Young Pisti, the lad, said ‘Komelo’ sharply and dug his heels into the colt’s sides to bring him up in line with Gazsi’s thoroughbred and the latter, perhaps believing that the command was for her, or because she was suddenly reminded of those days on the racecourse at Alag which she had so hated, and resented being shouted at once more, put her head between her forelegs, arched her back in a crescent and, turning a full circle, bolted in every direction in the wide open field. Gazsi was taken by surprise and thrown almost at once; but being the horseman he was he landed on his feet without further mishap.
Not so young Pisti! The colt snorted, flung up his tail in a trumpet shape – just like Honeydew – and leapt into the air so that the lad was thrown up like a shooting star and fell to the ground head first.
Both these things happened so quickly that it was like a volcano erupting and the others roared with uncontrollable laughter. Though his mount too tried some tricks of her own Balint managed to canter fairly calmly over towards Gazsi. At the same time Simon Jäger galloped at full speed after the colt, who was heading for home in a panic. It was one of Simon’s great passions to catch bolting horses at full gallop. The last time he had done it had been two years before when Balint had been hunting at Zsuk and Simon had brought up his reserve mount. Whenever he was out riding he always kept a sharp eye out for a fall and then he was off, racing after the riderless mount uphill and downhill, standing upright in his stirrups, not bent forward like jockeys in a race but with his ramrod back as straight as the Hungarian hussars of old. In a second the riderless colt and his pursuer had crossed the river and vanished into the trees beyond.
‘What a bitch!’ cried Gazsi when he had caught Honeydew and remounted. ‘Didn’t she just thr-r-row me again, the horr-r-rible mare!’ But he wasn’t angry; it was all a joke to him, and Balint, looking at the mare with her flattened ears, her mouth drawn back and, in her eyes a wicked-looking twinkle, fancied that it was the same for Honeydew.
The second trial never took place as one of the chef participants had bolted, and so Gazsi and Balint started for home. They turned into the park towards the island of trees called Nagyberek – the Big Wood, and Balint said, ‘Let’s follow the trail through the woods and maybe we’ll get close to the deer. Those fallow stags are completely reckless when in rut, far more so than the red deer. They’re restless as anything and stay out of covert for far longer.’ Then they sent the remaining lad home and the two of them turned into the thick undergrowth.
Now there was hardly a trace left of the morning mists. The sun shone brightly through the tangled mesh of hops and other wild vines, picking up the autumn yellow of the summer’s hemlock stalks and making the dark web of the bishop’s cap creepers look as if it were a grille that protected passers-by from the flames that seemed to shine from the dry grass behind. Here the filtered sunlight picked up the strange contorted bark of a centuries-old tree and the red glow of another, and everywhere there were bright patches interspersed by dark blue strips of shadow. Where there was light it was blinding, and nothing seemed solid and three-dimensional, for the crowns of the giant trees around them cast their shadow at random until even the outlines of the bushes that formed the undergrowth were blurred and insubstantial.
It was still a dream forest, though quite different from what it had been in the thick mist of early morning. Here and there berries gleamed bright red against orange-coloured leaves, the lemon yellow of the maples was mingled with the bronze of the native oaks and everywhere were clutches of tiny berries that shone like black diamonds. There were so many that they might have been floating freely in the air. Sometimes the two riders found themselves crossing small clearings, now vividly green, before plunging once more into the lush jungle-like thickets.
From time to time they reined in the horses and stopped to listen. All around them they could sense an unrest that seemed almost to vibrate. It was a feeling rather than anything they could hear. Sometimes there was a faint sound as of a dry twig being snapped underfoot, though they might have imagined it. And sometimes they heard again that deep rumbling call, though they could not tell from which direction it came. Was it in front of them – or behind – or was that too only in their imagination?
The horses too were fully alert, their nostrils flaring wide and their ears pointing now in one direction and now in another, as if they were also aware that they were close to something wonderful and mysterious.
After a little while they found themselves on the bank of a former riverbed. Kadacsay was a little behind and stopped while Balint went slowly ahead. The riverbed itself was filled with reeds and tall grass and sharp smacking noises seemed to come from its muddy bed. Hardly had Gazsi turned his mare’s head towards the noise and started to lean forward in the saddle to peer at whatever was there than a full grown fallow buck jumped out of the thick reeds and for an instant stood there without moving, only some ten paces away from horse and rider. His widespread shovel-shaped antlers sprung proudly from between the eye-horns on his forehead and his red-brown coat had a line of clear white spots. He was not a big animal – only the size of a yearling colt – but his defiant stance made him formidable enough. Honeydew gave a start and backed a pace or two and the two animals gazed at each other, each as surprised and impressed as the other. No doubt the stag was as startled by the sight of this strange golden-yellow animal as the mare was by him. He pushed forward his muzzle that shone like patent leather and hesitantly made one or two steps forward. Then, no doubt catching the scent of a human somewhere near, he quickly recoiled and vanished back among the reeds.
Gazsi trotted forward until he had caught up with Balint.
‘My dear-r-r fellow! Something mar-r-rvellous! A stag comes out in fr-r-ront of us, and Honeydew is fr-r-rightened. Honeydew! For the fir-r-rst time in her life the beast has had a shock! I could feel it thr-r-rough my leg muscles. Her hear-r-rt was r-r-racing! I never thought I’d live to see something impr-r-ress her!’
Later they saw some does and their young, but only from a distance, and a few minutes later they heard some loud clashing sounds which were almost certainly caused by two stags fighting. Then Balint and Gazsi turned their horses and rode slowly home.
Throughout the morning’s ride Gazsi had seemed his usual cheerful self but Balint soon realized that this had probably only been because he had been cheered up by their adventures. When he asked when Gazsi would be going to Zsuk all the answer he got was, ‘Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think I’ll go … it’s too bor-r-ring. Nothing but hor-r-rses, hor-r-rses, hor-r-rses! Always hor-r-rses! What for, I ask you? I’ve had quite enough. They bor-r-re me…’ and that tight little frown had appeared again on his forehead.
‘But the hunt is unthinkable without you!’
‘Then they’ll have to get used to it, won’t they?’ replied Gazsi gloomily.
They returned to find Countess Roza cutting flowers in front of the house. She wore thick buckskin gloves and had already cut a large quantity from the beds that lined the inner court and were thus protected from the early frosts. She walked gaily towards the two young men, giving the impression that she was preparing for some very special occasion. As well as this exceptionally festive manner they noticed that she wore the smart bonnet she normally put on only when she went to church. The wide satin bow was tied coquettishly under her chin and she had put on some new clothes that were noticeably smarter than those she usually wore, even to the extent of sporting a new white lace collar and frills at her wrists. She seemed years younger than when they had last seen her.
‘Take these flowers,’ she said to one of the footmen who was just passing, ‘and tell them to put them in the guest-rooms.’ With a spring in her step she came towards her son and Gazsi.
‘Now tell me all about it,’ she said. ‘What did you see on your ride? Let’s sit here in front of the house; I love it here when the autumn sun is out.’
She led them to a stone bench from where one could see into the horseshoe court and
listened with glee to Gazsi’s story – which he made the most of – about how idiotic he’d been allowing the mare to throw him, and about the meeting with the stag and how he had felt Honeydew’s racing heartbeats when it was her turn to be frightened. And of course he praised the young horses raised at Denestornya until Countess Roza’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. And all the time she was listening she kept on turning her eyes towards the great entrance gates beyond the outer court.
At one moment she said, apropos of nothing, that Aron Kozma was arriving that morning on the eleven-thirty train, and then turned back to listen to Gazsi once more.
Later on, when they went in to lunch, she made the visitor sit at the place of honour on her right, for even though he was not of their class he was a visitor and a stranger while Gazsi, as a distant cousin, was treated as family. She talked mainly to Kozma, asking after all his family, his father and uncles, but especially after his father, of whom she spoke with great warmth and much sympathy.
No one could have told from her manner to the son how angry she had been, year after year, with the father. It had only been once a year and why this was no one knew but she. The truth was that, starting on her fiftieth birthday, Aron Kozma’s father, Boldizsar, had sent her birthday greetings on a postcard and that every year he had mentioned her age for all to see. Before her fiftieth birthday he had never even written a letter of congratulation – nothing until the open postcards when she was fifty – and even she had no idea why he did it. She supposed that it must be revenge for some – by her – forgotten childhood slight but remembered by him for forty-odd years. She had only been thirteen years old when Aron’s grandfather had stopped being the Abadys’ estate superintendent and had moved away from Denestornya. Since then she had never again met Boldizsar or any of his brothers, all her former childhood playmates, and however hard she tried she could not recall any possible occasion when she might have offended one of them. On the contrary she had loved them all, particularly Boldizsar, who was the same age as she and who was her very special friend. It was very annoying not to know the reason why he should so obviously set out to provoke her and yet he did, year after year, and each time it happened it spoilt her day and made her angry. But now there was no sign of all this: today Countess Roza was all smiles.
It was her form of revenge. If the father was malicious she was determined to charm the son so that when he returned home he would recount how charming and gracious she had been, how affectionately she had spoken of his father, and how gay and happy she seemed to be. She had carefully planned her reception of the son so as to show the father how ineffectual his malice had been. When Boldizsar got to hear of how sprightly and youthful she was, despite her age which he never failed to mention so gratuitously, she would have had her revenge; for she was sure it would be a real punishment for him to believe that she hadn’t even noticed his impertinence.
For Countess Roza the game was an easy one, for she was kindly by nature and now she had many happy childhood memories to recall and relate. And while she did so she often looked covertly at the young man’s face, as if searching in his dark-featured Tartar looks for a resemblance to her old playmate.
When they had finished their coffee after lunch the hostess suggested that they should all go down to the lower part of the park to look at the horses which, after the hay had been gathered in the meadows in the mountains, were always brought back to graze at Denestornya.
‘We should start at once,’ she said, and asked Balint to order the horses to be put to an open carriage so that they could do the rounds before it got dark.
‘My dear Mama, it’s only five minutes’ walk. They’re all quite close to the house, just the other side of the millstream.’
‘Never mind that, I’d rather drive. Will you come with me?’ she said to Aron. ‘They could drive us round the park so as to give you some idea of the place as it’s your first visit.’
This offer was also intended as an honour for the visitor, an honour which Countess Roza always enjoyed bestowing because she, like her father and grandfather before her, had spent much of her life in planning and beautifying the castle’s surroundings. She loved it all and she was proud that she had been able to carry on the family tradition of planning not only what she herself would enjoy but also for the future, for her successors. She and her forebears had always known and understood that this sort of landscape, whose noblest feature was the plantations of trees, was only achieved through the devotion of several generations. To see the effect that was then planned one had to wait at least half a century, and so Countess Roza’s pride in what had been so unselfishly achieved was only natural.
While his mother and their guest strolled down to the horseshoe court where the carriage was waiting for them Balint took Gazsi straight to the rose gardens which had been laid out on the terrace in front of the north side of the castle. From there they only had to descend a double flight of stone steps to find themselves on a wide path leading through the park which was bordered on each side by plantations of native oak trees whose tall straight trunks and pointed crowns always reminded visitors of cypresses. Here they waited for a minute or two while the carriage was driven in a wide semi-circle to cross the first bridge over the river. A few hundred paces in front of them was the millstream, and in the meadows beyond they could see mares and their offspring through the mostly bare branches of the intervening trees.
For a few moments they walked on slowly without speaking. Finally Balint said: ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about everything you told me yesterday. I’m sure that your trouble is that you’re too much alone at Bukkos. You think too much, and then you start brooding! You ought to get married …’
‘The Devil I should!’ exclaimed Gazsi with an angry wave of his hand.
‘I mean it!’ said Balint. ‘If you got married you’d see everything in quite a different light … and you’d have little Kadacsays you could bring up in whatever way you wanted.’
‘Devil take it,’ repeated Gazsi and paused. Then, a little later, he said, ‘I could never cope with a girl of our class, you know, I’m … well … I’m, I’m too much of a peasant myself. Some little maidservant, perhaps, from time to time, that’s my style, if you like … but some over-r-r-refined young comtesse; no thank you! Anyhow I’m such a clod that there’s no one of that sort who’d ever want to marry me!’
‘Oh yes, there is; plenty of them. What about Ida Laczok? She’s been pining for you for years. She’d marry you tomorrow if you asked her,’ said Balint and then went on to say what a nice, clever and simple girl she was and, just as an added bait, how everyone knew she had always been in love with him.
‘The Devil she is!’ said Gazsi once more, but with less disbelief than before.
‘It’s true! Ever since the ball at Var-Siklod – don’t you remember? She’d be just right for you. Pretty, healthy, very competent in the house too. You know her mother relies on her, not on the others. She’s the right age and what’s more she’s no one’s fool.’
This time Gazsi made no answer at once but looked unusually thoughtful. Then he said, ‘Perhaps you’re right … but … Bah! Who knows?’
Then they talked of other things.
Countess Roza’s visit to the brood mares lasted for some time because she took the opportunity to tell her guest everything there was to know about each and everyone of the twenty-four mares and their pedigrees and offspring. Her discourse was long and detailed, and, to anyone interested in breeding horses, extremely informative, because she knew what she was talking about and had had many years’ experience.
One of her most interesting theories was about the transmission, not only of build but also of character and temperament, and how to ensure its continuity in a breeding programme. After a while she drove off with Kozma to show him more of the estate while Balint and Gazsi walked up to the pine woods that covered the highest part of the parkland.
By the time they got to the top of the hill the afternoon light was al
ready beginning to fade to a uniform greyness. They had arrived just where one of Balint’s ancestors had had built a little classical pavilion or summer-house which consisted of little more than a domed roof supported by stone columns. It was surrounded by some of the oldest pine-trees in the park and before it stretched a wide clearing bordered by plantations of different specimens of rare trees. At the bottom of the hill there wound the path they had ridden along that morning and beyond it could be seen the castle’s walls with, above them, the conical roofs which capped the corner towers. The old stonework was etched in deep violet against the pale evening sky and the patina on the copper casing on the roofs no longer shone green but seemed black against the saffron-yellow of the sunset.
They sat down, even though it was starting to get cold.
‘What a wonderful place this is,’ said Gazsi. ‘I’ve never been here before.’
They sat in silence for a little while. Then, though without knowing what train of thought led him to the subject, unless it was the contrast between the beauty and richness of Denestornya and the squalor and unhappiness he had recently witnessed, he said suddenly, ‘I saw Laci the other day, poor fellow!’
‘Really? Where? When?’ asked Balint eagerly.
‘Just the other day … when I was coming back from Szilagy.’
For a moment Gazsi said no more. Then he related how he had been passing through Kozard and that, in front of a largish peasant’s house on the right-hand side of the road, he had seen Laszlo Gyeroffy sitting on a broken-down garden chair. It was only just as he was driving past that he had realized who it was and, as it had taken a moment or two to make the coachman understand what he wanted, he had already been driven well past the house before he had been able to stop and get out. Then he had had to walk back, past some empty land, to reach the place where he had seen Laszlo. As he had nearly got close enough to call out a greeting Laszlo had got up, turned away from him and slipped quickly into the house.
They Were Divided Page 9