They Were Counted (The Writing on the Wall: the Transylvanian Trilogy)

by Bánffy, Miklós

  Pantyilimon had listened to what Balint had to say standing in front of him and shifting his weight restlessly from one long spindly leg to the other. At the same time he moved his head like a horse with the habit of’weaving’. It was not clear whether this was the result of panic, fright or excitement, or whether it was an habitual nervous tic. When Balint had finished, he hesitated a few seconds before replying and, when he did so, seemed to have difficulty in getting out the words: ‘Can’t be done, please, can’t be done!’

  ‘Can’t? Very well then, we must think of something else!’ said Balint, forcing as much menace as he could into his tone. ‘I shall hire a lawyer and fight you myself. I shall make the case my own. According to the law you have no right, no right at all, to the sum you are claiming. You are limited to receiving back the original loan plus eight per cent annual interest, not a penny more. I shall instruct my lawyers to insist that your behaviour to these people constitutes a criminal offence which, you may like to know, carries a penalty of two years’ imprisonment!’

  ‘Can’t be done, please, can’t be done!’ was all that Rusz managed to get out as he stood squirming in front of Balint.

  ‘Yes, it can be done! What you are doing is no less than a felony, extorting between three and four hundred per cent! How could you?’

  ‘Please! It isn’t all true and it isn’t only me. Please! I have to pay dear to get money. It’s very expensive!’

  ‘And from whom do you get it, may I ask?’

  The former teacher was still weaving about, but now there was a hint of a smile buried in his wrinkled face. He did not answer the question but went on: ‘Expensive money, very expensive, and much losses, very much … his Lordship not know how it is on mountain. Land register book is never in order, many men there only in grandfather’s name still. People here like that; one day here, one day not here. They go away and I see no more, never. Money not paid, man gone. Cannot do anything. I pay, I lose much money. I have to … much loss, always loss … ‘And he went on in his broken Hungarian repeating the same feeble arguments and reiterating that it wasn’t his money, and that as he only had a tiny profit from the whole affair there was nothing he could do.

  ‘Well, then, go to your principals! Let them relent!’ interrupted Balint.

  ‘Can’t be done, please, can’t be done!’

  ‘All right then, but I warn you of two things. The first is both for you and for your charming associates: I shall prosecute this case as if it were my own. The second is for you alone. Since I have come to the mountains I have found out how desperate these people are and how much they hate you. It is my duty to warn you of this. From now on you hold your fate in your own hands!’

  Pantyilimon shrugged his shoulders: ‘I know, please, bad people, bad people. Bad … bad …’

  Balint left the room while the money-lender stood aside bowing and wringing his hands. He descended the steps rapidly, jumped on to his horse and road swiftly away followed by Honey and the gornyiks. The huge oak entrance gates swung to behind them and the dogs could still be heard barking as they rode swiftly down the hill, through the village and back to their road.

  In the train back to Kolozsvar Balint thought over the whole affair and found himself more and more annoyed by the part that he had allowed himself to play. He had done it again. Once more he had become personally involved.

  He should never have promised his help to the men of Pejkoja, but weakly he had allowed himself to be carried away, first by the old man’s talk of his grandfather and then by his fear of what the evil-faced Turturika might do if they all decided upon la noptye. So now he had got right into the middle of their fight with the money-lender and what had begun as disinterested mediation had ended in personal involvement. Now, if he did not succeed in winning the case for the people of Pejkoja, his own prestige would suffer in the eyes of the mountain people. The case would not be easy. He never doubted the identity of Rusz’s silent anonymous partners. These were obviously the Romanian priest from Gyurkuca and the notary Gaszton Simo. Between them they would not miss a trick, however dishonest, to see that Rusz was exonerated. In their own world they wielded great power and they had the unutterable advantage of being always there, on the spot where they could frighten people and put pressure on them in a hundred different ways; whereas he, Balint, could only occasionally come among them. During his rare visits they put their trust in him, but if he were not there what would happen? Obviously he would have to find a lawyer who was prepared not only to accept the case but who would also be trusted by the people of the mountain.

  Balint thought for a long time until at last inspiration came to him: Aurel Timisan. He was the perfect candidate; being both a lawyer and a Romanian who sat in Parliament to defend the interests of his fellow Romanians. The peasants would respect him and do as he said and he might even be able to influence the popa himself. Of all people surely Aurel Timisan had more chance than any of settling this affair properly – maybe even without taking it to court. He was generally known to be an honest man. Balint congratulated himself and decided to visit him as soon as possible, telling himself that the old radical was sure to agree to help, for it was entirely a question of protecting impoverished Romanians.

  After several telephone calls in the morning Balint managed to make an appointment to see Timisan in the early afternoon. The old man received him in his smoking-room.

  ‘This is an honour indeed!’ said Timisan with an ironic smile under his huge white moustaches. ‘His Lordship dares to visit me, who spent a year in the prison of Vac! See! There is proof, on the wall behind you!’ He pointed to a large photograph in a heavy frame which portrayed a group of eight men. Balint’s host was easily recognized from the great sweep of his moustaches, though of course they were then still black. Balint asked about the others and was told that they were all his fellow defendants in the famous Memorandum trial.

  ‘And who is this?’ asked Abady, pointing to a man seated at the centre of the group who had not been identified by the lawyer.

  ‘Ah!’ said Timisan. ‘He was the governor of the prison. He was very good to us and so we – at least that’s how we put it then decided to pay him this honour!’

  The two men sat down facing each other in large armchairs that were upholstered in that Paisley-printed velveteen which was then all the vogue in well-to-do middle-class homes.

  ‘I did not come to continue our last discussion,’ said Balint, ‘but I should be grateful, Mr Deputy, for your advice and help in a legal dispute in which I am interested. It concerns the welfare of a group of Romanian peasants, and therefore I am hoping that you will be interested.’ He then took out his notes and told the whole story, ending up with Rusz’s rejection of the offer made by the men of Pejkoja. He added that expense was no object and that he, Balint, would guarantee to see the matter through to the end.

  Timisan heard him out in silence. Then he looked up; but instead of asking any question pertinent to the story Balint had related, asked: ‘Tell me, why does your Lordship mind what happens to these people?’

  Balint was so surprised that for a moment he did not know what to say. It was so much a part of his nature and upbringing that he should do what he could to protect those in need that he was unable, at such short notice, put his motives into words. At last he said: ‘It’s so appallingly unjust! This sort of thing should not be allowed. I understand, Mr Deputy, that you advise the Unita Bank, which, through the popa Timbus, supplies this Rusz with the money he lends out. Surely if the bank gets to know how their funds are being misused they’ll issue a warning so that the money-lenders will be forced to give up this sort of extortion and we’ll be able to rescue their unfortunate victims!’

  Timisan explained, rather as if he were giving a public lecture, that the bank was only concerned to receive regularly the interest on the money that it lent out. If their loans were correctly amortized, what was done with the money was not their affair. Timisan spoke for some time, coolly and professio
nally.

  ‘But, Mr Deputy, doesn’t it shock you personally when you hear of cases like this? These are your own people, and they are being ruined. You represent them in Parliament, you speak about their “rights”. Surely you will defend them?’

  ‘That is politics.’

  ‘Politics? Politics have nothing to do with this. Here we have some poor mountain people who need help!’

  ‘That too!’ The old deputy smiled. ‘Just so!’ He paused again and thought for a moment before going on: ‘Your Lordship is full of goodwill and you honour me with your visit. You will understand that I am not often honoured by visits from Hungarian noblemen!’ He laughed drily, then went on: ‘… and because of this I shall give your Lordship an explanation. Centuries ago this country was conquered by the swords of your ancestors and so the great Hungarian-owned estates were formed. In these days we have to find other means of getting what we want. We need a wealthy middle class and up until now this class has not existed. Most of the Romanian intellectuals like myself are the sons of poor Romanian priests who were the only ones among us who were properly educated. Do you see that picture? It is of my father, who was Dean of Pancelcseh.’ He pointed to the wall where, over the souvenir of the prison of Vac, there hung an almost life-size portrait in oils of a venerable popa with a huge beard: it looked as if it had been copied from a photograph. Timisan went on:

  ‘We are all equal, and we have no means. We have therefore decided that, no matter how, we must create a wealthy middle class. And that is what we are doing. Our bank furnishes the original funds and, apart form other businesses, it lends money to certain people we believe can be trusted firstly to build up their own fortunes and then to use those fortunes for political purposes. Naturally these people have to deal with – you would say exploit – poor Romanian peasants, and that is only natural because they have no one else to exploit! Were there no victims when your marauding ancestors over-ran our country? Well, it’s the same today, but the difference is that you did it on horseback and wearing coats of mail! So much for glory! Hail to the conquering hero! Perhaps it was all more picturesque in those days, more decorative, more “noble”!’ and he gave an ironic note to the word “noble” before laughing wryly. ‘But we are more modest. We are modern people, simple and grey and not decorative at all!’ The cold, cruel glint that had lit up his eyes as he spoke now faded. ‘I have never said anything like this to anyone before – and you won’t hear it from anyone else. If any of you Hungarians raised the matter, we’d deny it, naturally; but then you are not likely to, for Hungarians only think in political terms!’

  Timisan laughed again. It was not a pleasant sound. Then he said: ‘Your Lordship will understand from what I have said that I can be of no help to you and, if you will forgive the presumption, I would advise your Lordship not to bother with such matters!’

  Balint rose from his chair and shook hands automatically. He was perturbed and upset by what he had just heard. Then the old man spoke again, his voice now full of compassion, fatherly, concerned, as if he himself were moved.

  ‘I tell you all this because I am an old man with much experience. And I am filled with pity for your goodwill, which is so very rare …’ He walked to the door to show Balint out.

  ‘Thank you for your visit,’ he said.

  Chapter Four

  KOLOZSVAR WAS AT ITS BUSIEST in the autumn because that was the time of the hunting in the Zsuk country and of the steeple-chases which were held on three Sundays. The Hubertus Hunt met every day except Sunday, usually on the hilly grasslands that lay between the valleys of the Szamos and Fejer rivers and sometimes on the right bank of the Szamos in the country bordered by the districts of Mocs, Gyulatelek and Szuk. Those young men who did not live in country houses nearby or who did not put up in the Hubertus Hunt building itself stayed in Kolozsvar and went to the meets by train or in their own carriages. And because wherever a goodly quality of eligible young males were to be found, mothers would find some excuse to bring their unmarried daughters, so they too would come to town at this season. As a result there were plenty of dances and grand balls, evenings of gypsy music and other entertainments. The provincial capital in autumn was even gayer than it was in the Carnival season after Christmas.

  Balint too went to Kolozsvar that year, encouraged by his mother even though it was a great sacrifice for her to send him away and remain alone herself in the great house of Denestornya. Countess Roza had several reasons for making this decision, among them her ambition to see Balint shine socially and take what she considered was his rightful place in Transylvanian society. Also she felt that it was important that he should have every opportunity of meeting suitable girls, one of whom might perhaps take his fancy, for she knew from what she had been told by her old housekeepers that Adrienne, whom she had come more and more to distrust as a bad influence on her son, would not be coming to Kolozsvar that season.

  There was also another reason. Countess Roza was immensely proud of her horses and she wanted them to be shown off and admired. She was sure that she bred the best mounts in Transylvania and she wanted everyone else to know how beautiful they were, how fast, good-natured, well-proportioned, strong, triumphant and splendid. Nevertheless, it was with a pang of regret that she made the decision to let herself be separated for eight to ten weeks from those beautiful animals whose welfare and training she supervised daily and who, every morning, she would visit and caress. She would miss them every bit as much as she would her son. So it was with tears in her slightly protuberant eyes that she stood in the horseshoe-shaped forecourt, fed lumps of sugar to the three horses she had decided to send with Balint and watched them clatter away through the great entrance gates. A dray-cart rumbled out after them laden with blankets, saddles, bandages, sacks of oats and special fodder and a hundred other things so that they should want for nothing while away from home.

  Riding in hilly country was a new experience for Balint, who was not accustomed to having to spare the horses when climbing steep hillsides lest they should get winded, nor to galloping at full speed downhill so as not to let the hounds get away from him. However he soon got into the run of things by following the example of Gazsi Kadacsay, who this year was acting as gentleman whipper-in and who could race down any slope, no matter how steep or slippery, as swiftly as the wind. During the days in the hunting field Balint became much closer to many of the other young men of his own age with whom previously he had not been particularly friendly. Apart from Gazsi himself, there was Pityu Kendy and the four young Alvinczys, and with all of them new ties of friendship sprung up through their daily meetings and participation in a sport they all loved. It was a carefree life, and the hard physical effort brought with it an agreeable and languorous tiredness. The desire for Adrienne that had always overwhelmed him whenever he was alone, began to fade and, though it never left him, was no longer the feverish yearning which had so tormented him ever since his last visit to Almasko.

  So passed the month of October and the first half of November. Since coming to Kolozsvar Balint had engaged a university student to give him lessons in Romanian every evening. The vital need to speak that language had been brought home to him not only by his talks with Timisan, but especially by the difficulty of communicating properly with the people in the mountains. Balint also wanted to be able to read everything that the Romanian-language newspapers said, and not merely those extracts which the Hungarian papers thought fit to reproduce. If ever he was to get to the bottom of all those complicated problems, and thereby form his own unbiased opinion, then he must know what the other side was saying. Audiatur in altera pars.

  In mid-October Balint went again up into the mountains and this time he took with him to Pejkoja a young Romanian-speaking lawyer who, after much searching, had been found in Banffy-Hunyad. The man was well spoken of, had undertaken several similar cases and seemed in every way suitable.

  The atmosphere at Pejkoja was not at all what Balint had expected. Despite the fact that o
ld Juon Lung aluj Maftye had managed to get a small group of ten men to meet the Mariassa, they listened sullenly to what he had to say, shrugged their shoulders with apparent indifference, and found all sorts of excuses not to sign the power of attorney which would enable the lawyer to act for them. Only one man refused openly and that was the terrible-faced Turturika, who greeted their proposals with mocking laughter.

  The meeting broke up without Balint having achieved anything. Just as he was riding down the hillside thinking that the whole expedition had been nothing but a waste of time, old Juon’s grandson, Kula, stepped out from behind some hazel bushes and waylaid them. Balint realized that the boy must have taken a shortcut so as to catch up with them and, thinking that probably Kula had brought a secret message from his grandfather, he let the others ride ahead so that the boy could speak to him privately. Kula jumped up onto the steep bank so that he could whisper directly into Abady’s ear.

  ‘I’ve come to report,’ he said, ‘what happened after the Mariassa’s last visit.’ Then he told, with much detail, how one day the notary Simo had ridden into the village with two gendarmes, declared that the sawmill constituted a fire hazard and had it closed down. Further, he had call-up papers served on one of the young men of the village who had been exempted from military service because he was the only bread-winner in the family, and had renewed a charge against three farmers for some forestry offence long since dropped and forgotten. He had fined Kula’s grandfather for the trivial reason that he had moved his farm wagon to the left of the road rather than the right when he had met the notary’s carriage on its way to Mereggyo; and he had taken several men aside and had menaced them privately with his own vengeance unless they all kept quiet about what had been going on in the village. He had told everyone that if any action was brought against Rusz Pantyilimon, he, Gaszton Simo, would personally testify that they truly owed the money. He had made it clear that his word was law as he had been appointed by the government. Finally, the notary had called up the whole village for community service on the roads just at the time of the maize harvest.