They Were Divided

by Miklos Banffy

  Adrienne took a step forwards and in ecstasy spread her arms out towards the rising sun …

  PART FOUR

  Chapter One

  SHORTLY AFTERWARDS A MEETING WAS HELD at the local headquarters of the Denestornya branch of the National Agricultural Association. The association’s affairs were discussed first, and afterwards, as was the custom, the local officials of the Co-operative held their own meeting. They did so because both organizations’ committees were made up of much the same people – the Protestant pastor, the chemist and ten or more local farmers. The meetings were held every other Sunday, after church. Arpad Pelikan was there in his dual capacity as manager of the Agricultural Association’s storehouse and also as treasurer of the Co-operative. Two others were there, Abady’s secretary Miklos Ganyi, who always attended if he was not away on some business of his employer; and young Aron Kozma, who represented the head offices in Budapest of both organizations. It was his responsibility to oversee all business transactions.

  Kozma had been Abady’s confidential adviser for some years and his right-hand man ever since Balint had started to interest himself in the formation of rural Co-operative societies in Transylvania. He was the perfect foil to Balint, for his practical knowledge and common sense complemented Abady’s enthusiasm, which was all too apt to lead him into impractical adventures. As a result Balint had learned to entrust complete control to him, and so, whenever he turned up at Denestornya, the Co-operative meeting was hastily convened so that Kozma could be present when important decisions had to be made. On such occasions it was better that Balint should be absent because his impetuosity had already led him into some unfortunate scrapes.

  One of these had recently occurred at Denestornya itself. An eighty-acre farm had come up for sale in the district and Balint had insisted on being bought by the Co-operative to be split up and resold to the people of the village. There was nothing wrong with the idea and it would probably have worked well if the farmland had gone to those who could pay for it. This had been the intention of the local committee, but Balint, through the goodness of his own heart and blind trust in the goodness of everyone else’s, had supported the claims of the poorest of those offering to buy the land. The result had been that some of the poorest farmers, though getting their little parcels of land and at once occupying them, either did not repay the purchase price at all or did so only in part. Had Balint not offered to pay for them, the Co-operative’s committee would have been in trouble.

  Similar things had happened elsewhere: there had been a foolhardy purchase of a harvesting machine at Haromszek and an ill-considered construction of a building for the Co-operative in a village in the district of Csik. These too had proved expensive adventures destructive of the idea of self-help and co-operation which was the basis of the whole educational movement.

  When the meetings were over Kozma shook hands with the other committee members and started to walk back to the castle with Ganyi.

  For the first part of their way they were accompanied by old Gergely Szakacs, Roza Abady’s pensioned-off head groom whose house lay in that direction, and by Pelikan, who walked with them out of courtesy to the visitor from Budapest. They went on foot because Countess Abady did not like to have her horses put to on a Sunday unless it was necessary. The weather was beautiful, although it was already mid-November, a real Indian summer, and so no one minded walking despite the distance; and indeed it was quite a walk for the Agricultural Association’s headquarters lay at the far end of the village which consisted of a single very long strung-out street. Most of the houses were lined up on the left of the mill-stream and, on the right, the land rose steeply to the hills. It was a good mile from the meeting place to the church beside the old manor house where Abady was waiting for them. This old mansion, though quite close to the castle itself, had been where Balint’s grandfather, Count Peter, had lived. After the old man had died Countess Roza had allowed her rascally agent, the lawyer Azbej, to take up residence there, but when he had left some years before, Balint, whose work for the Co-operatives had vastly increased, had given over three rooms in the house for the movement’s archives and secretariat.

  As the four men walked down the long street they met many of the village folk out walking. The village girls, arm in arm, all dressed in their Sunday finery, separated to make way for them and then joined up again as soon as they had passed, whispering to each other and giggling as country wenches always do.

  All the young men were out too, strutting proudly together and occasionally tossing joking remarks in the girls’ direction but not joining them, for that would come later in the afternoon when the dancing started. They lifted their caps respectfully to Kozma and his companions, as did the older men who stood chatting in front of the village hall. Kozma and the others, though deep in conversation, greeted everyone with equal courtesy.

  They were discussing the meeting they had just attended and especially the bungled distribution of the recently purchased farmland.

  Aron Kozma could not disguise how annoyed he had been, and how dismayed, when he had discovered how stupidly Abady had blundered by getting involved at all. It had been foolhardy, he said, and worse, it had done harm.

  Countess Roza’s old groom echoed Kozma’s words.

  ‘I said right at the beginning what a nonsense it was, but the young master is not one to listen to anyone else’s words, however sensible. He just bangs on and storms his way into trouble, that one does! He’s not cautious enough. It was a big mistake, a very big mistake in my opinion!’

  For a little while Aron and old Gergely discussed what they both thought of Balint’s credulity and of how he was so easily carried away by his own enthusiasm. Miklos Ganyi listened nervously until finally he felt impelled to interrupt. Then he spoke up most respectfully but still with determination.

  ‘You gentlemen must excuse me, but … in my opinion we should look at it differently. There are aspects which should not be forgotten. I don’t think we should judge it quite as you gentlemen have been doing. Of course I admit that this business of the farm got out of hand; and also that Count Balint doesn’t know enough about human nature. Perhaps it’s just as well he doesn’t. It may be for the better that he does let his sympathies run away with him from time to time. Yes, that has its good side too.’

  ‘In what way?’ inquired Kozma.

  ‘Just think of it,’ said Ganyi, his bony face suffused with enthusiasm. ‘If Count Balint didn’t always try to help everyone, where would our Co-operative be? It’s only his enthusiasm and drive that gets so many people to work for him.’

  He turned his thin brown face to Aron. His thick glasses glinted in the sun.

  ‘Take me, for instance,’ he went on. ‘I was an assistant notary in Kis-Kukullo. I had six years’ seniority and it wouldn’t have been long before I’d have been a fully-fledged notary myself, if I’d stayed on. But Count Balint came to us one day and told us of his hopes and the great goal for which he was working … and I left my job, my excellent little job, which would always somehow have given me a modest little income, and went to work for him. It wasn’t so much what he said, for he’s no great talker, but it was the faith behind it; you can almost feel the faith in him! And it’s been the same for others too, lots of them.’

  ‘He’s right, you know,’ said Arpad Pelikan, a short stocky man with a direct look. ‘Indeed he is. I had a successful little store here; but when the Count wanted a manager for the Co-operative warehouse, I sold my shop and accepted the job. I would never had done it if I hadn’t known that someone like Count Balint was behind it all. But I’m glad I did.’

  ‘You’re both right, of course. It’s most interesting,’ said Kozma, and he burst out laughing. ‘I never thought about it like that before. Anyway, who am I to argue the point? Wasn’t it the same for me? The Devil take me if I’d have worked for nothing if Count Balint hadn’t talked me into it.’ He paused, and then he added, smiling, ‘And now, God help us, he’s got hold of my
young brother as well.’

  Still talking of Balint they went on their way through the village.

  As they walked they kicked up little scuffs of pale sand-coloured dust which rose like tiny pennant-like wisps at their heels until it was scattered by the wind.

  When the morning service had ended and Kosma and Ganyi had set off from the church to attend their meeting at the other end of the village, Balint passed through the cemetery to the little door that led to the manor house. Every time he went that way, which was at least once a day, he thought about the old man and even fancied that Count Peter was there, waiting for him either among his beloved rose-bushes or else, further up, standing between the Doric columns of the portico. He could see him even now, with his fine features, neatly trimmed pointed moustaches and silver hair, a sweet smile on his face and wisdom in his eyes.

  The place had been run down while the lawyer Azbej lived there, but as soon as he moved out Balint had taken the neglected garden in hand and planted new roses – standards along the path and climbers to cover the front of the house – so that now the place was nearly the same as he remembered it; not quite, for he could not give the roses the same loving care as had his grandfather. Balint had also had the outside of the house restored as it had been in Count Peter’s day, so that the white walls and columns, divested of Azbej’s lurid repainting, were now just as they had been. Inside it was different for, when the old man had died, all his furniture had been removed and stored at the castle for now, with one exception, it was not needed as the main rooms of the house were only used as estate offices and for the headquarters of the Co-operative. Only Count Peter’s writing-room had regained its old aspect with all his furniture replaced as it had been. The walls were lined with bookcases made of cherry-wood, of middle height and decorated with finely wrought columns topped by Egyptian-looking heads of gilt and greenish bronze with, at their base, gilded eagles’ claws clutching golden balls.

  In this room everything was once again as it had been except for the pictures – the water-colours by Barabas and the portrait of Balint’s great-grandmother by Isabey. Balint had taken them to his own room in the angle-tower in the castle and there they had remained, for Count Peter’s workroom was now used only as Balint’s personal estate office.

  The old desk stood in its original place in front of the windows but Balint only used it when studying reports or signing papers, for though its smooth leather top, black and polished and surrounded by a delicately wrought safety-rail, was an invitation to work, the drawers below had been found to be locked when the old gentleman had died and no one knew how to open them. The keys to the side-drawers were, it was supposed, in the centre drawer, but though the key to this was in its place and was the right key – for it bore a tag in Count Peter’s writing – and although it turned quite easily, the drawer still did not open. Balint was sure that somewhere there was a secret catch, but he had never been able to find it. After many attempts he had finally given up the struggle and indeed had been happy to do so for he felt instinctively that this drawer probably held some special memories, some long-dead secrets better left undisturbed. In any case he did not need those drawers, for near the door there stood a modern roll-top work table with its drawers of files, and this Balint used for his daily correspondence.

  It was at his grandfather’s old desk that Balint sat when Aron and Ganyi had gone to the meeting. His letters and a pile of newspapers had been put there for him and he at once took that day’s paper and turned to the news from abroad. He had been doing this every morning for the past six weeks – ever since the Balkan War had started.

  Every day the news was increasingly unexpected and confusing, and Balint read it all with growing anxiety. He was only too aware that the official policy of the Ballplatz was to maintain the status quo, but also that, on the contrary, the Heir himself planned to increase the direct rule of the Habsburgs and to extend it by enslaving the southern Slavs. The twists and turns revealed in the papers therefore baffled and confused him. That Russia wanted war was certain, for her power and influence were everywhere to be seen. But Vienna – what was her part in all this? Was Austria tacitly following her lead? Balint grew increasingly sure that somewhere, somehow, some fatal error was being compounded.

  Austria-Hungary’s foreign minister, whose authority and power could easily have put an end to the fighting, turned instead to subtle diplomacy and induced the other great powers, in apparent but deceptive harmony, merely to give a little rap on the knuckles to the heads of the warring Balkan states by letting them know that, whatever the result of the fighting, Vienna would never consent to any diminution in Turkish authority. This mild and ineffective warning was not issued until October 8th, 1912, by which time it should have been obvious to all that it would have no effect.

  The only concession the great powers would allow, it seemed, was that Turkey must be induced to grant essential reforms in her administration of Macedonia. The news of this important climb-down also came too late: it arrived in Cetinje only on the afternoon of the day on which Nikita had already declared war on Turkey and sent his troops to invade her borders.

  Balint could not conceive how all this muddle had been possible. It was not to be believed that Vienna had not known in advance what was being plotted in Montenegro. Even if the Ballplatz’s own intelligence service had failed to pass on the news, they could easily have been informed by merely reading The Times, for the great London newspaper had published, as early as the end of August, the full text of the Balkan Pact. To imagine that, when Turkey had been defeated, anyone would be able to induce the victorious armies to retreat behind the ancient boundaries was an absurdity hard to credit. There must, therefore, be some other explanation, and it could only be that the central European powers took a Turkish victory for certain and that Vienna was looking forward to the defeat of the Balkan states. At any rate it was clear that this was the view of the Prussian Marshal von der Goltz who had himself, a few years before, planned the reorganization of the Turkish armies.

  The Sublime Porte thanked the great powers for their interest and promises of support, but clearly did not have much faith in them; while the Balkan states paid no heed at all. Then the war started and the Turks were chased from the field.

  Barely ten days had passed before the Bulgarian army had reached Adrianople and the Serbs, skirting the borders of Montenegro, had arrived at Uskub and entered Albania. They laid siege to Scutari and were now nearing the Adriatic at Durazzo. The Greeks were at Salonika. The race was on and it was no longer a question of where the Turks would take up a stand but rather which Turkish stronghold would fall first.

  It was at this point that at last the Dual Monarchy seemed to wake up to what was happening. Though indifferent to the fate of Macedonia and Rumelia, that of Albania was a very different matter. A Balkan Albania was not at all what Vienna could contemplate or permit, for it would be an intolerable invasion of Austria’s own interests if Serbian power was allowed so to extend itself. Strong protests issued from the Ballplatz and also, though in a lesser degree, from Italy who was alarmed at the prospect of Serbian control of the eastern shores of the Adriatic.

  The newspapers reported these disconcerting developments with excited glee and, as Franz-Josef was at that moment in Budapest, his foreign minister Berchtold hurried there to be with him, as did the Heir, Franz-Ferdinand, and Schemua, the head of the Austrian general staff. The latter left on the following day for Berlin, and three days later Conrad left for Bucharest with a personal letter, written in his own hand, from Franz-Josef to King Carol. At the same moment a semi-official statement appeared which announced that Austria-Hungary, should it be necessary, would use force to ensure the independence of Albania. More was to follow.

  A large portion of the Austro-Hungarian army was put on the alert and a million men were sent to the Russian border on the pretext of a trial mobilization.

  Today there was even more disturbing news. At Mitrovica and Prizren in Serbi
a the Austro-Hungarian consulates had been invaded by the mob, Austrian flags torn down and the premises looted.

  Balint sat at his desk staring moodily before him. The news of the previous few days had been alarming enough, but this was far worse, for an attack on any power’s consulates, if it had been as reported, inevitably meant war, for no power, unless bent on hara-kiri, would let such a provocation pass.

  He gazed out of the window with eyes hooded by anxiety.

  Outside all was bathed in brilliant sunshine. The lawn which sloped down in front of the house was still as green as in summer but the leaves on the trees were already turning brown or reddish bronze. In front of the window a leaf, saffron-yellow with sharply serrated edges, floated in the slight breeze like the trembling flight of a giant butterfly.

  It had come from the maple which grew at the corner of the house and for a while continued to float there, hesitating, balancing in the air, brightly lit by the autumn sun, until finally it fell to the ground to join, with an almost imperceptible rustle, its already fallen sisters. And, as it fell, another took its place before the window, held for a moment in the air until it too fell to the ground. Balint fancied for a moment that these dying leaves were conscious of their beauty as they prepared themselves for the death they knew would follow.

  The garden was so peaceful that it was hard to believe that anywhere in the world there could exist hatred or war or destruction. It was as if such beauty must exist everywhere and as if peace must be universal.

  Watching this Balint felt his heart constrict.

  It was not only anxiety for his beloved country and for the fate of its simple people; something else worried him deeply. What was to become of his mother if war did break out?