# A Son of the People/Chapter 28

PART III

### CHAPTER XXVIII
#### LOVE LIES BLEEDING

Let me lead Dandár part of the way for you, Pater, and perhaps you will not mind walking as far as the crossroad with me?”
“Mind? I shall enjoy it, my son, I have never seen a brighter morning. And … but for Dandár , you know … I should have had to walk all the way to Árokszállas …”
“It was very foolish of you Pater, not to have told me three months ago that Kópé was dead. You could have had Dandár at once, and then, perhaps you would not have been all this while without coming to see me.”
András had slipped the horse's bridle over his arm, and the two men, leaving the little thatched cottage behind, began to walk down the main-road.
It was one of those bright cold frosty mornings in December, when a brilliant sun shines down merrily on the crisp sheet of snow which lies evenly over the vast plain. Hardly an eminence or a stump, to break the monotony of this shroud, that glistens in the wintry sun, like myriads of tiny diamonds. The village of Zárda (hardly a village since it has no church) with its few straggling cottages which looked as if thatched with snow, seemed lonely and desolate. There is nothing to be done in the fields, and the Hungarian peasant in the winter likes to wrap himself up in his mantle and stare dreamily into the fire of his great oven, smoking pipe after pipe, in silence and drowsiness. András and the Pater were soon in the open road. The old priest’s nose was quite red with the nipping frost, though he was wrapped up to the ears in a huge great-coat of black sheepskin, from beneath which emerged his thin legs encased in great leather top-boots, to protect them from the snow. András walked on silently by his side for a while. He seemed not to feel the intense cold, for his great mantle hung down his back, and his arms came out bare from his full, thin, lawn sleeves.
The terrible tragedy, which he had gone through, had left very little mark upon him outwardly; his tall figure was just as upright, his step as firm, his head as erect. Only the face seemed to have grown older. The mouth drooped more, there were two deep lines between the brows, and as the sun shone brilliantly on the dark hair there were some very obvious streaks of grey among the black.
“I daresay you have found this small cottage at Zárda, very lonely at times, my son,” said the Pater, tentatively.
“Yes,” replied András somewhat wistfully, “I think I have had about enough of it. … I miss my mother, you see … she and I were always together on winter evenings. … Yes! … I shall be glad to get home!”
“That’s right, my son, you have done my old heart good by that speech. … Heigho! I shall have a merry ride home, thinking of the joyful news I am taking to Etelka, … and our boys and girls too! at Árokszállás. They will give you such a welcome.”
András shook his head with a smile.
“No, father, they will not do that. You know better, than to mean what you say. They have too much respect for me, now, to give me a real hearty welcome.”
“András, that was an unkind speech. Your name in Árokszállás has become dear to every household. They would be very devils indeed of ingratitude, if they forgot all that you have done for them, during the terrible epidemic.”
“Thank God, that is well over now,” said András, ignoring the first part of the priest’s speech, “all round here, at least, we have not had a single case for six weeks.”
“Of course we never suffered quite as badly over at Árokszállás as you did here in Zárda. Actually the last fatal case we had was old Rosenstein—the Jew. He was very distressed, poor fellow, that he did not see you before he died. I was with him to the last, and it was quite painful to see the intense straining expression in his face, listening for some sound that would not come.”
“It was a great disappointment to me, too, Pater, for now, we shall never know what it was that lay so heavily on the poor man’s conscience. It, surely, could not have been his numerous deeds of usury on our poor peasant lads, for, I do believe the Jews in the lowlands at least, do not regard the demanding of exorbitant interest as a sin.”
“No, I am sure it was not that,” said Pater Ambrosius, musingly, “it was your name that was constantly on his lips, and as he lay dying, he pressed my hand in entreaty, and murmured, ‘Do you think he will forgive?’ Ah! my son, it is sad indeed for those, who not being Catholics, have not the supreme consolation of the Holy Sacrament of Confession which brings the only true comfort to the departing soul!”
“Beyond, that he told me many a lie, in his life-time, I am not aware that I had anything to forgive the man.”
“When he ultimately pressed the paper into my hand, which proved to be his will and testament, he still repeated ‘This will atone. … This will atone. … It is his!’”
“After all,” added András, “the funny old scarecrow had no one to whom he could leave his shekels, that is perhaps the only reason why he made me the heir to his hoarded-up wealth. God knows! I did not want it. I am very sorry indeed, I did not see old Rosenstein at the last, if my shaking his hand could have eased his mind of its imaginary burden. I arrived just half an hour after his eyes were closed. The roads were in a shocking condition, even Csillag could not get through in time; and, you know, there was a great deal to do over here.”
“Yes, I know! there is not one mouth, this side of the Tarna, but does not speak in gratitude of your unswerving kindness and devotion. At Árokszállás, the two doctors, you got down from Budapesth, did absolute wonders; and Etelka was a perfect angel to the women. … She … and another …”
The Pater paused half shyly. András was gazing out before him, across the desolate, snow-covered landscape,
“She is a good woman, András,” added the Pater, at first with timidity, then gradually more emphatically, “she may have her faults, her pride may amount to a sin, but she is an angel of pity to those who are sick and in trouble.”
“Tell me more about the village folk,” interrupted András, quietly, “remember, I have seen and heard nothing of them, since the day on which I arrived too late to see poor old Rosenstein.”
“Well!” said the Pater, with a disappointed sigh, “after that day, the cholera certainly seemed to have spent itself, and God, at last had mercy upon us. But the little churchyard is very full, András, and … on Sundays, I see many vacant places in the church.”
“The young ones will soon grow up, Pater,” said András, with some of his wonted cheeriness, “why Sándor, the smith’s boys must be growing lads and Fényes Margit had twins this summer; all those mites, whom last I saw in swaddling clothes, must be beginning to toddle. Why! I have a veritable army of godchildren in the villages this side of the Tarna.”
“Yes! there are a good many wise mothers, András, in those villages,” said the Pater, with a smile; “it is no wonder that Árokszállás is getting jealous of Zárda.”
“They need not be,” said András, while a deep shadow seemed to fall over his face, “it has not been an abode of joy.”
“It has been the home of truly Christian devotion and generosity, my son, all the greater, since no one seems to know yet its full extent. But the epidemic is over; you have provided for every misery, till God once more brings merry harvesting round; you need a rest, my son, and will be happier at home.”
“Happier?”
Evidently the word was involuntary, and had escaped him unawares, for he closed his lips tightly, as if to check any further sounds, while the lines on his face became harder, more accentuated. The priest was wanting to say something more. He looked up once or twice at his young friend, took out his snuff-box, and toyed with it, nervously. There had been such intense hopelessness, such a depth of sorrow in that one bitter word, that his kindly nature shrank from further touching a wound, which was still so sore and bleeding.
“Your mother must have missed you a great deal, András,” he said at last.
“Yes … I know …” replied the peasant, “we are apt to be selfish in our griefs. The house was distasteful to me. … Without thinking of the dear soul, I fled from it. Then, when the distress and cholera became so terrible here, I was forced to stay, for they wanted me. … I think it was selfish … for she must have been very lonely … But I am going back soon. … Perhaps to-morrow.”
“Etelka has, of course, spent many lonely days, András … but during the terrible time of the cholera she was not absolutely alone. …”
Timidly the priest looked up at the young face, on which sorrow had written such deep lines. Pater Ambrosius knew next to nothing of the terrible tragedy that had caused the bridegroom of one day to flee from his home, which had brought those streaks of grey in the dark hair, and had given to the kindly eyes, that look of hopeless misery.
“She was with your mother, András, so that Etelka might not be lonely.”
“I know, Pater, God will no doubt reward her for that.”
“She has been the good angel of the village, András. Next to you, there is no one, who did more to comfort and cheer the sick, to help the orphan, and console the widow.”
“Yes, father,” repeated András, “there is a heavenly reward for all that charity.”
“All the people bless her, and pray for her.”
“We all have need of prayer, you see, Pater!”
“They all pray … for her happiness.”
“God, I think, will soon grant it,” said András quietly.
Pater Ambrosius looked scrutinisingly at him. He did not quite understand what András meant, but it suddenly struck him, how very deeply the lines of suffering were graven on the young face, and he wondered how long it would be, before that iron constitution succumbed altogether beneath this weight of overwhelming sorrow.
It was uphill work to pursue the subject. The old priest who possessed his young friend’s confidence, did not care to seem to pry into the one secret, the proud peasant had thought fit to keep from him. The village gossip, fortunately, had not reached András’ ears. He must have guessed, of course, that they gossiped. He knew life, in his own village, far too well to suppose that they would keep respectful silence over the extraordinary events of that great day in May. But András had never troubled himself about the gossip, and then, after a while the dreaded cholera came, with grim hand, stopping the mouths of all to every talk, save that of anguish.
Silently the two men walked on side by side, crunching the crisp snow beneath their feet. They had left the straggling village of Zárda behind, only a few lonely cottages now broke the monotony of the low-lying land before them. All was desolate and still; the snow lying like a glistening pall over the few trees, the thatched roofs of the huts, and the short stubble of the maize fields. Overhead a flight of ravens sent a melancholy croaking through the air, and, far beyond, the tiny steeple of the village church threw the only note of colour,—a brilliant red—upon the dull canvas, whilst to the left, through the stripped branches of the acacia trees, there glimmered the yellow and the green of the walls of Bideskút.
“András,” said Pater Ambrosius. suddenly changing the subject of talk, “there is something else which lies very near to my heart, and which, coward as I am, I hardly like to speak to you about …”
“I did not know, father, that I was so formidable as all that; I seem to have made a lovely muddle of my life,” added András bitterly, “since even you have ceased to look upon me as a friend.”
“God forbid, András, that you should so misunderstand my meaning. It was stupid of me to talk as I did, and I am, moreover, an ungrateful wretch not to have told you at once what it is, that lies so near my heart.”
“It is not too late, Pater, we are far from the crossroads yet.”
“It is about the school, András.”
The peasant frowned.
“I know, that you do not altogether approve of the idea,” continued the Pater hurriedly, “but God has entrusted me with a sacred mission on this earth, and I must not be coward enough to shirk it. You and I have often discussed the grand idea of a school for our little ones in the village. You were as enthusiastic about it, as I was; you have, I know, happy recollections of the three years you spent under my teaching, and you told me more than once, that the happiest day of your life would be, when every soul in the county of Heves, knew how to read and write; and now …”
“Now, I have changed,” said András with a certain amount of roughness, “and whenever you have broached the subject before me, I have refused to discuss it with you. Yes! I have changed a great deal, since the days, when, after the terrible fire of Bideskút, you first propounded your great scheme to me, and did me the infinite honour to ask me to help you in carrying it through. Since then, father, I have had such bitter, such terrible longing after a state of brutish ignorance, with no aspirations, save after daily bread, no ideals save those of plenty of wine, good czigány music and buxom village maids; a longing after the happiness born of content with these aspirations and ideals, the happiness of the beasts upon the fields, and I have no longer had a craving to snatch that same happiness from my fellow-men in the villages of the lowlands. There is so little they would receive in compensation.”
“András” said the priest very gently, “you have suffered a great deal, and like all those, who have a terrible malady, you look about you blindly for its cause, so blindly that, as one who plays at blind man’s buff, you go tumbling very far short of the mark. Education gave you high aspirations; on their wings you went wandering into the kingdom of ideals, and, suddenly, when you thought to grasp them, your hand had as it were almost touched them, something snapped, and you were precipitated back to earth, very sore and bruised. You blame the aspirations that bore you upward, the ideals which you tried to grasp, and do not see that, perhaps, after all, they were overweighted with a burden of human passions, that dragged them back to earth.”
“Nay, father, I have not ventured to blame my ideals. Perhaps, as you say, they were just beyond my reach. When I was a young boy, they consisted of seeing the ears of corn, on my father’s fields, fuller and more golden, than those of any other man; later on, I dreamt of a quiet homestead, with my mother sitting placidly in her big armchair, while I gave her every comfort she could want, and perhaps, in my old age—when she was gone—with a good-looking wife, whose baking and weaving, should be famed throughout the land; of those ideals, father, most of our village lads have dreamt. They are dreams, such as are fitting for the descendants of serfs. Ideals such as those, are not difficult to attain, and even if the peasant mind soars too far towards these regions, humble, though they be, well! the altitude has not been a high one. The fall is gentle and leaves but easily healed wounds in its trace. Contentment, a certain quiet philosophy, helps to make old age pleasant. But I, with the arrogance born of newly-found riches, began to dream of other things. Tentatively, I stretched out my coarse, brown hands, after other things than spade or scythe. You led my tottering footsteps into a new region of learning and culture. A delightful feeling of well-being crept over me. I began to think that this entrancing realm was really my home, that I had for ever left behind the sordid ignorance of the peasant, his gross pleasures, his vulgar, common nature, and that, henceforth, I could wander on, at will, for ever unmolested, higher and higher through many mansions, to a region of entrancing ideals, which my delighted vision suddenly saw beyond the cloudland, in which I dwelt. Then, astride on my dreams, I set forth to seek that ideal among the stars. I had reached it, the clouds had parted and I saw such a vision of paradise, as has been given to no mortal man to see. But, as I stretched forth my hand to grasp it, suddenly there rose before me, the grim and inexorable Fury ‘Prejudice,’ guarding the entrance to my paradise. With scornful finger, the monster pointed at my rough hands, my heavy gait, my sheepskin mantle, my linen shirt; then, with loud, mocking laughter, plucked at my heart-strings, and, wrenching them out of my breast, hurled me back from the giddy heights, down to earth and hell. Ah, father! it was a terrible fall! You see I had dared to gaze at the stars! Nay! I do not blame them. They cannot help their own unattainable loveliness, and the Fury that guards them, has placed a solid bandage over their eyes. It is my own folly which I blame, my own arrogance, my passions, if you will; but, also I blame the invisible Hand, that first pulled away, from before me, the blissful veil of ignorance, and showed me glimpses of that paradise, which must for ever, to one of my caste, remain unattainable. You see, father, I fell from a fearful altitude. I am bruised and wounded unto death; but, in the midst of my weakness, I still have strength enough to whisper: ‘Strive not, ye fools! in ignorant content lies the only true happiness!’”
His voice had broken down in a sob. The priest did not reply. His experience of human nature, such as he had usually found it, in the simple folk, who came to tell him their sorrows, and their wrongs, was at a loss how to deal with the complexities of this strange and passionate creature, who had all the sensitiveness of the cultured man coupled with the unreasoning headstrongness of the rough magyar peasant. His kindly nature felt deeply for this great sorrow, at which he only guessed vaguely, but which he could not understand, and his hand stole timidly up, as if consolingly to András’ shoulder.
They had reached the crossroads, and the young peasant had stopped before saying “Good-bye.” He had spoken with a good deal of vehemence, and his face looked paler and more careworn than ever. He pulled himself together, however, on feeling the kindly pressure on his shoulder. Gently he took the old priest’s hand in both his own, and pressed it warmly.
Pater Ambrosius looked long and sympathetically into the dark eyes that had such sombre, hopeless yearning in them.
“Don’t you think, András,” he said very kindly, “that it would do you good, if you were to tell me your trouble?”
Quickly András’ grasp relaxed; he dropped his old friend’s hand, and the frown appeared, deep and dark, upon his forehead.
“I have none to tell,” he said indifferently.
Pater Ambrosius sighed. He looked disappointed and hurt, and busied himself with his horse, preparing to mount.
“Won’t you say good-bye, Pater?” asked András.
The priest took the hand which the young peasant held out to him, but looked reproachfully at him the while.
“András, you have ceased to care for your old friend.”
“That was a wicked speech, Pater,” said András earnestly, “you will have to write to the Bishop for special absolution, for so monstrous a falsehood. … There! there! … you must forgive me … I am an ungrateful wretch … and … Pater … you shall have what money you want for the schools … let them start building the moment the frost breaks up. … You settle it all … it is your idea … you carry it out as you think best. … Good-bye! tell my mother I will be back to-morrow.”
“God bless you, András! I …”
“Hush! I think, perhaps, He may do that later on. … At present He is not thinking of me! … Good-bye!”
The old priest had hoisted himself up on his horse. He seemed loth to go. Once or twice he looked back as Dandár started off at a slow majestic trot. The tall figure of the peasant stood for a long time looking after him at the crossroads; Pater Ambrosius could see him well, outlined against the brilliant sky. The kind priest fumbled for his large handkerchief and blew his nose very violently. He had felt an uncomfortable lump in his throat.