Balint struck the window-sill with his clenched fist.
On his lips there was a little trickle of blood as he bit hard not to cry his own agony aloud to the lonely night.
The following morning it had been arranged that he should again go shooting in the woods. He did not want to go and would willingly have cancelled it had he not planned with Adrienne that they should meet in the forest as if by chance, so that he would be able to give her Judith’s letter when no one else could see him do it.
This morning Balint also wanted to see his mother’s oak forests, so what had been planned as a morning’s deer stalk was transformed into an early walk through the woods. He asked the Almasko forest guard to guide him to the ridge he had spoken of the previous day whence he could, it seemed, have a good view of his family’s property. Walking briskly it took them about three hours, and any deer that they sighted on the way were allowed to go free. The strenuous exercise and the radiant morning combined to restore his composure, so that although his face clouded when, as they neared home, he saw Adrienne approaching, he was quickly able to get himself under control. It was important to him that she should notice nothing when they met. When the guard had left them and they were once again alone in the shade of the great trees, he tried to kiss her, but Addy stepped back and put her fingertips to his lips.
‘No! Please, no!’ She spoke so low that he hardly heard her words, and as she spoke a shudder passed right down through her body starting at the shoulders. Balint’s heart missed a beat and he felt full of pity and compassion for her, for he had realized that with that involuntary movement her body had cried out to him: ‘Don’t touch me, I’m unclean!’ She used the same gesture, an arm uplifted, that lepers used to protect others from their touch; and so he at once took her hand, gently and firmly and held it until she had understood that it was merely out of sympathy and not the first movement of an attempt to kiss her. They moved slowly along the path, holding hands like two young children. They did not speak and their footfalls on the grass-covered path made no sound. The woodbirds, finches and siskins, flitted from branch to branch in the trees, and filled the air with their song.
When they came to a small clearing they sat down. Balint was afraid that Addy would object if he put his arms around her. Before that he must put her at her ease and make her forget what had happened during the night. When she did sit down he pointedly did not sit close to her but found a place where he was just out of reach. Then he handed her Judith’s thick envelope.
After a brief hesitation, Adrienne, seeing that the crumpled envelope was already half open, pulled the letter out. Four pages were covered with Judith’s emphatic square letters. Adrienne read attentively what her sister had written, slowly taking it all in. Then, still holding the letter, she said: ‘Poor Judith! Poor, poor girl!’ For a long time she said nothing more but just sat there wrapped in her own thoughts. Balint waited, saying nothing. At last Addy spoke: ‘You know, this is really all my fault. Yes, really, don’t be surprised! I’m at the bottom of it all. All this unhappy affair is my doing. Not directly, of course, but she’s heard me say many of the things she writes in this letter: “I will save you. That’s my vocation, to sacrifice everything to save a man from himself.” That might have been me, a hundred years ago before I knew … I used to say things like that! Listen to this: “No matter how guilty the world thinks you, I care nothing as long as you are true to me.” These were my ideas, and when I was a girl I used to proclaim them proudly, thinking that it was all so true and so beautiful. Now it’s all been manna for poor little Judith …’
She paused for a while, her brows knitted in thought. Then she went on: ‘But she goes even further: “Even if you’ve done wrong, if you believe yourself guilty …” She keeps using phrases like that. I don’t quite understand, has Wickwitz something on his conscience, has he done something wrong, something wicked?’
‘It’s possible!’ said Balint grimly.
‘Do you know anything about it?’
Balint hesitated; but he had to answer. ‘Yes I do! But I can’t say anything about it as I was told in confidence. I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you.’
‘Not even me …?’
It was hard not to give in, but Balint’s sense of honour prevailed. ‘Not even you!’
Curiosity unleashed the eternal female in Adrienne. She slid over to Balint and took his hand. ‘You must give me some idea! At least say something. Not everything, of course, but just what sort of thing. Is it horses … or women? What is it? Surely you can tell me that?’
‘It’s money! A sordid, ugly affair. Very nasty indeed, but don’t ask me to tell you more!’
‘I could have guessed as much. The man has a horrid laugh.’
At midday the guests gathered in the drawing-room before lunch. Uzdy came in with a big pile of newspapers. He seemed in high good humour, a triumphant glitter in his narrow black eyes.
‘News from Budapest,’ he said. ‘Most interesting!’ He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. ‘There is a new government! Now all you politicians, which one of you can guess who’s the new Minister-President?’
The Alvinczys suggested Kossuth, then Andrassy, and finally Wlassits.
Uzdy shook his head and laughed. Then he turned to Abady. ‘Haven’t you anything to say? You keep silent but you’re the only one here who ought to know. I’m only a modest member of the Upper House, but you are a Member of Parliament, an elected legislator, a professional. Well? Won’t you give us the benefit of your opinion? What’s your guess? We’re all waiting for you?’
‘Geza Fejervary?’
‘Bravo! Alle Ehre, alle Respekt, alle Ehre – quite right, my congratulations!’ and Uzdy bowed, swinging his arms and letting the upper part of his body dangle loosely as if it had been broken at the waist. ‘Well said, indeed! There’s clear sight for you! Congratulations! Respekt!’ At this point Adrienne came in and Uzdy turned to her at once: ‘I’ve just put all your followers to the test. Our friend Abady was the victor; he’s a genius!’
Countess Clémence now came in. Her presence had a calming effect on her son and, though the conversation was still about Budapest politics, it proceeded in a quiet and gentlemanlike manner. Everyone deplored the nomination of a government by the Crown without any elective justification. Why, it was little else than a return to absolutism, and there had not been anything like that since 1848! This continued throughout the meal.
Seeing Adrienne once again beside her husband, Balint was haunted by the memory of what he had discovered the previous night. It was made all the worse by Uzdy’s air of triumphant possession, by the way he flaunted his ownership of her in front of the guests. He would lean over and fondle her arm during the meal, caress her shoulders when they rose to leave the table, and all these things he did, not with the tender air of a man in love with his wife but rather as if he needed always to remind himself – and everyone else – that she was his, just as a dog belongs to its master. Balint shuddered every time Uzdy touched her and convinced himself that the husband knew this and redoubled his efforts to demonstrate his rights in consequence. It was unbearable, intolerable!
As soon as lunch was over Balint asked if he could have a carriage to take him to the station. He used the formation of the new government as a pretext, saying that he would be urgently needed in Budapest as there would certainly be an emergency meeting of the House. No doubt a telegram was already waiting for him at his house at Kolozsvar. He must go at once, by the very next train.
Balint felt badly about leaving so abruptly, especially as it meant that he would not be able to see Adrienne alone before he left. He wanted so much to say a few tender words to her, words that would tell her how much he felt for her and how he understood the horror of her life. But anything was better than staying in that dreadful house and having to be a witness, every minute of the day, to a situation he hated; and nothing would be worse than staying and making polite conversation, keeping a straight face, and prete
nding to notice nothing when all the time he had murder in his heart. He was sure that Adrienne understood why her friend was leaving so suddenly, and indeed, when he took his leave she did not urge him to stay on – though there had been sorrow in her golden eyes and an unspoken demand for his pity. When she said goodbye, her lips had opened slightly as if she were offering them to be kissed. It was just as Balint had taught her on the cushions in the Uzdy villa, but that was all …
‘Never! Never again!’ said Balint out loud to himself as Uzdy’s fast American trotters whisked the yellow-wheeled bricska out of the forecourt. ‘I’ll never set foot in that house again!’
Chapter Four
THE ROYAL DECREE appointing the Fejervary government caused general consternation. All over the country people were stunned and apprehensive. No one believed that such a thing was possible since, for more than half a century, they had felt secure in the knowledge that they were living in a democratic parliamentary era. What had just happened was the negation of their civil rights, while that feeling of security had been suddenly and unexpectedly shattered. Those now in power issued communiqués that stated categorically that there would be no changes other than those essential for carrying on the business of government, and that nothing, again excepting only what was necessary, would affect any man’s constitutional rights. No one believed a word of it and the government’s explanations were not even thought worth considering. At first some people imagined that all this must be the outcome of some nefarious plot by Tisza; but this theory was soon seen to hold no water since Tisza publicly condemned the appointment of the new government and declared himself opposed to the new cabinet. He even refused to see any member of his own party who showed signs of sympathy with this unconstitutional move. Not for years had a political event been so universally condemned.
The annual meeting of the Kolozsvar constituent assembly was held in an atmosphere of the general resentment which verged on an uneasy spirit of revolt.
The hall was packed tightly. Every member who could possibly attend had done so and behind them, the galleries reserved for the general public were overflowing, largely with university students. It was soon clear that the public’s intention was to cheer any spokesman who opposed the new government and to shout down anyone who dared to speak in its favour. Everyone was aware that a proposition had been made that all provincial and municipal employees should refuse to obey orders from the central government. That Hungarian non-violent resistance. call it passive disobedience or what you will, had its birth at the Kolozsvar assembly was proved by the fact that the date of the meeting had been long established and therefore preceded any of the discussions in other parts of Hungary. Everyone was wondering how the president of the Assembly, the mayor Szvacsina, would proceed. Would he agree to discussing the motion for civil disobedience or not? No one knew what would happen, and it was because of this uncertainty that the radical Professor Korosi, with his colleagues the author of the motion, had not only organized the presence in the hall of all the university students, but also arranged for the streets outside to be filled with peasant youths who would march up and down, cheering and booing, to make it perfectly clear to the ruling classes who formed the majority of those attending that they really meant business. From time to time someone went out onto the balcony to speak to these young men, bolster up their interest and prevent them from returning home out of boredom.
Inside the dark hall, under the larger-than-life portrait of the Emperor Franz-Josef, the financial secretary of the assembly read out the details and figures of the annual expenditure, fully aware that no one was interested and that no one was listening. Not a single voice was raised; not a single criticism, lest any unnecessary discussion might be started which would distract the assembly before the real business began. Everyone tacitly understood this, so that when the mayor asked if the assembly passed the accounts there were impatient cries of ‘Aye! Aye! Aye!’
From the back of the hall several voices were heard calling out: ‘Korosi! Korosi!’
‘Dr Korosi asks to be heard. Silence, please!’ said the presiding mayor. He then leaned back, his thin, tired-looking form reclining in the presidential chair and his long Fingers folded as if he knew that for some time now he would have nothing to do and so could relax.
Dr Korosi rose to speak. In front of him sat the real heads of the opposition in Kolozsvar, Professor Apathy and his close colleagues, who clustered round him as if they were his bodyguards. This group stared ahead of them at the benches opposite where Tisza’s supporters sat. They, too, were largely composed of university professors for in Kolozsvar, as almost everywhere else, the seat of learning was also the seat of political strife. Korosi addressed his remarks directly to them, not, as protocol demanded, to the president of the assembly. He was a tall man, fat and broad; and he spoke the dialect of the great Hungarian plain where he was born. His words flowed, a constant stream of familiar slogans and platitudes: ‘The accursed Austrians … the camarilla of Vienna … traitors! Gaolers! Lackeys! Henchmen! … Lajos Kossuth and the Honour of Hungary … the martyrs of Arad … Haynau and Bach … soldiery and army intrigues … Hungarian sword-tassels … the language of command … independent national customs … independence of the banks … Rakoczi and Bocskai …’, and so on. Korosi left nothing out. Everything that could inflame public opinion was included and thumped home with all the superficially seductive argument of the professional theologian. His strongest arguments and bitterest accusations were hurled directly at those sitting on the benches opposite; but, though he clearly expected an uproar of protest, he was listened to with calm, smiling acquiescence. At last he read the proposition whereby provincial and municipal administrations should forbid their employees to obey the orders of the central government, should stop the enrolment of army volunteers and should withhold payment of all tax-monies to the finance ministry.
When at last he had finished, Korosi mopped his tousled forehead. Huge cheering broke out from all parts of the assembly hall and one of his colleagues rushed out on to the balcony to signal to the crowd below that the time had come when everyone should shout aloud to let the town aristocrats know that the people were behind the opposition.
Within the hall the mayor raised his hand for silence and asked if anyone wished to add to the proposal now before the assembly. He spoke calmly, in a non-committal voice.
There was silence. Apathy and his band of parliamentary coalitionists looked over to where sat the little gynaecological professor who was the spokesman of the official government party. They all thought that he would rise and in his well-known, sarcastic, razor-sharp tones, begin to protest. But he did not move, merely gazing back with an ironic smile on his face, silent and inscrutable.
‘Professor Dr Korosi’s proposal is unanimously accepted,’ the mayor declared pompously.
The opposition and their followers were taken by surprise. They had not expected things to go smoothly, and indeed had been prepared for battle, noise and disturbance. The assembly cheered the mayor and council and cries of ‘Long live the Mayor’ went up all round. ‘Long live Szvacsina! Long live the Council!’ They smiled and bowed, glad that for once they had been cheered and were popular; on all previous occasions the careful discipline of the Tisza party members had meant that the opposition had normally been forced into unpopular and rowdy behaviour: and for once this had not happened. It was extraordinary but the Tisza party had also declared itself against this ‘government by lackeys’ and so their policy of resistance was for once not only accepted but also popular! And so they started to sing that revolutionary song ‘Lajos Kossuth sent a message …’ to remind them of the great days of Hungarian opposition to Habsburg tyranny.
The triumphant opposition members now left the hall to join the mob gathered outside. This had now been increased by groups of ordinary strollers and loiterers as well as by the gypsies and stall-holders from the market who had all gathered round to see the fun. The streets and pavements were cover
ed with people. Korosi climbed on to a bench in the central part of the square, where each morning vegetable stalls would be set up, so as to broadcast what had happened in a spirited and patriotic speech. As soon as he had finished another man, bull-necked with long arms and dressed in Hungarian national costume, jumped up on the bench opposite: ‘People of Kolozsvar!’ he shouted, ‘I salute this patriotic town in the name of the Szekler people from the Maros who on this sacred day …’
It was Janko Cseresznyes – Cherrytree – the unscrupulous demagogue who had been used by Azbej in engineering Abady’s election and had made such a good thing of it for himself. He happened to be in Kolozsvar that morning by sheer chance, having come into the pig market to purchase thirty young piglets for a firm in Torda. Having done what he came for, he had wandered into the centre of town and, seeing a mass of people all gathered together, could not resist the temptation to play some part in whatever was going on. Accordingly he adopted the role of an envoy from the Szeklers living by the Maros river. As such he could address the crowd to his heart’s content.
‘We, the Szekler people who taught the Russians such a lesson in ’48; we, who chased the entire Austrian army to the very gates of hell, we are determined to fight to the end, offering our blood, our lives …’
Professor Dr Korosi and his friends waited for Cherrytree to come to an end but, seeing that he had no intention of stopping, gave up and went home to lunch. Janko went on, his huge voice carrying to the far end of the square, reciting endless promises of good things to come: ‘They talk of “independent customs” but if I was in power I’d see that we got a good price for everything we sell. And, what’s more, what we buy we’d buy cheap! That’s what I’d do!’
They Were Counted (The Writing on the Wall: the Transylvanian Trilogy) Page 58
