They Were Divided

by Miklos Banffy

  In the great world outside there was a lull, even in the Balkans. Only the Albanians were still in turmoil. Oddly enough they did not seem at all to appreciate the new Prussian guards officer king that the great powers had so carefully chosen for them. It was true that the excellent Prince of Wied was hardly known to his new subjects for in the last two months, ever since he had become King, he had barely set foot in his new country but had preferred to make a round of the courts of Europe, great and small, to offer thanks for his elevation to royal status. Wherever he went he was greatly admired. He was tall and slim and powerfully built and boasted a full set of white, if somewhat equine, teeth. Such a tour was an excellent opportunity to show off these physical advantages and make himself admired, for as a ruling monarch he was able always to stand in the middle of the room, thereby making sure that he was the centre of attention and that everyone would be able to see what a fine upstanding lad he was; and, as all the parties were given for him, all he had to do was to smile continuously with a benevolent, if not very intelligent, expression on his face.

  And how was he repaid by those vile Albanians? Only two months out of the country and revolution broke out. Not only that but in January those ungrateful rebels announced that the Prince of Wied had been deposed and replaced by a man of their own choice – one Izzet Pasha. The great powers declared that this was beyond endurance and sent a fleet to demonstrate off Valona. At the same time they bade the Prince of Wied to hurry up and take possession of his throne. ‘At once!’ the new King cried; but then found that his country’s new coat of arms was not ready.

  He had ordered it to be prepared by some of the world’s leading experts on heraldry, and naturally could not present himself to his new subjects without it, for how could a man be a real king if he had no proper heraldic insignia? Not only that but he had to form a royal guard, and although he had issued a tempting invitation to the adventure-hungry young aristocrats of Europe, no one had yet come forward; and how could he set foot in his kingdom without a guard? So he continued on his travels, always smiling, and went to Rome, Berlin and London.

  While the ‘pacification’ of Albania found no smooth path, the solutions proposed in the Aegean proceeded without a hitch. The islands of Imbros and Tenedos were given back to Turkey while the rest were handed over to Greece. It was true that these were still occupied by the English, but as this was said to be only a temporary arrangement, it seemed that peace had been achieved there too.

  All the same there were a few signs that something disquieting was moving under the surface, and this not only in the Balkans. It was rumoured that a Russian secret agent, one Count Dobrinsky, was travelling about in disguise on the Hungarian side of the Carpathians.

  It seemed that he had already been in Ruthenia for some little time and that his presence there had only become remarked when, instead of the old-style little wooden chapels, there had been erected many new churches built of stone in the Russian manner with money from an unknown source. Wherever such a new ‘Russian’ church appeared so at the same time did a portrait of the Tsar, Father of all the Russias. But Dobrinsky was not only there to build propaganda churches, his real function, it was reported, was to draw strategic maps of the passes over the Carpathians and to recruit a network of confidential informers, about fifty of whom had been arrested and brought to trial at the end of December.

  This was the calm before the storm. It was the beginning of 1914.

  Society in the Hungarian capital did not seem to be aware of any of these things. Nor did Parliament. Nearly everyone was interested only by whatever scandal came their way. Only Tisza was doing everything he could to make up for lost time. Only he saw how necessary this was. Even though it was so late in the day he did all he could to bring peace to the controversy over the status of the ethnic minorities in the kingdom. He alone, it seemed, realized how essential it was to get these troubles settled before some world crisis would test the country’s mettle. He initiated talks with the influential Romanian politician Maniu – and was promptly attacked by Justh and other chauvinist demagogues for so doing. The county of Pest reacted stormily. The discussions went on for some six weeks, until, in the end, the Romanian ‘national committee’ rejected the Minister-President’s overtures. Despite their refusal to co-operate Tisza declared that for his part he would be as good as his word and continue to hold out the hand of friendship whether it was grasped or not.

  It was the last very late attempt to solve a problem that had dogged Hungarian politics for more than a decade. It was, perhaps, a trifle shop-soiled too, because of the irredentist pretensions of the Bucharest peace treaty. But Tisza, even if he had wanted to, could not then have offered more. His hands were tied, firstly by the fact that public opinion was against him and secondly because there were so few others in public life sufficiently clear-sighted to realize the seriousness of the international situation.

  At the end of February Balint again found himself back in the Kalotaszeg. He had to go to Magyarokerek to deal with a most interesting situation that had developed there. After a series of abortive attempts a Co-operative society had been formed in the villages in the mountains where the only work was in forestry. This was not unlike the one of two similar societies which had already been formed in the Szekler country. Abady was anxious to persuade this new Co-operative to affiliate to his national movement. This was no easy task, especially in the bigger villages like Kalota-Szentkiraly, Valko and Gyero-Monostor who had all rejected the idea of affiliation. However, the people of Magyarokerek were more flexible in their ideas and accepted Balint’s proposition within a month of forming their Co-operative. Balint therefore felt himself bound to find them a forest, for though the villagers were honest, and full of goodwill and joy in their work, they had no money with which to pay for the standing timber on whatever land might be made available to them. This was the custom, but it was difficult to find a landowner willing to forego the profit on land which he had always regarded as there only for his personal profit.

  Balint accordingly had decided to give them one of his own holdings which was separate from the other Abady forests. It was situated on the south side of the Kohegy on the boundaries of the county of Szekelyjo. Balint’s idea was to allow the villagers to owe him the purchase price until they could start to make a profit from felling the adult trees. Accordingly he went there with his own forest manager, the engineer Winkler, and his secretary Miklos Ganyi, to advise the Co-operative on how to plan the felling and also how to run the new society.

  It was pouring with rain when Balint’s little party arrived. Everywhere was water and mud and their only consolation was that most of the snow had already disappeared from the mountains.

  They walked the boundaries of the forest and checked that they were properly marked; and in the afternoon they sat down in the judge’s house and saw that the contract was properly drawn-up. At the same time they drew up a schedule of when the timber should be sold and what its price should be. Then they estimated how much would be left, when the land price had been paid and the cost of the labour settled, to form the society’s capital. This last had been Abady’s express wish and would be his gift.

  When all these things had been settled and there only remained some minor details and the preparation of fine copies of the agreements – work which would take an hour at most and which could best be done by Winkler and Ganyi – Balint realized that he had time to call on Farkas Alvinczy, whom he had not seen for a long time.

  Since old Count Adam Alvinczy had died and his sons divided up their diminished inheritance, Farkas had hardly stirred from Magyarokerek.

  Balint had last seen him at Kis-Kukullo when he had found himself dragged in to attend Pityu’s party to celebrate the trial and execution of Brandy. Even there Farkas’s presence had been exceptional; and since then he had not stirred from home.

  Balint had to climb a steep path to reach the Alvinczy manor house. It was perhaps just as well that it was already evening an
d that night was falling, for the state of dilapidation of the handsome old house was not as obvious as it would have been by day. As it was one hardly noticed that the plaster was falling away in great patches and that one corner of the house was crumbling.

  There were no servants to be seen but a light shone from one of the ground-floor windows. Balint stepped up onto the columned portico and opened the door.

  Inside he saw Farkas Alvinczy, sitting at a large dining table on which was spread a huge map lit by a single lamp. Farkas was leaning over the table and was apparently so deep in a book that lay beside the map that he did not notice Abady until he was standing in front of him.

  ‘Why, Balint!’ he cried. ‘Whatever are you doing here?’

  It was obvious that he was delighted to see his visitor, though his greeting was elegantly moderate and free of effusiveness. Balint was at once offered some refreshment, and it was no home-brewed beverage, but a choice of the best liqueurs.

  ‘What would you prefer?’ asked Farkas. ‘Would you like Benedictine, Cointreau, Chartreuse, Maraschino di Zara? Or something else? I think I’ve got everything.’

  Indeed all these elegant bottles stood nearby in a row on the sideboard.

  ‘You know it’s the only thing I spend money on now. Since I gave up the great world – and the high life of the capital – I just don’t have the means any more. This is my only indulgence. For a man like myself … used to only the best … well …’

  They touched glasses and sat down at the table. Balint explained what brought him up to the forests and then they talked of some of their mutual friends, of economics and the prospects for the next harvest. These subjects were soon exhausted, for it was obvious to Balint that none of this really interested his friend any more for Farkas treated it all with haughty contempt. With a dismissive wave of his hand and a mocking smile he said, ‘None of this is very important; just little things for little people!’

  After more somewhat desultory talk between them Farkas finally spoke of the map that covered the table and which had been carefully attached to it by metal clips. It represented the Indian Ocean, from Aden to the Malacca Straits. When Balint asked why he was studying this map Farkas for the first time became quite animated and eloquent.

  ‘That is where I’m travelling at present! You see? Today my ship arrived here!’

  ‘Your ship?’

  ‘Yes, my ship. This is it!’ and he pointed to a steel pen head which had been placed on the blue coloured sea, pointing to Ceylon at the foot of the pink-coloured sub-continent of India. ‘This pen here, that is my ship. Every day I push it forward the distance travelled in the previous twenty-four hours, according to this book. The day before yesterday we left Bombay, and tomorrow we shall arrive at Colombo.’

  He told how he had travelled like this for the last two years. He had ordered accounts of voyages and the corresponding maps, and each day he read just as much as was covered by that day – no more, for that would be cheating. Like this it was just as if he were making the voyage himself. If the traveller wrote that he had spent five days at sea with nothing to relate, then Farkas waited five days before reading on or marking the map.

  ‘But isn’t that rather dull, making yourself wait five days?’

  ‘Not at all! Time goes by. Sometimes faster than you’d imagine. I think about the sea and about my travelling companions. I dress for dinner in the evenings – you always do on a luxury liner, you know.’

  He told Balint he was now a much-travelled man. The previous year he had rounded Cape Horn, visited Terra del Fuego and indeed ‘done’ South America. He had also been to the South Pole and back. It had been beautiful and most interesting even though it had been a shorter trip than he really liked.

  ‘This one is very good. The weather’s lovely and so far the sea has been quite calm!’

  Balint looked hard at Alvinczy wondering if he was making fun of him and was just saying all this for a joke, but it was clear he meant everything he said and took it all very seriously. On Farkas’s classical features, on that still beautiful if now slightly puffy face, there was an expression only of calm honesty. None of the young Alvinczys had ever shown any sign of a sense of humour and now it was obvious that the man was simply telling the truth. Looking at him Balint noticed how well-turned-out and soigné Farkas still was. He was freshly shaved, his hair had been brushed smooth; and he was wearing a well-cut double-breasted dark blue smoking jacket with gold buttons, just what an elegant man of fashion would wear while cruising the world’s oceans.

  ‘Where is your ship going?’ asked Balint, so as to make him talk on.

  ‘Tokyo. Then from Tokyo down to the Philippines and on the return trip we shall call at Java and Sumatra. I need another map for that part of the voyage, of course, but I’ve got it here all ready. Would you like to see it?’

  He was about to get up to fetch it when Miklos Ganyi appeared at the door seemingly rather agitated.

  ‘This urgent telegram was brought up from Hunyad by a special messenger. He had to ride up. I’m sure it must be important or Zutor wouldn’t have sent it on after us.’

  ‘Please excuse me!’ said Balint to Alvinczy as he opened the envelope. It had been sent that day at midday and read:

  ‘THE FOLLOWING TELEGRAM CAME TODAY FROM SZAMOS KOZARD; THE COUNT IS VERY ILL. PLEASE COME AT ONCE. REGINA’.

  Balint jumped up. Laszlo! Laszlo, his Laszlo, was dying and was perhaps already dead. He would have to start for Kozard at once. Balint read out the message to Farkas and for a few moments they discussed the sad news. Then Balint and Ganyi set off.

  Alvinczy came with them only as far as the door. He said the proper words of condolence: ‘What a pity – a real shame – he was such an old friend!’ but one could tell that the news had not really meant anything to him. As soon as the others had gone, he turned on his heel and hastened back to his book and his map.

  Balint caught the night express to Kolozsvar. There another telegram was waiting for him. It came from Kozard and read:

  ‘THE NOBLE COUNT LASZLO GYEROFFY WENT TO A BETTER WORLD AT FOUR P.M. THIS AFTERNOON. I CONSIDER IT MY SACRED DUTY TO PROVIDE EVERYTHING NECESSARY. PLACING AT YOUR LORDSHIP’S FEET MY DEEPEST CONDOLENCES I REMAIN YOUR LORDSHIP’S MOST HUMBLE SERVANT – AZBEJ.’

  Early the next morning Balint left by car for Kozard. Before leaving he remembered that La Pantera should have been in Budapest since the previous Saturday and so Julie Ladossa would be there too. So he sent a telegram to her at the Hotel Hungaria.

  He reached Kozard just before eight o’clock.

  Old Marton Balogh was sitting on the doorstep. He looked old and worn and he just sat there looking glumly ahead of him. He did not get up when Balint came up, nor did he touch his cap; and when Abady questioned him, he merely pointed with his thumb to the room behind him and muttered, ‘There, in the back-room. The young Jewess is with him,’ and then went on staring into space.

  Regina sat by the window at a table she had pushed there so as to make more space in the room for the moment when they would bring in the coffin. She had been alone with Laszlo when he died. She had shut his eyes, tied up his chin, washed the body and shaved his previous day’s stubble. Now Laszlo was lying there covered with a sheet. His two pillows had been placed on the chest of drawers.

  In front of the girl was some bedding – three towels and two blankets, some shirts, too, and handkerchiefs and socks. She was making a list so that everything could be accounted for, though to whom and why she had not thought. The important thing was that everything should be in order; and so there she was, stub of pencil in hand, making a list of the clothes in the pile in front of her.

  Her red hair flamed in the light from the window.

  She replied to all Balint’s questions calmly and intelligently. Her large doe-like eyes seemed even larger as a result of her long vigil, but despite all her hard work she did not seem tired. Calmly she told what had happened.

  Laszlo, she said, had just waste
d away. Sometimes he had taken just half a glass of milk, but latterly not even that. He had not been in pain and recently had hardly even coughed. He had slept more and more, and in the last few days had only been awake for a few minutes at a time. He had slept quietly until the moment when he had turned to the wall and died.

  ‘Why didn’t you let me know earlier, as you promised?’ asked Balint crossly.

  Regina did not answer, but just looked at him with pouting lips. Then she said, ‘Would you like to see him?’

  They stepped over to the bed and she folded back the sheet.

  It looked as if Laszlo were asleep; even though it was the sleep of death. To Balint, looking at his fine aquiline nose and long moustaches, it was strange to see him so calm, which he never had been in life. His waxen face was barely more than skin and bone but about his mouth there still seemed to linger a faint mocking smile, while those eyebrows which met in the middle were raised at the edges as if in contempt.

  Abady somehow resented his unexpectedly strange expression and was relieved when Regina covered his face again.

  ‘In this cupboard there is a lovely suit. He told me to put it on him when he was dead.’

  Balint was startled.

  ‘Did he know he was dying then?’

  ‘No, not now, anyhow. He said it a long time ago.’ She opened the cupboard and hanging there was an iron-grey morning-coat, a double-breasted cream-coloured waistcoat and a pair of striped trousers. Under the suit was a pair of black and beige buttoned boots. ‘He once said that though he’d sold everything else he ever possessed he would never sell this suit no matter how much he needed the money!’

  Regina then took the suit out of the cupboard and laid it out neatly on the chair.