‘And who is that magnificent gentleman in Hungarian costume?’ asked the old deputy pointing at Soma Weissfeld. Under his thick moustaches there was the hint of a mocking smile.
‘He is the director of the bank at Vasarhely,’ said Balint drily, sensing the old man’s mockery. Not wishing to seem to share it, he went on, ‘Where are you going? I see you are not alone.’
‘To Brasso. We have an unimportant little meeting there … just church affairs.’
‘Then perhaps we could have a talk on the way? Which compartment are you in?’
‘Naturally I should be most honoured by your Lordship’s company, but you see I am travelling third class with my friends and I could not very well leave them. And where I am neither the place nor the company is worthy of your Lordship. They are very simple people, very simple indeed.’
With his last words Timisan waved his hand in farewell and chuckled as if amused by some inner meaning the other could not share.
The two trains were soon linked together and, as the band on the platform played the Rakoczy March, the much lengthened train pulled slowly out. During the wait at Tovis the carriages had all been decorated with flags and so it was with a mass of bunting fluttering in the wind that the delegates were transported across the bridge over the Maros and, leaving the rich flat grasslands, entered the gorge that led to the mountains.
Soon they arrived at Balazsfalva, the seat of the Romanian Uniate bishop. It was from here that all the pan-Romanian movements of the last century and a half had been initiated.
At Balazsfalva the train was joined by the delegates from Dicso, led by Joska Kendy who was now Prefect in Kis-Kukullo. As always, Joska himself, pipe firmly clenched between his teeth, remained silent, but his companions soon made up for this. As at Tovis there were more white-clad schoolgirls, more bouquets and speeches of welcome; and here it was the banker Weissfeld who was cheered, for they all imagined, from his elaborate dress, that he must be the Minister’s representative.
Balint was watching all this from the window of his compartment when he caught sight of a young man dressed as a theology student hurrying towards the back of the train. He looked neither to right nor to left and clearly knew exactly where he was going. Balint was sure that he knew his face, and wondered where he had seen him before.
The youth was very slim, almost gaunt in appearance, with an olive-skinned face whose cheekbones showed the telltale red spot of tuberculosis. Balint watched to see where he would go.
Eventually the student stopped in front of a third-class compartment. As soon as he did so a large hand shot out of the window into the palm of which the youth pressed a small piece of paper. Then he turned and stepped back on the platform, gazing back at the richly decorated engine. His glance met Abady’s and at once Balint recognized him: he was the son of the popa at Gyurkuca in the mountains whom Balint had seen when his father Timbus had asked for wood to enlarge the village church. Balint well remembered those burning eyes as full of hatred then, when the boy was lying covered in fur rugs on the veranda of the popa’s house, as now when gazing at the train full of Hungarian delegates. Balint had heard that he had recovered sufficiently to study for the priesthood and he remembered, too, that the notary Simo had said that while the parintie Timbus was a reliable man his son was a dangerous pro-Romanian agitator.
Young Timbus stayed where he was on the platform, rigidly upright, as the Hungarian delegates crowded back to their seats. And he remained there, still without moving, as the gaily decorated train clattered noisily out of the station and finally disappeared in the cloud of its own smoke.
The congress at Homorod opened at ten o’clock in the morning under the joint chairmanship of the sheriffs of Maros-Torda, Csik, Udvarhely and Haromszek, each taking their turn to preside in order of seniority of service. This had been planned by the government so as to recognize the loyalty of these regions which had remained faithful to the Coalition party all through the time of the government appointed by the King. These four men therefore sat together at the presidential table which had been placed in the centre of one of the long walls of the hall where the congress was to take place.
During the spa’s high season this room was used as a general place of assembly and amusement. It was built of wood and the outer walls were mostly windows. At one end there was a platform where gypsy musicians would play every afternoon and evening and where visiting theatrical companies would erect their stage. The hall had now been filled with rows of chairs where the delegates took their places, automatically following the rules of social precedence so that the more prominent and important had the better places. Between them and the presidential table was a space where the various delegations could come forward to present their points of view. There were not many of these because, although the Szeklers were an enterprising and vigorous people always ripe for new experience, they were also essentially practical folk who were reluctant to leave their land just at the moment when their fields should be ploughed and winter sowing begun. As a result there were not many of them there. Those who did attend quickly retired to places at the back as soon as they had delivered their formal speeches of welcome, and from there they listened somewhat suspiciously to what all these lords and great folk had to say.
The largest group was that of the charcoal-burners, and this was because they felt they had serious grievances to be laid before the congress. There were some sixteen of them and instead of approaching the presidential table they went immediately to find places at the extreme back of the hall.
They were stern-faced, serious men who all seemed to look much alike, perhaps because of their unceasing work in the forest where, day and night, the success of their work depended on unrelenting attention to the fires. They were dressed in the same clothes; black in colour, with black boots, and their skin too was darkened from the wood-smoke that had stained their foreheads, faces and hands with indelible little black marks.
The charcoal-burners sat in silence, waiting while the formal speeches of welcome were made, and while all the other delegates were greeting each other, exchanging compliments and somewhat vaguely outlining a rosy future for everyone present. Then someone read out the agenda for the discussions, followed by an explanation of the Minister’s proposals.
Balint was sitting at one side of the hall studying the notes he had made of his proposal that the Szekler land inheritance should be by entail and not by general division of property. At one moment he looked up and saw to his surprise that one of the faces among the charcoal-burners was familiar to him; it was Andras Jopal, the young Transylvanian mathematician who had discovered how to make a flying machine at the same time as the Wright brothers and Santos-Dumont, but who had not had the means to present it to the world before they did. He had missed his chance not only from lack of money to complete the model and build the engine, but also because he was so suspicious of other people that he had refused help when he most needed it. Balint had come forward with an offer of aid but Jopal had rejected it angrily, believing that Balint merely wanted to steal his secret from him. It must surely be him, thought Balint, as he looked at that very individual face, broad shaven skull and domed forehead, and those small bright piercing eyes. But what was he doing here among the charcoal-burners, seated at the centre of their group, holding in his hand the paper on which their complaint was written and apparently being treated as their leader?
The debate started with discussions about the Minister’s proposals for the free distribution of breeding stock and the choice of which cattle would be most appropriate to the different types of farming land.
Although there was general approval of the overall idea an argument soon started between the government expert and some of the local authorities. Whereas Daranyi’s man proposed Simmenthal cattle, one local man stood out for Pinzgau stock and another for the established local breeds. Both were talking in vain because the Ministry of Agriculture’s men, having studied the situation, had already made up their minds
what was best and were not going to change their view, especially as the experiment had already been made with success in northern Hungary. While reluctant to argue about a free gift the local men were determined to have their say, if only to prove that they knew what they were talking about. The same thing happened when they started to talk about stallions at stud, poultry and pigs. And when pigs came to be discussed a self-appointed ‘expert’ from the Szilagy district, which was far removed from any Szekler settlement, got up to champion the ‘Baris’ pig which was popular where he came from even though everyone else knew that you could feed it for five years without it ever getting fat. ‘The Baris has no equal!’ cried the man from Szilagy in the tones of a religious fanatic.
When all these discussions came to an end the Minister’s proposals were unanimously accepted. Everyone was delighted even those who had argued the most fiercely – for it was recognized that if Daranyi had initiated the programme then he would see it through; and also because it was well-known that the congress had been convened only for one purpose, which was that the public should know what was being done for the Szeklers. And, of course, there would always be those ready to declare that it was their personal participation at the congress that had had a decisive effect on what would have been done anyhow.
At the end of the morning session the meeting was adjourned for lunch. Abady waited until Jopal should come forward with his companions. Then he went up to him and said how glad he was to meet him again, though it was a surprise to see him with the charcoal-burners.
Jopal stopped. A faint smile lit up his smoke-grimed face. ‘But I am one of them,’ he said. ‘I’ve lived with them now for two years. I work with them. They are very nice people.’
‘Don’t you think it is a waste for a man like you, with your knowledge and skill, to bury yourself like this? Even if the basic problem of flying has been solved and others have got the credit, it’s still very primitive and there are many more problems to be solved. And flying isn’t the only field for a mathematician like yourself.’
‘It’s all foolishness,’ replied Jopal. ‘Vanity and foolishness. And to what purpose? There’s more satisfaction in hard physical work among good and simple people. Only that is really worthwhile. To live out of doors, in the forest, chop wood, cut trees, build the ovens … to learn how long the charcoal must smoulder inside, and when more air must be let in and when the fire extinguished. To watch over it, guard it, care for it … it needs a lot of care, and knowledge and strength. And it’s beautiful, too, to live naturally, to be free …’
How different Jopal had become, thought Balint, from the time they had last met on the crest of the Ludas hills a month or so after Santos-Dumont had flown for the first time. Then he had been so bitter, while today he radiated peace and serenity.
‘Come and have some food with me,’ suggested Balint. ‘I don’t at all mind missing the official feast.’
The inventor-turned-charcoal-burner shook his head. ‘Thank you, but I can’t leave my friends. I belong with them now.’ And he said goodbye and went off with the others who had been waiting for him a few yards away.
As Abady walked over to the restaurant he was thinking over what had happened to Jopal. How strange it was, the destiny of Hungarians! How many there were like Jopal, as full of talent as their greatest rivals in the world but who, once they had reached their goal, would give it all up as easily as it had been obtained. Such people would never fight for the recognition they deserved; it was as if they would soon lose all interest if everything didn’t go their way from the beginning, and that they had striven so far only to prove to themselves that they could do it if they wanted to, and not for worldly success. Several names at once occurred to him. There was Janos Bolyai, one of the outstanding men of his generation, who gave up everything at the age of twenty-one; Samu Teleki, who had explored so many hitherto unknown parts of Africa and discovered Lake Rudolf, but who never bothered himself to write about his travels; Miklos Absolon, who had been to Lhasa but who never spoke of his travels except obliquely and as humorous anecdotes. Then there was Pal Szinyei-Merse, the forerunner of the Impressionists, who gave up painting and did not touch his brushes for more than fifteen years; and, of course, Tamas Laczok, who earned fame in Algeria where he could have made history but who abandoned it all to return to Hungary and work on the railways as a simple engineer.
There seemed to be a sort of oriental yearning for Nirvana, a passivity as regards worldly success which led his compatriots to throw away their chances of achievement, abandon everything for which they had striven for years, sometimes justifying themselves with some transparent excuse of offence offered or treachery on the part of so-called friends, but more often offering no explanation at all. Perhaps it was the other side of the coin of national pride which led them to throw everything away as soon as they had proved to themselves that they could do it if they wished, as if the ability alone sufficed and the achievement counted for nothing. It was like an inherited weakness transmitted from generation to generation and, of course, it had been epitomized in Janos Aranyi’s epic poem about Miklos Toldi, who under appalling difficulties conquered all his country’s enemies in a few months and then retired to till his fields and was never seen again until extreme old age.
The government’s plan for bringing back the emigrants and repopulating the deserted areas was announced at the afternoon session. Only the general idea was put forward because there were so many legal and economic aspects of the plan still to be worked out that no detailed discussion would have been possible at a public meeting.
All the same the announcement gave Abady the opportunity to put forward his suggestion for modifying the inheritance laws.
He started by saying that if the re-colonization of the land was to be successful it would have to be carried out on a massive scale. There were too many Szeklers for the land available to them and traditionally theirs. He quoted statistics, birth-rates, emigration figures, and laid special emphasis on the ever-diminishing size of the Szekler small-holdings, showing how it was impossible for most of these holdings to support a family. The only legal solution was to establish a system of entail by which properties could be handed on intact from generation to generation. He cited the example of similar situations in foreign countries – Canada and the United States, among others – where a single heir could inherit everything. He followed this with more statistics and explanations, quoting from books such as those of Lorenz von Stein; and added that such a system as he suggested was by no means unknown in Hungarian law which for centuries had established a minimum size for serfs’ holdings which could not further be divided. The Szeklers, he said, should be enabled to preserve their existing land by entail to the oldest son, the other children’s future being secured by the state providing them with recolonized land.
Such was Balint’s intervention; and though it might have had some effect at a legal conference it fell extremely flat at the Szekler congress, few of whose delegates were sure where Canada was and even fewer of whom had ever heard of Lorenz von Stein. As he was speaking Balint knew that he was boring his audience – and this knowledge robbed most of what he had to say of any conviction. The audience stopped listening.
Only one man paid attention. This was Samuel Barra who jumped up almost before Abady had finished. His powerful voice booming across the hall, he cried, ‘It is absolutely scandalous that anyone should dare to put forward such an idea, especially here in the very temple of the people’s liberties! Suggesting that the Szeklers should love and favour one of their children over the others, to keep one and throw away the rest. It’s a monstrous idea!’ And he waxed emotional over the sacredness of a father’s love for his children, over solidarity between brothers, and over the fate of widows and orphans. Grabbing hold of Abady’s reference to division of serfs’ properties, he shouted that the noble member for Lelbanya apparently wanted to push the Szeklers back to serfdom and that it was obvious to him at least that Abady’s real purpose
was to abandon the liberal achievements of the twentieth century, and return to the Middle Ages, to forced labour and public floggings! ‘Never!’ he cried. ‘And anyhow the Szeklers were free men even in medieval days. Why, even all the armies of Hell could not defeat them, neither the Bashi-Bazouk Turks nor the satanic Caraffa.’
Though Caraffa had had nothing to do with Transylvania and by the Bashi-Bazouks he presumably meant the Turkish gendarmerie, the words sounded good and, as Barra hurled them at the delegates, general cheering broke out. People clapped wildly and many ran forward to shake his hand and praise his patriotic outburst.
Balint, shocked and bitter, sat down. He knew he should rise again and explain, but then, he reflected, it would be to no purpose for there was nobody present who would understand and to whom it was worth defending himself. Even the Minister’s representative hardly opened his mouth, while Bethlen, who after all had initiated the whole idea of saving the Szeklers, did not speak at all. While he hesitated another speaker rose to his feet.
It was Jopal. He had a good voice and he spoke well, in short easily-understood sentences. Calmly and with great precision he described the miserable situation of the charcoal-burners. He spoke with conviction that lent weight to his words but he remained matter-of-fact. He asked that they should be able to sell their own produce rather than be forced to do so through middlemen who made all the profit. Though they were an established union neither the state nor private enterprises recognized their existence or had any direct dealings with them. In this way they were being reduced to misery.
Balint listened carefully. It was extraordinary how nothing in Jopal’s words or manner revealed his educated scientific past. If one knew nothing about him one would take him for a simple workman who had grown up in the forests and who knew all about charcoal-burning but nothing else.
They Were Found Wanting (Writing on the Wall: The Transylvania Trilogy) Page 16
