They Were Found Wanting (18 page)

‘It is like a giant scales,’ said Gazsi. ‘One side of the balance holds happiness, the other sorrow. And they are always there in equal measure, no matter if one side seems full and the other almost empty!’

Kadacsay was gesticulating with fingers that were stiff from so much riding. Some of the others tried to laugh, but Gazsi’s eye looked gravely at them with something of the fixity of a fanatic.

‘Well,’ someone said. ‘What happens if one side of the balance is completely empty, if all the weight is on the side of happiness?’

‘Then whoever it was would dance and sing all day and would soon be locked in the madhouse!’

‘And if it were all unhappiness?’

‘He’d shoot himself!’

As Gazsi had been talking old Rattle came back into the room. He listened with growing amazement. Now he said, ‘Do you think I’m not grieving for my beloved wife? Why, I think of nothing else, day and night! Where on earth did you read all this nonsense, my dear boy?’

‘Nowhere!’ said Gazsi. ‘What with the army and the horses I’ve hardly had time to open a book … unfortunately. I’ve lost a lot of time but I’m trying to make up for it now. I just hope it’s not too late.’

‘The Devil take all that reading, dear boy! I had a chum in Italy, such an ass, a real bookworm, never had his head out of some work by goodness knows what idiotic philosopher; he’d even read by the camp fire! I’ll tell you a story about him; it’s really very funny.’

He pulled up a chair facing Gazsi and, despite the united
protests
of his daughters, started off his tale with gusto.

‘Listen! This happened when we were in camp after the battle of Calatafimi. This chap was there with us and, for some reason, the kindling wouldn’t take. Now there wasn’t much wood to burn – and very little else – so I said why the hell do we need a fire
anyway
? And then I said …’

Abady looked at Kadacsay as he sat facing the old soldier. Sometimes he inclined his nose to the right and sometimes to the left but all the time, though he seemed to listen, a tiny smile lurked under his moustache, a bitter, slightly mocking smile, and his forehead was lined with a deep furrow which Balint had never seen before. It was now that he recalled that when Gazsi had stayed at Denestornya the year before he had asked for a volume of Schopenhauer from the library and he wondered what deep hunger for learning and self-knowledge possessed this man who everyone believed thought of nothing but horses and playing the fool.

Rattle never finished his tale, though not for want of talking. He went on and on, occasionally bursting into loud peals of laughter, until the guests started to get up and his daughters
suggested
that it was high time for everyone to be in bed and asleep.

‘All right, my dears, let’s go!’ the kind-hearted old man agreed at once. ‘Tomorrow I’ll tell you the rest. You’ll see, it’s absolutely priceless!’

As they went towards the guest-rooms Balint touched Gazsi on the shoulder saying, ‘What you said was very interesting,’

Gazsi shrugged off the compliment.

‘Oh, it’s nonsense really. Old Rattle was right,’ and he laughed awkwardly as if he were ashamed of having unwittingly revealed something of himself.

A
FTER THOSE FEW DAYS
spent in the high grasslands, Balint returned to Denestornya. He only remained there a short time for he had to attend the Szekler congress which was due to open at the spa town of Homorod a week later. As he had already told his mother about this more than once his rapid departure did not cause any surprise, but it did not lessen her resentment even though he was not going to be away for long.

Relations between Balint and his mother had recently become increasingly strained. In vain Balint tried to explain what he had already achieved in the Kalotaszeg, both in the management of the Abady forests and in the new co-operative movement; but neither the fact that he had doubled their income from the forests nor the news that the experimental farm and smallholders’ club at Lelbanya were doing well, removed the frozen expression of disapproval from his mother’s face. From time to time she would ask him some question, but it was clear that she took little interest in his replies. No matter what subject Balint tried, all Roza Abady thought about was that wherever her son went it always brought him closer to that accursed Adrienne Miloth.

There was little that Countess Roza did not know about her son’s affairs, for Azbej had organized an efficient spy service to check on all his movements.

Old Nyiresy, who had managed the Abady forest holdings for many years, could not stomach the reforms that Balint had brought to what the old man had come to look upon as his own domain. Until quite recently Nyiresy had been omnipotent, smoking his pipe with the air of a squire and able to do whatever he liked. Now a young, and highly qualified, forest engineer had been appointed to supervise the running of the forests and Nyiresy could do nothing without consulting him. It was
unbearable
. And that was not all; the new man, on Balint’s instructions, had moved into the spacious Abady estate house at Beles, which for thirty years the old manager had come to think of as his own property. The man had been given two rooms, both of them
formerly
guest-rooms; and the loss of these, and of the room reserved for Count Abady himself, meant that Nyiresy had nowhere to put up a friend for the night. Beles was so remote that now he could only be visited by those two close friends who lived in the mountains close by – Gaszton Simo, the notary from Gyurkuca, and the manager of the nearby sawmills. No one could come from further afield as there was nowhere for them to sleep. He couldn’t even have an evening of cards, let alone throw those wild parties which had been such a solace in his lonely life. So he asked to be allowed to retire, and he asked also, in recognition of his long
service
, that he should be allowed to live in the Abady house at Banffy-Hunyad which until then had always been let. This was really asking too much, but Balint agreed because he was anxious that the old man should go and did not want any more ill-feeling to spoil his departure.

Accordingly Nyiresy had now been installed for some time at Banffy-Hunyad, where, as it was a market town, everyone for miles around gathered once a week to exchange news and gossip. And what could be more interesting than to chronicle the
comings
and goings of young Count Abady? Though he did not much relish writing letters the old man wrote a note to Azbej every time he heard something that sounded interesting.

That was one source of information; the other was the
inn-keeper
at Lelbanya, who was a distant cousin of Azbej and who, greedy and self-seeking, hated the farmers’ club that Balint had founded, for although it was true that no wine was served there it still took customers away from the inn. Furthermore the
inn-keeper
did not like the fact that their Member of Parliament came so often to the town and poked his nose into everything that went on there. To him Balint was nothing but a nuisance. The innkeeper was an even better informant than old Nyiresy, for Lelbanya was such a tiny place and there, up in the lonely
prairie-lands
, everybody was so bored that if there was any gossip they all, peasant, minor civil servant or shopkeeper, would always think it worth a two-hour walk to spread it around.

With these two informers beavering away Azbej was quickly kept up to date with everything that Balint did; and he saw to it, through the housekeepers Tothy and Baczo, that Countess Roza was also kept informed. Every day, after lunch and dinner, the two old women took their places at either end of the table in the drawing-room behind which Roza Abady sat to do her
needlework
. As always at this season all three were knitting warm clothes to be given to the village children at Christmas.

If Balint was not there one of the fat housekeepers would start off by sighing deeply. Then the other would ask why; and so, like a game of question and answer, with many ‘Indeed!’s and ‘Not possible!’s, and much nodding of heads and pregnant silences, they would relate the gossip they had heard. Not that they ever addressed the countess directly, their tales were directed only at each other. In this way Balint’s mother learned that her son had again been in the forests at Hunyad and that he had had a lodge erected there, a lodge that was – guess where? Just where the Abady holdings adjoined those of Count Uzdy. And where did the young master go? To Almasko, of course. And in the same way the drama of the watchman’s cow at Mezo-Varjas and Balint’s part in it, quickly reached Denestornya and was related with much drawing in of breath and self-righteous disapproval.

In this way Baczo and Tothy laboured hard to poison their employer’s love for her son; and it was no wonder that, however hard Balint worked to improve the family fortunes or whatever he achieved in the public interest, the old lady believed none of it and imagined that her son was making it all up just to cover his godless relationship with the hated Adrienne.

And so it was that when Balint announced that he would soon be leaving for Homorod, his mother fixed him with a glassy stare and said, ‘Surely the season’s over now, at the end of October?’ in a mocking tone which meant, in her roundabout way, that she supposed that Adrienne had gone there to take the waters, even though it was late autumn. Balint knew instinctively what his mother was thinking and so took pains to explain that Homorod had been chosen for the Szekler congress for the simple reason that as the spa was closed there would be plenty of rooms in the hotels – and even villas to let – and so all the two hundred or so delegates to the congress would be able to find a bed.

‘Strange place to choose, Homorod! Very unusual!’

‘Yes, it is unusual; but I believe that Samuel Barra wanted it. And, of course, there will be plenty of room, much better than in most country towns.’ And though it was obvious that his mother did not believe a word he said, he went on to outline the project he was going to present, hoping that he could convince her that it was true that he was going only for political reasons.

But Countess Roza merely looked in another direction and began to talk about something else.

The congress had been called to discuss a problem that was
beginning
to grow to alarming proportions. The districts inhabited by the Szekler people were becoming dangerously depopulated as a result of emigration. Daranyi, the new Minister-President, had proposed giving aid on an unprecedented scale so that the afflicted areas would be re-populated by the very people who were now seeking their fortunes abroad. Among the new
proposals
were free distribution of breeding stock, free technical advice on modern farming methods and the appointment of a special delegation drawn from the Szekler people themselves to help direct how this aid should be organized.

The plight of the Szeklers was indeed grave. They were a
prolific
people and their inheritance traditions exacted that each child should receive an equal portion of the family holding. As a result the Szekler small-holdings had been divided and
subdivided
into such tiny strips of often very poor land that even the thriftiest farmer could hardly glean from them a fraction of what was needed to feed a family. At first the Szeklers had tried to find a living working in the forests or on the railways, or even in small businesses; but wherever they went there was never enough work for their rapidly increasing numbers. Then they started to go to Romania, and now more and more were heading for America and there, save for a few, they stayed.

Istvan Bethlen, realizing that this growing emigration and the depopulation it left behind were a serious blot on the reputation of the Hungarian government as well as being damning proof of a careless economic policy, had encouraged successive agricultural ministers to take some measures to reverse the trend; but instead of searching for cures to the reasons why so many were leaving, all that the government had done so far was to organize the
emigration
. Though this was done so as to prevent exploitation of the poor emigrants the only real effect was to contribute to the evil itself. Daranyi was the first national leader to tackle the
problem
seriously.

The official delegates, together with Mihaly Koos, the lawyer who had been elected chairman of the Szekler representatives, took a slow train from Budapest to Kolozsvar. They could have travelled by the express but Samuel Barra, shrewd politician that he was, thought that it would be better to take a train that stopped at every station along the way so that delegates from country districts could join it anywhere on the route; and then they would all arrive at the same time. It had not escaped him, either, that slow trains always stood for some little time at each stop thereby giving time for the politicians to greet welcoming committees and make themselves better known.

By courtesy of the Hungarian State Railways a restaurant car had been attached to the train and so they all travelled in high good spirits. At one end of the car Barra held court, revelling in one more opportunity to argue with, and upbraid, his own
supporters
– and the more he insulted them the more they loved it; while at the other end the journalist-turned-politician Marot Kutenvary kept the Transylvanians in a roar with the latest Jewish anecdotes from the capital. Kutenvary had just managed to scrape into Parliament for some district in Gyergyo by making the most of his resemblance to Hungary’s great patriotic poet, Sandor Petofi, who had died on a Transylvanian battlefield, and so felt obliged to attend the Szekler congress. These two were the opposing poles of the restaurant car. Loud political
discussions
at one end, loud peals of laughter at the other.

Balint joined the train at Aranyos-Gyeres. Seeing that although most of the compartments had been taken very few
passengers
were actually in their seats, he walked down the corridor hoping to find some interesting company. In one compartment he saw Mihaly Koos and his two secretaries with Istvan Bethlen, but as he presumed they were discussing the organization of the congress and had covered the seats of their compartment with papers, it did not seem the moment to join them.

Instead he too went to the restaurant car.

When Balint first came in the two groups, the serious and the jovial, were still fairly evenly balanced, with as many men
surrounding
Kutenvary as were grouped round the great Barra. This was all changed after the train had stopped at Kocsard, for all the newcomers at once joined the Barra group. Among them were Zsigmond Boros, old Bartokfay, Bela Varju, Jeno Laczok and the banking baron, Soma Weissfeld. Laczok was attending as a great landowner in Szekler country and Weissfeld because, as a director of the bank at Vasarhely and chairman of the company which exploited the Laczok forestry holdings, he was one of the principal employers of the Szekler people.

The newcomers were all in gala dress: Bela Varju in a brand new black traditional outfit and Bartokfay in a short
mulberry-coloured
spencer-like jacket covered in braid and embroidery, and tight trousers. More magnificent than either, however, was Soma Weissfeld who had put on the traditional Hungarian
costume
that he had had made a few years before when there had been rumours of imperial manoeuvres on the banks of the Maros. Though the King never came the costume remained and so, ever since, the banker had seized any opportunity to wear it. Made by Grünbaum and Weiner in Budapest, the outfit had cost a great deal of money and was in the most exaggerated old Hungarian style. The dolman was of snow-white silk, the trousers deep carmine and the boots of yellow morocco leather. The bright blue cape with its wide ‘Zrinyi’ collar was trimmed with rabbit fur dyed to look like marten; and the whole was richly decorated with clasps and buckles all large as pigeon eggs and made of gilded copper. To top it all he wore a gold-plated sword. III-natured gossip said that the banker looked like a cross between a chimpanzee and a cockatoo, but the man himself was quite satisfied with the vision he saw in the looking-glass. That the pince-nez clipped to his nose were not entirely in the manly Hungarian tradition was unfortunate; but the banking baron could hardly tuck them away in a pocket for without them he could see nothing.