# A Son of the People/Chapter 7
### CHAPTER VII
#### PRINCIPAL AND INTEREST

The hostess had drawn a measure of her oldest wine, and placed it on the table, which was best shaded from the sun; she was busy with her apron, wiping off any particle of dust that may have remained on the table or bench.
“Hej! but you grow prettier and prettier every day, Zsuzsi, of my soul!” said András’ hearty voice close to her ear, as he put an arm round her buxom waist, and imprinted a good sound kiss on the nape of her snow-white neck. “If I were your lord and master, which, for many reasons, I do wish I were, I would not know a moment’s peace: he must have a hard time, keeping the fellows off that slim waist of yours.”
And András had drawn the pretty woman on his knee, and was making her blush with the admiring glances he cast at her, while drinking deep draughts of her delicious wine.
“Ah, András! you don’t know! that is just the trouble!” said the pretty hostess, while a tear or two moistened her eyes, making them appear even brighter than before.
“What is the trouble, Lotti? Tell me. Is it a new ribbon you want, my dove, or a new silk dress for Sunday? Tell me what you want, my pigeon, and you shall have it; only do not cry, in Heaven’s name, for I cannot stand it”
“No, no! It is not a ribbon, or even a dress, András,” said the pretty woman, now fairly bursting into tears. “What is the good of my good looks, when my husband has ceased to love me?”
“Ceased to love you, my rose? Has Kálmán gone blind? or has he gone squinting in another direction?”
“I don't know which it is, but I know he does not love me; András,” she added, her voice shaking with tears, “he has not beaten me for three weeks!”
András gave a long whistle.
“Whew! that is serious! and you? …”
“Oh! I gave him plenty of cause! I danced the csárdás with Horty Rezsö, for two hours, till I was ready to faint, and actually did drop into his arms, but when I came home, Kálmán, who had been there and seen it all, and even saw Rezsö kiss me after the csárdás, went quietly to bed, and never even as much as boxed my ears.”
And the neglected wife burst into a deluge of tears.
“It is very humiliating,” she added between her sobs. “Panna, last Sunday, could scarcely move her back, or lift her arm, and Lujza had quite a deep blue mark across her shoulders. That is real love, if you like; their husbands must have loved them deeply to be so jealous, that they beat them like that. I could not show as much as a pinch on my arm, so I wore my sleeves long to hide my shame.”
“There! there! my pretty flower,” said András, consolingly, “leave off crying, and promise to dance every csárdás with me next Sunday, and I will swear that I will squeeze that slim waist of yours so tightly, and look so deeply into your bright eyes, that Kálmán will break his stick across your pretty back for jealous rage. Come, bring out some wine for that old scarecrow of a Jew, over there; he looks hot and thirsty, and I want some talk with him, which I cannot do if his mouth is parched and dry. … Here give me another kiss … another … and another. … Why, the devil take him! if Kálmán saw me now, there would not be a white spot left on those plump shoulders of yours, they would be black and blue, fit to make Panna, Lujza, and the lot of them, green with envy.”
Laughing, quite consoled, the buxom landlady ran back into the cottage, and half reluctantly placed a large jug of wine before the Jew.
Rosenstein had sat very patiently in his corner, the last rays of the setting sun falling upon his meagre back; he looked a comic figure, like some huge scarecrow outlined against the sky; quietly he had waited while Kemény András pursued his flirtation with the hostess, but his bird-like face brightened up, when he heard the young peasant ordering a measure of wine for him. He was not accustomed to attentions of this sort from anyone, except from good-natured András, who knew from his own earlier experiences, what it was to be very hot, very thirsty, and without a bottle of wine before him.
“Now, my pretty pigeon, go in!” said András, giving the young woman another parting kiss. “What I have to say to this old Jew, is of no interest to those pink ears, which are only made to hear words of love.”
“You send me away?” she said with a pout; “you are going to talk secrets and affairs with that horrid old Rosenstein. Why must I not hear? I can keep secrets. … You are not going to borrow money of him, are you?”
“No, my soul, you may be sure of that,” said András, laughing, “so run away. The secrets Rosenstein and I are going to talk about are neither worth the keeping, nor the gossiping.”
The pretty hostess, willy-nilly, had to go; András had learnt throughout his life, the lesson of obedience so completely, that he had an irresistible way of teaching it, to all those with whom he came in contact.
He beckoned to Rosenstein, and the Jew, hastily finishing his wine, came near with that humble obsequiousness, and deferential smile, those of his race have, for centuries, been taught to wear.
“Well, old scarecrow! tired of waiting, eh?” said András, genially. “Hey! hey! pretty women will take up such a lot of a fellow’s time, and I have wasted so precious little of it that way, in my life, that I have a great deal of love-making to do, before I have my full share of the best side of this world. Come, and sit down here, in the shade. … Not too near me!” he added, laughing, and making way for Rosenstein on the bench close to him.
The Jew himself was in rare good humour; András’ merry laugh was very infectious, and Rosenstein, between his thin lips, made a low, chuckling little noise, which might have passed off for a laugh.
The young peasant pushed jugs and bottles on one side. Wine is heating, and when talking to a Jew the head must be kept very cool; a pipe only is always a good friend and counsellor, and András, throwing back the wide lawn sleeves of his shirt, leant both elbows on the table, and having filled his long cherry-wood pipe:
“I am listening,” he said to the Jew.
Rosenstein had taken out of his pocket, one of the documents signed that morning—unread—by the lord of Bideskút. The other reposed snugly in an inner pocket, and evidently was not intended for any but his own private perusal.
“The noble lord of Bideskút wanted 250,000 florins,” he began; “he is starting his steam-mill on its work to-morrow, and has to pay heavy wages to the Budapesth workmen, whom he is bound to employ, since the men about here will not now go within a league of the building, for fear they should meet the devil.”
“Do you really mean to say,” said András, incredulously, “that that cursed mill is completed, and that he actually means to work it?”
“Ay, most decidedly he does, in spite of every dissatisfied peasant on his estate, in spite of the fact that Pater Ambrosius, specially said Masses, for the destruction by fires from Heaven, of the building of Lucifer. It is, in fact, to begin work to-morrow, or the day after. His corn, all lying in magnificent stacks, is ready to be threshed by the supernatural agency, and that which is already threshed, will be ground into finer flour than the Bánát has ever known, at the word of command of the devil and his satellites.”
The Jew had said this with many sarcastic intonations, but András, who in spite of his learning, had not quite shaken off all peasant superstitions, listened to him with awe and incredulity.
“I think my lord is a fool,” he said at last; “if there was the slightest use or good to be gained by employing three men instead of twenty, and spending the wages of two hundred in doing so, I could understand it. But his flour will not be any finer by it, and he will enrage every peasant on his estate. He is a fool!”
“He certainly is under the impression that he will become the richest man this side of the Tarna, and in the meanwhile is busy ruining himself in trying to become rich. However, according to your wish, I handed him over the 250,000 florins on the following security and interest …”
“Hold on, old man! I said I would not lend any more. I wish to buy.”
Rosenstein shook his head.
“I did all I could. I offered what money my lord cared to ask. He will not sell.”
A look of very deep disappointment clouded over the young peasant face, the hand which held the pipe, closed so tightly over the slender stem, that it nearly broke it in half.
“He is a fool,” he repeated after a slight pause. “The loans are not for a great number of years, and, though the interest is low, he will never be able to repay the capital, which he is spending entirely on that confounded machinery and building of his. Sooner or later he will have to part with the land. I want it now, to-day. I am rich. I would pay him any money he wants. He is a fool.”
“The noble lord says, he will not part with a foot of his land to a peasant or to a Jew.”
“Then, by God! …” said András, bringing his heavy fist down crashing upon the table.
The shaft, which the Jew had with wondrous cunning aimed at his client had struck home. The insult supposed to have been hurled at the peasant, by bracketing him with one of the despised race, made András’ cheeks livid with rage, but the old habit of self-restraint got the better of him. Before this man, whom he employed, he forced himself to remain calm, and repeated very quietly:
“He is a fool!”
“Look,” said the Jew, eagerly, “your position is better and better every year. Bideskúty Gyuri has now mortgaged every foot of his land to you, with the exception of the house and garden of Bideskút itself, and a few stables round. Mark my words, the money you lent him to-day, on the security of Zárda, will not last him six months at the present rate at which he is spending every florin he gets. Six months hence he will want some more, and then, more and more again. You have plenty, you could let him have plenty, but he will not have a foot of land left to mortgage Then you can foreclose at a small additional sacrifice; and the land is yours.”
“He will then try and get the money with which to meet his debts from those whom he calls his equals,” said András, surlily.
“They never have any ready money to spare, those noble lords on the lowlands, they spend every kreutzer they have in eating, drinking, and trying to outdo their neighbours in splash and gorgeousness; moreover, since you were willing to lend more money on the land than it is honestly worth, no one would care to take on the mortgages.”
“No more they would if the money had been lent by one of your tribe, and the usurious interest almost ruined the owner of the land. What I ask is so low. Anyone can pay it, and yet make a large profit for themselves.”
“I know! I know!” said the Jew, hastily. “I have often advised you to ask more reasonable interest.”
“I cannot do usury. I must place my money since I have got it, and I wish to buy the land, but my mother and I will not dirty our fingers with usury. What interest is my lord paying me for this last 250,000?”
“Five thousand measures of wheat, forty head of cattle and fifty sheep,” said Rosenstein, handing the document across to András. Anxiously he watched the young man’s face, while he read.
“Yes, that is all right enough,” said András, folding the paper and putting it into his pocket. “I wonder now,” he added, “what profit you are making out of this.”
“You know best, that I make none, save what you are good enough to give me,"
“Well, I gave you 200 florins to do this work, are you satisfied?”
“Oh, perfectly, perfectly. I am a poor man and—”
“If ever I hear that you have cheated me in any of these dealings, I would break every bone in that shrivelled-up old body of yours.”
“You are joking! How could I cheat you? even if I wished, which I swear by Abraham, I would never think of doing. You have seen the document signed by the lord of Bideskút; you do not imagine he would sign without reading?”
“No, I don’t imagine he would be quite such a fool! but I daresay he gives you a little something for yourself: doesn’t he?”
“Well … yes … he offered me 100 florins this morning, and,” added the Jew with a peculiar hissing sound between his teeth, “he gave me a good dinner.”
“Ah! well then! that is all right old scarecrow! isn’t it? You do not often have a good dinner, you are too mean to feed yourself properly. So he fed you well, did he? I am glad of that. I hope you thanked him well?”
“There was no time to do much thanking to-day,” said the Jew, “but my thanks will keep. I hope in about two years’ time to have repaid him in full, for the good dinner he gave me this morning. He! he! he!” he added, rubbing his thin hands gleefully together, “I am deeply in the debt of the most honourable lord! but Moritz Rosenstein never forgets, give him two years, and he will repay, he won’t mind the interest, he! he! he! he! he will pay that too … in full.”
András had ceased to listen to him; he had taken out Bideskúty’s note of hand, and read it through very carefully. Evidently he was fully satisfied with its contents, for again he folded it up, and replaced it in the inner pocket of his jacket.
Dreamily he continued smoking, taking no heed of Rosenstein, his gaze riveted far across the plain towards that distant sunset, beyond which lay that loved land which, from his childhood, he had tended and tilled, in sorrow and with bitter tears, for the tyrant who now lay underground. To acquire that land, and make it all his own, was the dream which filled his mind, unformed, half-educated as it was. it was a dream that had risen within him from the moment he realised that wealth was within his grasp. For that one aim, he toiled by day and studied by night. No labour was too hard, no task too difficult. He knew the noble’s hereditary contempt for the peasant, guessed that it would be a hard matter to force the lord of Bideskút, to sell his land to the despised, low-born peasant, thus laying as it were the seeds of equality between them, but in time he hoped he would win, already he held heavy mortgage on that land he loved so well. It was almost, but not quite, his own. Rosenstein promised that soon it would be his. Lovingly he scanned the flat horizon, tried to look beyond the sunset, past the barren plain, whose soil now looked cool and grey, in contrast to the brilliant gold of the last rays of the setting sun. There lay Kisfalu with its rich fields, its green vineyards, the house where he was born, where lived his mother, where, please God and his own indomitable will, his son would also be born, live and die in peace, his own ground, his own land, his! his! his!
As for Rosenstein, he was nursing pleasant dreams of wealth coupled with vengeance. He was content to sit quietly, and think over the time when the proud man, who had made him the jest and jeer of his servants, would perforce be leaving his ancestral home, and he, the depised Jew, who had received many a caning within its walls, would buy it, under the hammer; for beneath it, it would come, nothing could save it, considering the usurious interest Bideskúty Gyuri was paying unbeknown to the proud young peasant, who had learnt much, but not enough to be quite even with a Jew.
“It is getting late, András,” said the pretty hostess, coming to the door; “you have a good three hours’ ride before you, if you are going back to Kisfalu, remember.”
“I am going back home,” said András, rousing himself from his day-dreams. “Come and kiss me for being such an attentive timekeeper. Here are ten florins for the wine I have drunk, and the oats Csillag has eaten, and mind you have that new bit of ribbon in your hair next Sunday, and won’t we make Kálmán jealous over the csárdás? Two hours mind! heigho! Csillag, my beauty, are you rested? and has that featherbrain of a woman given you a good measure of oats? Here, old scarecrow, next week I shall want to see you about some lambs you can sell for me. I have two hundred beauties. I shall want a heavy price for them. You can come over to Kisfalu. We shall be busy threshing. Good-night, my pigeon; give us a kiss and tell Kálmán he is a blind fool. God be with you! Come, Csillag!”
And saddleless, stirrupless, without use of bit or rein, András jumped on his lovely mare, and waving a last adieu to the pretty hostess, galloped away towards the sunset, and was soon but a mere speck upon the vast horizon.
Rosenstein looked a long time after him. His pale eyes twinkled, his lips parted in an acid smile, his thin hand felt coaxingly for the second document signed by Bideskúty Gyuri, which contained some clauses that would have cost the Jew many a broken bone at the hands of the young man, who had galloped away so merrily. Then he too turned his back upon the inn, and went his way.