The first psalm had come to an end and the organ was playing softly. The girls, who until now had clustered together at the entrance to the church, tiptoed forward in single file, hurrying and jostling each other until they had found their places and could kneel for a few moments in prayer. Then they sat up, silently sniffing at the fine lawn handkerchiefs or bunches of rosemary they held in their hands. This was exactly as it always happened for it was an unwritten law that the men of the village should take their places first, followed by the important tradespeople and the village elders. Then came the women and boys who went to their seats in the choir beneath the organ and only when all the others were in their places could the unmarried girls take their places too.
Now the organ boomed out a hymn-tune. The priest intoned and then the whole congregation rose and sang together. Balint at once noticed how rough some of the voices seemed, even to the point of singing wildly out of tune – but there was no mistaking the deep faith and the eagerness and the sincerity with which they sang. It must have been like this with the early Christians when the Message was still new.
After the prayers the vicar read the passage from the Bible that was to be the text on which he based his sermon.
He was an old man with an old man’s quavering voice and he lingered long over the first syllable of each word. Everything he said Balint had heard before, and the rest of the congregation many times more than he; but it was all for the best, for the simple folk of the village understood it better than if they were hearing something new and so took it more to heart. And the text too was familiar because it was always the same. It was the Parable of the Sower and the Seed, and the sermon itself dealt with the seed which fell on good ground and brought forth fruit an hundredfold.
The sun’s rays lit up the interior of the church, catching here some small particles of dust which seemed to dance lightly in the still air, and there the bright colours in a girl’s head-scarf, the silver in the greying hair of one elderly villager or the flaming copper-coloured cheek-bones of another. The sparkle in the air was almost vaporous, so much so that the fine white of the church walls might have been covered with a layer of fine cream.
In some places, where the annual whitewashing – that ritual to ensure that the church interior was always immaculate – had been repeated for several hundred years, the lime wash was sometimes nearly three fingers deep and smoothed and softened every hard edge or angle of the vaulting, the groins and the projecting capitals of the columns.
To Balint the old church had never seemed so beautiful.
He looked around, as he had so many times before. On one side the three arches which began where the organ had been placed high up on a stone balcony were supported firmly by columns of Byzantine solidity. On the other, high above the girls’ benches, the last arch was joined to the stone balustrade which guarded the door of the Tabernacle and the Porta Triumphalis. Opening behind the pulpit these doors dated from the time when the church, then of course the home of Catholic rites, had been built in the twelfth century. Naturally no papers still existed to prove the age of the building, but its origins were nonetheless unmistakable.
This was one of the early churches constructed with two rather than three aisles. One, the most important, was the nave in the style typical of the times of Bela III and unique to Hungary. Here, in the apse and the transept, the columns and arches all dated from the original construction. The rest of the church had seen many changes. A good part had been burnt at the time of the Tartar invasions when much of the building had been destroyed – except for the dressed stone exterior walls – and had had to be rebuilt; and this was why the old main entrance on the west side was walled up while another door had been opened beside it. The pew door was surrounded with gothic arches similar to those in the rebuilt nave.
Later came the Reformation when, because the sermon was the most important part of the Reformed service of prayers, the pulpit became the principal feature of the church interior. So as not to obscure the altar this was place at the side, just where the transept began. Its elaborate carved stone decoration was in High Renaissance style.
Soon taste changed again and so the new baldachino and the organ casing were carved in flamboyant rococo.
So the little church, like the great castle on which it was dependent, grew and changed, and was transformed from its simple beginnings into a model of eclectic development whose diverse features, though organic parts of the whole, reflected the needs and desires and tastes of successive centuries.
Here too everything tended to extol the glory of the Abady family. What came first to view was the inscription round the pulpit: Erected to the glorious memory of the most noble and powerful lord Gyorgy Abady Statuum Praes, anno 1690. On the baldachino and again on the sounding board above the pulpit the Abady arms were prominently emblazoned, with the date 1740; while the monogram of that Count Denes Abady who became Chancellor of Transylvania and Master of the Horse to the sovereign was carved in high relief surrounded by garlands of leaves and flowers. Along the walls, all in similar narrow gilt frames, were all the printed announcements of the births, deaths and marriages of Abadys down the centuries, those of the women crowned with a double coat of arms – their own and their husbands’ – while those of male Abadys carried only the heraldic device of their own family, a golden gryphon with spread wings on a red ground, that device which in medieval times had been borne by the Abadys’ first ancestors, the Tomai chieftains. Under each announcement were written their titles and the distinguished posts they had occupied.
Just in front of the family bench were hung, one above the other, the notices of Balint’s father and grandfather.
Once again, as he always did each time he was there, he read the fading print and was carried back in memory to the days of his childhood.
The first memories, those which included both his father and mother as well as his grandfather, Count Peter, were hazy enough for he had been barely eight years old when his father had died so suddenly. The image of Count Peter, on the other hand, was much more vivid. He could remember the old man sitting beside him, in the place of honour where his mother now sat so placidly, her little chubby hand resting on the Book of Psalms in front of her. Count Abady’s fine profile and always closely shaven face, his wavy silver hair, even that scent of tobacco and lavender soap that seemed his special attribute and which the child had always associated with his grandfather’s presence, still seemed so real to Balint that he imagined that if he turned his head, the old man would still be there.
The fact that the framed announcement of Count Peter’s decease on November 3rd 1892 hung before his eyes meant nothing to Balint. For him his much-loved grandfather was still and always would be alive and well, and all that he had taught the child was as fresh in his memory as if it had been said the day before.
One remark, made by the old man when Balint had been about fifteen, came back to him today. The three of them, Balint, his mother and grandfather, had just left the church and started on the short path which led to his grandfather’s house where they always lunched on Sundays. Balint, thoughtlessly, had said something to the effect that it was marvellous to think that everything around him had been created by his own ancestors.
Count Peter had stopped at once, and for a moment had looked sharply at the boy. He must have thought that his grandchild had unwittingly imbibed some of the pride of race and family conceit of Countess Roza who, as an only and thoroughly spoilt child, had imagined herself queen of all she surveyed; for very seriously he now addressed himself only to his grandson.
Though the kindly smile never left his face there was no mistaking the rebuke his words implied.
‘There is nothing at all marvellous or wonderful about it, my boy, and especially there is nothing to boast about. What has happened has been entirely natural. Long ago, when the country folk were all serfs, everything belonged to the landowner, the socalled noble who himself held it from the King. It was therefore nothing l
ess than his bounden duty to take care of everything, to build what was needed and to repair what needed repairing. That our family have done this only shows that they have always done their duty, nothing else. Let this be a lesson to you!’
The old man was silent for a moment. Then they all left the cemetery.
On both sides of the path were planted standard roses. Count Peter stopped on his way, took a knife from his pocket, cut a few blooms and, after deftly removing the thorns, offered them to his daughter-in-law. Then he went on, ‘That members of our family often obtained great positions in the state was no accident and no particular merit to them. Such places were naturally offered to people of high rank, nobles whose fortunes and family connections were necessary if they were to do a useful job. We can be proud that our forebears honestly carried out what was expected of them, that is all. Family conceit because of such things is not only ridiculous but also dangerous to the character of those who come to believe in it. I have often thought about this and have come to understand what such feelings can lead to, especially when they are not used to guide our behaviour but rather to puff up a sense of inbred superiority. If a man knows himself he will neither believe himself all of a sudden to be more of a man because of the job he has been called upon to undertake, nor indeed less when the time comes to relinquish it. If others come to you for help or advice you must not come to believe it is because you are in any way better than they are. It is no more than that for historical reasons the state has come to rely upon people with your traditions and breeding. This is why for centuries the structure of Hungarian society has been based on using aristocrats to fill the high offices of the kingdom. When we accept, or refuse, office this is something we must always remember. And it will be easier for us to do what we must if our conscience is clear and we know that our decisions are taken for the right reasons and not merely adopted out of pride. This is the real meaning of noblesse oblige!’
If Countess Roza also spoke up on this occasion Balint had no memory of it. All he remembered were his grandfather’s words and they remained always with him.
When he had finished the old man had been silent for a little while. It had been as if he too had at that time been recalling something that happened in his past, something of which he now never spoke. This was indeed so.
In October of the year 1860 the Emperor Franz-Josef, without telling him in advance, had nominated Count Peter as a member of the Dual Monarchy’s Imperial State Council and the official letter of appointment was sent to him from Vienna without any warning. Count Peter had not been prepared, in the uneasy climate of the day, to accept this dubious honour and had accordingly sent his refusal in writing to the monarch. Copies of both documents had been kept in the archives of Denestornya; and this is where Balint had found them many years later. At the time the monarch had been angry and resentful, so much so that Count Peter Abady had been proscribed as a dangerous opponent of Habsburg rule and was not forgiven until the Compromise was signed a few years later. Only then had Balint’s grandfather been received back into favour and his integrity all the more appreciated.
After another few moments of silence the old man had given a light laugh and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. They had just reached the balustrade which surrounded the mansion’s stone-pillared portico.
‘And so, my boy, if by any chance it should turn out that you were born proud, which would not entirely surprise me,’ and he gave a swift and fleetingly mocking smile as he glanced at his daughter-in-law, ‘then take pride only in making yourself more industrious, more useful, and more steadfast, both in body and soul, in trying to do your duty so that in this way and in this way only can people look up to you as a man worthy of admiration and respect. And if you really believe that your ability to serve others and to work harder than most people is due to your family’s ancient origins and traditions, then maybe this will be true for you; for faith, no matter from what it draws its strength, is the most powerful incentive there is.’
These were the things that Count Peter had said and which had been inspired by the old church which stood as a monument, formed of stone, woodwork and ancient writings, to the noble past of the Abady family. Those words had been the essence of his teaching, and Balint planned to pass them on to his son, the son that Adrienne was to bear. Perhaps, he thought, in five or six years’ time they would be able to sit there together. It was a dream that now came to him so vividly that he could almost believe that the boy was there beside him. Next to the pulpit would sit his mother, as today. Next to her would be Adrienne; and there, between them, the child Adam, that child they longed for so much and who would be the fruit of their dreams and hopes, the crown of their love, and of whom, when they were together, they spoke so much and of whom, when they were apart, they would write at length as if he had already been born. They took this fantasy to ever more deceptive lengths, building for themselves an edifice of folly about the black wavy hair the child had inherited from his mother, about the birthmark on his shoulder that was the image of Balint’s own, how young Adam would toss his head when asked a question and what his face looked like when he thought that no one was looking at him … they thought so much, and talked so much, and all about that boy who was to be the most wonderful boy in the world.
The priest brought his sermon to an end ‘in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen.’ The congregation rose for the next prayers.
Up above Balint and his mother all that could now be seen of the priest were his hands joined in prayer and higher up his huge moustaches and stubble-covered double chin. The old man had raised his eyes to Heaven and was now intoning the last prayer of all. Though he drew out the first syllable of each word and though his voice was cracked and feeble, what he said was beautiful, warm and said from the heart, and of course the words were those beautiful words of the ancient Prayer Book: ‘… lead us, oh Lord, on this earth to sow mercy, goodness, love and justice so that in our turn we may reap the same in this life and later our souls be brought to eternal bliss, through your Son Jesus Christ in Heaven’.
Hearing these words Balint awoke from his dreams and started to pray with great fervour; and in his prayers, though not expressed in words, were still inextricably woven those dreams of his successor, that heir the certainty of whose coming was more to him than Hope itself.
The priest now moved up to the altar table and stood there, his raven-black gown contrasting richly with the radiant whiteness all around him. Carefully folding back the brocade cloth he revealed the ancient vessels of the Communion Service – two chalices, a huge cup and the small dishes for the bread, all of them of massive silver-gilt and all placed upon silken mats lavishly embroidered with gold and silver thread. A ray from the sun fell on the altar from one of the high windows, picking up a gleam of silver from the chased and engraved chalices or a sudden flash of gold or scarlet from the embroidery on the altar cloths. The sunlight transformed those ancient works of man’s artifice into a festive, almost transcendental display of pious splendour.
In the white simplicity of the church the Communion vessels, which dated mostly from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, glowed with the promise of another world. One of the chalices was of the old medieval pattern with a nodular design on its stem, while the rest of the decoration was in High Renaissance style; and this mixture of ideas stemmed from the fact that in Transylvania the goldsmiths still used gothic patterns long after they had been discarded elsewhere. The other chalice had been formed in the image of a lily, the segmented petals radiating from an elaborately perforated stem. This, too, was at least two hundred years old as were the silken mats on which they stood. All these things had been the gifts of successive generations of Abadys who had felt a spiritual need to furnish their church’s altar with the richest and most beautiful artifacts of their day. In this they were by no means exceptional, for in Transylvania there was hardly a village church, great or small, that could not boast that the vessels they used so reve
rently every Sabbath were worthy of display in some great museum.
Balint recognized each vessel with renewed pleasure.
His joy, however, was short-lived for the dismal thought then came to him that maybe, by the rules of the church, he should not attempt to partake of the Bread and Wine. Did not adultery joyfully persisted in without repentance burden his soul and prevent his being in a state of grace?
This was something he had never before thought about. His wide reading of natural history, and even of theology – reading that he had faithfully maintained especially when he had been writing his treatise on ‘Beauty in Action’ – may have widened his general outlook but it had also nearly obliterated any faith he may once have had in dogma and the teachings of his Church. He had come to believe that all such things were the creation of man and that they were but reflections of the feelings of the days in which they had been formulated. He believed in the spirit of the Reformation, when such men as Luther, Calvin and John Knox challenged the ex cathedra infallibility of the Pope and when traditional dogma had been scrutinized anew and not a little discarded. The strong Protestant conviction that the traditions of the Church and the decisions of the great Church Councils had been in conflict with the simple truth enshrined in the Gospels had been so strongly imbued in his youth that for many years he had always gone out before the Communion.
Had he been alone now in the family pew he would have left as did several other members of the congregation; indeed the singing of the choir was always prolonged at this point so as to make it possible for those who wished to go without disturbing those who wished to stay. Even the priest was waiting for the departure of those who, for whatever reason, felt themselves unworthy to remain, before he began to expound the nature of the Sacrament and emphasize that acceptance of the Bread and Wine should only follow a strict examination of their own souls by those who remained to take Communion. The priest, he explained, was merely the medium by which the Sacrament was passed to the faithful. He himself was unable either to absolve or to punish, he was empowered only to recall to the faithful their bounden duty and to remind each and every one of them that by the Calvinist creed each man stood alone before his Maker … and that every man too must search for the truth in his own heart, and must himself be judge both of his virtues and of his shortcomings.
They Were Found Wanting (Writing on the Wall: The Transylvania Trilogy) Page 33
