They Were Divided

by Miklos Banffy

  ‘I didn’t know what to do. Should I go in after him … or just go away again? I’m such an ass in this sort of thing. Well, I just tur-r-rned on my heel and left. What else was there to do? He saw me coming, so I r-r-reckoned that if he went in it must be because he didn’t want to see me.’

  ‘How did he look? How was he?’

  ‘I think he looked thinner, but I can’t be sure. There was a fence between us, and a little fr-r-ront gar-r-rden … you know what those houses are like. I just looked up the path, but all I could see was a bottle and a glass beside the chair. He must have been sitting there dr-r-rinking. When he went in I saw him clutching the door-r-rpost and thought that per-r-rhaps he was ashamed for me to see him dr-r-runk. That’s why I didn’t go in … per-r-rhaps it was stupid of me. I’m sor-r-ry now I didn’t follow him.’

  ‘I haven’t had any news for ages,’ said Balint. ‘I wrote a couple of times last summer, but I never got any reply.’

  Then he told Gazsi all that he did know, which was simply that he had heard that Laszlo had sold his property, but that he still lived there in an old servant’s house he had kept. On his mother’s behalf Balint had written to Laszlo offering him a home at Denestornya, either in a separate suite on the first floor or else in his grandfather’s old manor-house close by; but they had never had any answer. No doubt this was the way Laszlo wanted it for perhaps he had thought that he wouldn’t be free to drink as he pleased.

  ‘You remember Azbej, my mother’s old estate manager? It was he that bought Kozard from Laszlo. He says he gives Laci some sort of annuity, but I don’t know how much. I am not in touch with Azbej any more,’ he added dryly.

  For a few more moments they sat there together, not speaking but both of them thinking about Laszlo’s sad life. Then Abady got up.

  ‘Come along,’ he said. ‘My mother will be waiting for us for tea.’

  Together they walked silently down the hill. When they had almost reached the castle Kadacsay looked at Balint and said, ‘You know I really do feel sorry for poor Laci … but at least he’s lucky to have something to care for, even if it is only the dr-r-rink!’

  Before dinner Balint carried Aron Kozma off to discuss with him various matters to do with the Co-operatives. Aron himself had some ideas for which he wanted Balint’s approval; and there were certain proposals that Balint put forward which he did not think were feasible. Aron had a logical mind and was full of common sense, and from that short discussion there emerged some straightforward practical measures from all the somewhat nebulous ideas that had been spinning round in Balint’s head since his reunion with Adrienne.

  As both guests were going to leave Denestornya early the next morning good-byes were said that night.

  ‘Please,’ said Countess Roza as she offered her hand to be kissed, ‘greet your father from me, tell him everything that you’ve seen here and tell him too that although the years go by I am still quite sprightly and do not at all feel my great age!’

  She had prepared this parting sentence early that morning and intended it as a poisoned arrow for her childhood playmate. She was determined to let him know that his uncalled-for mockery had had no effect upon her, and that his efforts to vex her with his peculiar form of birthday greetings had had no effect whatever.

  As she spoke she was sure that it would now be Boldizsar’s turn to be annoyed and this pleased her so much that she smiled with renewed benevolence at his son.

  PART TWO

  Chapter One

  LASZLO GYEROFFY LIVED in the house in the village that he had kept when he had sold his Kozard estate a year and a half before. He had kept it for the sake of his old servant, Marton Balogh, principally because he wanted to be sure that the old man had somewhere to live and would not be thrown out on the street, which he was sure Azbej would have no qualms about doing when he took possession of the manor house. He had originally thought of giving the place to Balogh outright, because it had never occurred to him that he might need it himself.

  Not long after Laszlo had flung out of Sarah Bogdan’s house in a snowstorm and fallen dead drunk into a ditch near Apahida, a small one-horse cart had been driven along the main road. In it had been Bischitz, the Jewish storekeeper from Kozard who was driving home after a day in Kolozsvar. With him had been his daughter, Regina, who was the eldest of his children and the only one bright enough to feed the horse and look after the cart while Bischitz went about his business.

  The storm had caught them when they were halfway home and their worn-out nag of a horse could hardly make any headway against the driving snow. By the time they had reached the iron bridge near Apahida they were hardly moving and it was because of this that they had seen Laszlo by the feeble light of the cart’s paraffin storm-lamp.

  He had been lying face downwards at the edge of the ditch and he had been almost completely covered by snow. It was Regina who had first seen that there was someone there, and they had known who it was because of the familiar check of the coat he was wearing.

  At once they had stopped the cart, pulled him out of the snow, and found that although he was by now almost sober again, he could hardly move but, though frozen stiff, was at least still alive. Together they had lifted him into the back of the cart, laid him down gently and driven him back to Kozard. Bischitz had thought he would leave him at the manor house, but it had been so late when they arrived, and the horse had been far too tired to manage the climb up to the house, so the shopkeeper’s wife had made up a bed for him in the only good room in their little house.

  Laszlo spent one night there.

  In the morning he woke with a high fever. The doctor was sent for, as was Azbej, and when the doctor pronounced that Laszlo would certainly develop pneumonia and would have to stay in bed for weeks, Azbej flatly refused to take him in at the manor house declaring that it was quite unthinkable to look after him there because he was about to start repairing the house and had that very day brought out the masons to start work. There could be no question, he declared, of having Laszlo looked after in his old home. And so it came about that the solution was found of carrying him to the house he still owned on the outskirts of the village and moving in Marton Balogh to look after him. The old servant nursed him and Regina came in often to help, which she did eagerly and efficiently. He was ill for several months, and though by the end of the summer he had got over the pneumonia, he was left with a nasty persistent cough; but his life had been saved.

  At first Azbej paid whatever was necessary, largely because he thought this would be a good mark in his favour if ever the Abady family started to look into his dealings with their cousin Gyeroffy. This only came to an end when months had passed and Laszlo was still not fully recovered. One day Azbej told the shopkeeper that he would pay no more, and for a few days no one knew what to do or what would become of the invalid. Then a Dr Simay, an elderly lawyer from Szamos-Ujvar, arrived unheralded at the store. Bischitz had met him some twenty years before and indeed it was to him that the shopkeeper had sold the portrait of Laszlo’s errant mother, Julie Ladossa, after the distraught Mihaly Gyeroffy had slashed it almost in half and thrown it out of the window. Dr Simay had arrived just as unexpectedly then as he did now. This time he asked to speak to Bischitz alone. From that day on it was Bischitz who had provided whatever money was needed for Laszlo’s illness, and afterwards, though by no means lavishly, who had supplied whatever Laszlo needed to live on. For this he was given just forty crowns a week, no more, no less, and on that meagre allowance he managed to keep Laszlo alive. He was forbidden to lend him any money and was not allowed to give him credit at the store. He had also had to swear not to reveal where the money came from.

  As it happened Laszlo never even asked. Sometimes he would get angry with Bischitz if he wanted better or more brandy, for only this seemed to hold any interest for him. He never complained about the food – and anyhow never seemed to want very much. Old Balogh dug the garden behind the house and grew what potatoes and other vegetables they
needed and, as he and Laszlo ate very little else, most of the allowance was spent on drink. The accounts were sent, by order, not to Laszlo but to the old lawyer, Dr Simay.

  In this way a year had passed, during which Laszlo had really been too weak to go further than the chair outside the front door. Sometimes he did not get as far even as that but sat indoors doing nothing. Occasionally he would get hold of a newspaper – always several days old – and then he would glance over it without much interest. He never read anything else. Every now and again he would find his way into the store and exchange a few words with whoever came in. Usually, however, he talked only to Bischitz and his wife or, if they were busy elsewhere, to young Regina, for even though the child was still not quite thirteen, she was intelligent, knew where everything was kept and what its price was, and so was often entrusted with keeping the shop.

  A strange relationship started to grow between the sick man and the child. It had always been one of Laszlo’s oddest characteristics that as soon as he had a certain amount of drink under his belt he shed his usual silent and morose air and became instead talkative and boastful. When this happened he would suddenly show himself immensely proud of his once grand position in Budapest society, when as elotancos – the official organizer of all the great balls and social occasions – he had been one of the most popular young men in the capital. Later, when he had come back to Transylvania disgraced and ruined because of his inability to pay his gambling debts, his old friends would tease him relentlessly whenever he began to talk about his grand past. Now, though he only had little Regina to listen to him, the same thing would happen whenever he was full of brandy, of which he now needed far less than before to make him drunk and loquacious. After only a tot or two he would begin to tell the girl all about the luxuries and grandeurs he had once known. He only had to get started and words poured from him, tales about the reception for the King of Spain and grand balls at the Palace or other great houses, banquets and dinners and dances and scintillating evening soirées. Bischitz and his wife were no good as an audience for Laszlo since they believed it was all untrue and it bored them.

  But not little Regina.

  She never gave a thought as to whether it was true or not. She did not care. For her it was all as magical and as real as fairyland: the great golden rooms, the velvet-covered furniture, the mountains of flowers, the lovely elegant women in silk and satin who floated in the arms of slim-waisted men in traditional Hungarian costume or officers in full-dress uniform, kings, queens, princesses and princes. It was all far more beautiful than any other tales she had read or been told. And for her, Laszlo, sitting before her, thin and wan, often unshaved and unkempt, his once elegant clothes and expensive shoes now worn and mended, was a prince of legend, doomed by some horrid spell to a life of squalor and misery, but nevertheless still the true ruler of all that splendour of which he had formerly been the central figure.

  Whenever he came into the store she would lean on the counter drinking in every word he uttered. Her Titian-red hair surrounded her beautiful but still girlish face like an aureole of flame. Her doe-like brown eyes, fringed by long curving lashes, opened ever more widely as she listened and her mouth, with lips startlingly red against her pale skin, was slightly open as she feasted on all he had to tell. For Regina it all had the effect of some wondrous magic potion, and when Laszlo stopped, as he occasionally did, she would at once refill his glass with brandy and push it towards him, for she knew that he could only go on as long as he was properly supplied with his own brand of magic potion.

  From time to time she would ask him some question, as if she hadn’t understood something he had said; and then he would tell her even more fabulous details of footmen in gold-braided liveries, carriages lined with silk, tables covered in gleaming plate and porcelain all laden with extraordinary food, and finally of the jewels, giant pearls and rubies, diadems and tiaras sparkling with diamonds of the finest water.

  She never wanted to hear tell of anything else and, as Gyeroffy never wanted to talk of anything else, for Regina the great world consisted only of this fabulous luxury and pomp.

  Several years before, when she had still been quite a small child, some inborn curiosity had drawn her to ‘The Count’, as he was called by everyone in the village. It had been enough simply to catch a glimpse of him from where she stood half-hidden inside the shop doorway, or from across the street or over the fence of the manor-house demesne. More recently it had been a great joy for her to be able to help nurse him when he was sick, but none of this had counted for anything compared with the ecstasy of being alone in the shop, with The Count sitting before her and telling his tales only to her. This was a joy so magical and so mysteriously exciting that her young spirit was completely conquered. All the grandeur and glitter of which he spoke was to her little more than the natural background to the fairy prince who sat there with her. For her the only reality was the young man himself, and everything that she heard from him was like some metaphysical halo with which he was crowned but of whose existence only she, Regina, was privileged to know, and which only she could see. It seemed to her, too, that this dream prince sought her out, waiting to come to the shop when he would be sure of finding her alone. He would keep watch until her father left the shop on some lengthy errand such as going in to Szamos-Ujvar or visiting his little parcel of thirty acres of land which was farmed for him by some luckless debtor, and then in no time at all he would come in. It only happened occasionally, perhaps once every two or three weeks; but when it did it was certain that Laszlo would appear, and because the shopkeeper’s wife also had several smaller children to mind and the household chores to attend to, it was equally certain that the young man and the girl would be left alone together.

  Regina believed that he came only to see her and whenever she thought of this her heart seemed to throb high in her throat.

  And, of course, in one sense she was right: Laszlo did look for the moments when he would be sure of finding her alone, but it was not her young beauty that drew him to seek her out, indeed he had never even noticed it. He had not even seen that the child was swiftly turning into a desirable young woman. For Laszlo there were two reasons why he chose those moments to go into the shop, and these two reasons were quite enough for him. The first was simply that Regina, unlike her father, poured generous measures of brandy and often of the best without Laszlo having to ask for it; and the second, which for the young man was probably the most important, was that it meant he could talk about himself and about that magical past when he had had the world at his feet and which had been so cruelly snatched from him. He could talk about the Casino Club, and the Park Club, about dinners and dances in great private houses where he, as elotancos, would lead the dance. He could talk about the perfections of Countess Beredy and of her exquisite little palace overlooking the ramparts of old Buda, and of the great white country castle of the Szent-Gyorgyis. He could describe the grandeurs of princely parties at the Kollonich palace near Lake Balaton, recounting over and over again how the state-rooms were decorated and how they all led out of one another, how the sunlight gleamed on the myriad gilt bindings of the books in the library, how the park was laid out like an English garden and how the shooting parties were organized with precision and stately attention to precedence. Above all he could talk to his heart’s content about everything that related to his love for Klara. He could describe her little room where once, and only once, they had kissed; he could tell of the dresses she wore and of those little bouquets of saffron-yellow carnations that she always carried as a symbol of their love. He could tell Regina everything, even if that everything was now long lost to him, and through no one’s fault but his own. In fact he did not tell everything to Regina. He never told her Klara’s name or anything about her except those things by which she was surrounded, her dresses, scents, flowers, the rooms through which she moved and the little capes she would put round her shoulders when going out of doors. Her name and her person were too sacr
ed to be mentioned or described, in much the same way as certain primitive peoples hold it taboo to say the name of their god. For Laszlo the brandy washed away any hint of self-recrimination and left him only with the euphoria evoked by his memories of gaiety and beauty and grandeur.

  During the previous winter old Marton had occasionally fed his master on roast hare. He never spoke about how he had obtained it, indeed he never spoke about it at all but merely put it on the table. Laszlo was too listless and filled with his own sad thoughts to notice and at that time merely ate automatically whatever was put before him. But when the first snows of Laszlo’s second autumn in the cottage began to fall and old Marton served up roast hare again, his master looked up and said, ‘Hare? Where did you get that?’

  He was not particularly interested, and had asked the question only for the sake of something to say.

  ‘It came.’

  ‘What do you mean, it came? Did somebody send it?’

  Marton did not reply but gathered up the dishes and, with much clattering of plates and knives and forks, put everything on a tray and carried it out of the room.

  Laszlo had often been irritated by the old man’s taciturn manner and called after him angrily, ‘Will you answer me! Where did that hare come from?’

  Marton paused on the threshold of the kitchen and looked back at his master. For an instant a light seemed to glitter in the old man’s eyes. Then he muttered, ‘It came!’ and went out slamming the door behind him.

  For years Marton had been a persistent and adroit poacher, and it had been the passion of his life. He had been a widower for many years and he had no friends. Throughout Laszlo’s long minority he had lived alone in the unfinished manor house and there had been little change when Laszlo came of age, for he was hardly ever there. The old man was a tied servant who received a living wage from the estate manager and who was able to fatten a couple of yearling pigs annually for himself. He did not need to poach for his dinner but he was drawn to it by some inner yearning for adventure and so that he could feel himself superior to the other folk in the village; for he knew only too well that many of them despised him and thought him mentally deficient. He did not mind, but whenever he trapped a hare he would skin it at once and roast it – and as he ate it he would smile to himself not only because he was enjoying a good meal but also because he felt that somehow he had scored over all those who despised him, the villagers, the gamekeepers, and even the estate manager himself.