They Were Divided (36 page)

A strip of light appeared under the canvas door of the tent. It was dawn. Balint woke first and then Adrienne. One of them
murmured
, ‘It’s the dawn,’ and then the other repeated, ‘the dawn’, and together, as if by a mutual impulse, they started to get up.

The pale light called them outside and there the air was cold, with the steely cold of the high mountains that stimulated and invigorated like a draft of cool champagne. They stood together, arms entwined, breathing in deeply.

Just above the far horizon a narrow strip of yellow light
outlined
long lilac-coloured clouds. The sky was violet and hanging in it was the sickle moon. As they watched the sky lightened to mauve and then to grey, and from grey to palest green, except high above them where it seemed to have no colour at all. The outlines of the mountains were etched strongly against the light sky but seemed paper-thin, those closest to them, those which were covered by the pine forest, jagged like the teeth of a saw, but the furthest away rounded, as if cut from metal discs. These were the great curves of the Magura of Gyalu, or the pyramids of the Triple Mountains and the flattened summit of the Dobrin. But no matter how different these ranges were in reality they now all seemed the same, ridge after ridge of them, as harmonious as the rhythms of a great symphony, cutting into the sky like giant knife-blades projecting from earth.

Nearby, in the slight dawn breeze, the ink-black branches of young pines moved slightly to and fro; but everything was still in shadow, showing no sign of colour except in the sky, shadows, darker or paler, but still shadows as in a faded drawing in pen and wash.

The light increased, not steadily but seemingly in rhythmic steps that could almost be counted. A siskin started calling from a thicket of dwarf pines. Then from far away another responded, to be followed by the morning song of the blackbirds. A tiny
titmouse
was to be seen flitting from branch to branch, and then another, and another …

Silently watching, Balint and Adrienne stood at the edge of the cliffs waiting for the sun to rise. It was like being in a new world of which they were the first inhabitants, watching for the first dawn of Creation.

The long horizon blazed into red and gold, and long shafts of sunlight rose from the hilltops, racing across the sky until vapoury shreds of cloud, hitherto unseen, shone blood-red. Higher still other clouds appeared, in long strips like celestial ribbons, the
highest and nearest edged with silver and those furthest away glowing orange, saffron and an incandescent green. It was as if behind the horizon some giant furnace was being stoked into flame and was pouring out streams of liquid metal.

Now the light seemed to rush upon them for, as if touched by a magic wand, the shadowy outlines of the mountains took on the colours of day, light blue in the far distance and nearer at hand a rich spectrum of different greens. A rosy enamel illumined the bluffs of rock, but still there were no shadows, only nature’s own colours, and it seemed to the watchers that the whole world was waiting with a throbbing heart for the eternal mystery of sunrise.

Then the veil of clouds was shattered, torn apart and
annihilated
, and in its place the sun rose, triumphant, so bright that it could not be looked at. As they turned away the couple saw that at long last the growing sunlight cast its shadows on the earth, shadows that lay prostrate on the ground, at the foot of cliffs, trees and shrubs, as if in homage and gratitude for the renewal of life.

Homage and gratitude were what Balint and Adrienne felt too as they stood, arms enlaced, at the edge of the cliffs. Almost as soon as the first ray of sun had touched the crown of the trees above them, they felt its warmth first on their heads, then
downwards
across their bodies to their feet until it was also there on the meadow-grass and the wild flowers and in the branches of the dwarf pines that surrounded them.

The birds now came to life, swarms of them, crested hoopoes on the tree-branches, blackbirds pecking on the floor of the
meadow
, and woodpeckers running up and down the tree-trunks. Below them a kingfisher darted from the depths of the valley and settled in a tree nearby. Somewhere a squirrel started its morning chatter.

For a long time they stood there, still motionless, alone as if they had been Adam and Eve, the first couple on earth,
surrounded
by the joyful chorus of the birds’ morning song.

Entranced they stood there, gazing into the radiance that
surrounded
them and engulfed their world with transcendental beauty, a beauty so strong and intoxicating that they felt that at any moment it would, like a magnet, draw them ever upwards, soaring into the infinite.

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

S
HORTLY 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.