, with its few thatched cottages, and its old mediaeval church, cool and grey-looking, in the glare of the noonday sun. Near it, the presbytery, painted a brilliant yellow, with vivid emerald-green shutters, and surrounded by a small garden, where, amidst tall hollyhocks and fragrant mignonette, on hot summer afternoons, worthy old Pater Ambrosius wanders in his threadbare, well-worn cassock, telling his beads in a drowsy voice.

Then, there is the small csárda (wayside inn), with its thatched roof all on one side, for all the world like a tipsy peasant’s hat, where, in the cool of the evenings, after the work is done, the herdsmen from the plain meet their friends from the village and smoke their pipes underneath the overhanging willow tree, to the tune of a primitive gipsy band with their sweet-sounding fiddles and droning bag-pipe.

Then, if the innkeeper be not within sight, and his pretty young wife ready for a bit of flirtation and gossip, the latest eccentricities of the lord of Bideskút are discussed over a draught of good red wine.

What the peasantry of the county of Heves gossiped about before my lord started his craze for machinery and building, must certainly remain a puzzle; for since the remarkable contrivances of wood and iron, which reap the corn and bind it into sheaves without help of human hand, had first been established at Bideskút, they had remained the one all-absorbing topic of conversation.

The Hungarian peasant of the alföld (lowland) is an easy-going, lazy, cheerful, and usually good-tempered individual, well content with the numerous gifts God grants him in this land of plenty; but, in the matter of my lord’s agricultural innovations, tempers had begun to run high, and, in spite of the fact that Kemény András, the most popular, as he was the most wealthy peasant farmer in the county, had refused to countenance such proceedings, nightly meetings were held at the inn, wherein universal condemnation was expressed of my lord and his misdoings.

Vas Berczi, who had once travelled on a railway between Kecskemét and Gyöngyös, and had arrived home again safe and sound, and who in consequence, was looked upon as an oracle, second only to Kemény András himself, had brought his rough brown fist with a crash upon the table; and, having expectorated on the ground with every sign of superstitious horror, had emphatically declared that it was impossible to grind corn into flour without touch of miller’s hand, unless Satan himself did the work.

“But you don’t mean to say, Berczi,” said a young peasant, his bronzed cheek quite pale with terror, “that that is what my lord is going to do inside the building?”

Berczi nodded.

“I tell you, my children, that I have it from Jankó himself, my lord’s valet, that, inside that building, which may God annihilate before it is put to such sacrilegious use, the corn of Bideskút will all be ground into flour, and never hand of man touch it!”

There was dead silence for a few moments; even the gipsies ceased to play: they were staring, horror-struck, at the wise bearer of these extraordinary tidings.

“Then, maybe, Jankó also told you to what use the monstrous chimney would be put?” hazarded a timid voice at last.

“Jankó must be a liar,” decided the village oracle, sententiously, “or else a fool. What do you think he said about that chimney?”

No one could conjecture; they all shook their heads sadly, filled with awe. Berczi waited, as a true orator should, preparing for a great effect, then he leaned forward on the rough, wooden table and signed to those around to come nearer. There were certain things which could only be mentioned in whispers.

“Jankó declares that the huge fire, for which that monstrously tall chimney has been built, is required in order to set a certain machine — he called it — in motion, which is to grind the corn into flour. Jankó is a liar!” he repeated, but this time with less emphasis and with an anxious look around, altogether unworthy of the wisest man in Árokszállás. But all cheeks had become very pale, and no one dared to formulate the thoughts, which were running riot in the stolid, superstitious peasant minds.

“I don’t like it at all,” said a young herdsman at last, as, with a trembling hand, he raised a jug of wine to his lips.

“Who but the devil can find use for a fire big enough to fill that tall chimney with smoke?”

“Evil will come, sooner or later, my children!” concluded the village oracle, solemnly.

“And, in the meanwhile,” said a swarthy giant, with great, brown elbows resting on the table, “it is a fact that, while the work in the fields is to be done by Satan and his agency, our lads are to remain idle and take to drink for want of honest toil?”

“It looks uncommonly like it.”

“And what is to become of us? Who will pay us wage? How are we going to live?”

“How, indeed!”

“The lord of Bideskút has made a compact with the devil,” thundered the giant. “How do we know, that when our bodies are starved to death, he has not arranged to deliver up our souls to his friend Satan?”

Hastily the young men crossed themselves, and their eyes, dark and full of terror, wandered superstitiously round. The quiet little village street lay peaceful and calm in the gathering shades of evening. Behind them, through the open door of the inn, could be heard the voice of the busy hostess, singing some quaint and sweet ditty, as she busied herself with tidying up the parlour and kitchen, after the day’s work. Overhead the cool, grey-green weeping willow softly sighed in the gentle summer breeze. Nothing surely to disturb the happy quietude of these simple peasant minds, and yet, superstititous terror seemed to lurk in every corner, and the eyes of none dared wander beyond the village towards the horizon, where, on ahead, a large building with its tall chimney could still be seen dimly outlined in the west

“I am for asking Pater Ambrosius to say a special Mass to keep the devil away,” suggested a young herdsman at last.

“The Pater promised me he would bless plenty of holy water next Sunday; we shall want it in our homes,” said Vas Berczi, with a feeble attempt at consolation.

“There is nothing the devil hates like holy water, I am told,” whispered the giant.

“We might ask Pater Ambrosius to sprinkle the entire building with holy water,” suggested one of the men.

“Would it not be better if the Pater blessed the next rainfall, so that it should rain holy water down that chimney and put out the fire the devil has lighted?”

“There was no rain last St. Swithin’s day,” said Berczi, who was of a decidedly pessimistic turn of mind; “we shall get none for at least another ten days.”

“Time enough for the devil to settle down in the village, and then, not the Archbishop, not the Pope in Rome, himself, can drive him out again.”

“I say, we are all a set of cowards,” said the swarthy giant, suddenly jumping to his feet and pointing a huge, muscular fist towards the west. “We have allowed my lord to enter into compact with the devil, we have stood idly by, while brick upon brick was piled up to construct a palace for Satan. Now, we are told that on the day after to-morrow, all the devils in hell will be at work in that mill of Lucifer, that, on the day after to-morrow, the beautiful corn of Bideskút will be ground into flour, through no other help but that of a huge fire and a monstrous chimney, and some contrivance made of iron which I could not forge on my anvil, though I have done some pretty tough smith’s work in my day: and do you mean to tell me, mates, that we are going to stand by and look on while the bread is being taken out of our mouths and our souls delivered over to the enemy of man?”

“No, no!—Well spoken, Sándor the smith!—We will not stand it!” was the universal chorus of approbation, whilst Berczi, who did not approve of any one’s talk save his own, shrugged his shoulders in contempt. “We should be cowards if we put up with it.”

The giant’s peroration had helped to rouse the sinking spirits. There was a general cry to the gipsies to strike up, and the czigány (gipsy), seeing the more lively temper of the company, attacked with renewed vigour an inspiriting Magyar tune.

“Here, Lotti! more wine! quick!” shouted one or two of the older men, while the others filled fresh pipes preparatory to listening more attentively to Sándor the smith’s vigorous diction.

After a few minutes, out came the pretty hostess, with two or three bottles and jugs in her plump hands, and showing a row of snow-white teeth in a merry smile.

She was wonderfully agile in avoiding the venturesome arms stretched out to catch her slim waist, and as soon as she had put jugs and bottles down, she administered one or two vigorous corrections on the cheeks of the more foolhardy of her admirers.

“What are you all making such a noise about all of a sudden?” she said, with a toss of her tiny dark head. “I thought you were up to some mischief, you were so quiet just now!”

“Great things are happening, Lotti, my soul,” said the smith, with the importance befitting his newly-found popularity. “We have important things to discuss which are not fit for women’s ears to hear.”

Lotti looked at him while fun sparkled out of her bright, dark eyes; she shrugged her plump shoulders and said with a merry laugh:

“Dear me! dear me, Sándor! how big we talk, now that Kemény András (In Hungarian the surname always precedes the Christian name.) does not happen to be here. I know what you are all concocting though I pretend I do not hear. You know András won’t allow you to say disrespectful things about my lord, or to brew mischief against him, and so you wait till you know he is well out of sight, and hatch all sorts of wickedness behind his back. But, I tell you, he is not so far as you all think. He will catch you at your tricks never fear, and then—you know he has a devil of a temper all his own!”

“And I have a devil of a temper too, my pretty Lotti,” retorted the giant laughing, “and you are very venturesome to have roused the anger of Sándor the smith. Do you think we are so many children, afraid of András as of a schoolmaster? You shall kiss me for that piece of impudence, Lotti; ay! you shall kiss me three times, which will make your lord and master so jealous that he will break his new stick across your plump shoulders. And then, who will be frightened? Eh, my pretty one?”

And with true Hungarian light-heartedness, the swarthy giant, forgetting the devil and his works, the lord of Bideskút and his steam-mills, proceeded with a merry laugh to chase the pretty woman round the table; while the young herdsmen, delighted with the scene—which was much more in accordance with their lazy, sunny dispositions than talks of devil or plots against my lord—took part, some for the smith, some for Lotti, by placing an obstructive arm either in her way or in that of her pursuer, while the bronzed musicians played a merry csárdás (the national Hungarian dance) and the village echoed with gaiety and noise.