Miklos Banffy - They Were Divided

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.

Old Marton never tired of telling himself that one had to be a pretty clever fellow to be a good poacher. One had to know what wire or thread was right for each kind of trap or snare and he even knew that the best, though hard to come by, were violin strings. While he still lived in the manor house he had found a packet in one of the drawers and, as Laszlo had long before sold his violin, old Marton quickly slipped it into his own pocket. Of course one had to know, too, exactly how to set the snare so that no passer-by should see it and steal it before the game had been caught. Neither was it an easy matter to go round checking the snares, either at dawn or any other time, without being seen by some curious eye. Furthermore one had to have the Devil’s own cunning, and a lot of knowledge and experience, before one could succeed in getting one’s prey home undetected.

He had been at it for years, but he had only occasionally been able to bring something home for the pot as in those years small game was scarce in that part of Transylvania, especially on such a run-down estate as Kozard.

While he had been lodged in the servants’ quarters of the manor house he would set his snares near the boundary of the park. This had been comparatively easy and it had not been necessary to take many precautions against being seen for no one lived nearby; but since he had moved down into the house in the village things had become more complicated. Azbej had the park fences repaired and so old Marton had no excuse if he were discovered wandering about inside. The only hunting ground left was the forest, down by the riverbed and up the hillside beyond. It was more difficult, but also more exciting.

The old poacher laid his plans carefully and, so as not to make himself conspicuous, went out only occasionally, and when it seemed most likely he would catch something, for example when it looked as if it would snow the following day. He knew that hares were particularly sensitive to the weather and at such times always made for the thickest parts of the woods. At such times old Marton would go off to gather kindling: at least that was what he would tell one of the estate game-keepers if they happened to meet and if, and only if, the other man was bold enough to ask what he was doing. This hardly ever occurred for he was known to be surly, a man of few words who usually gave a rude answer if spoken to. The following day at dawn he would visit his traps and snares, and if anything had been caught in the night he would bring it home concealed under his jacket, while he carried a heavy bunch of dry twigs so that anyone could see why he had been in the forest. At such times he would walk with his back bent as if tired out from his heavy labours and heaving great sighs as he staggered past the outlying cottages. And all the time he would exult inwardly, his soul pouring out a paean of triumph and joy, for he knew that he was cleverer than them all, for was he not carrying home the fruits of his illegal poaching under their very noses while they knew nothing, nothing at all?

Of course the whole village knew and had always known, but they would never have told it either to Azbej, whom they hated as a quarrelsome martinet — and a stranger to boot — or to old Marton himself, for if they had let the old man know that everyone knew what he was up to, there would have been no more fun to be got out of it. As it was they watched everything he did. They saw when he sauntered out to the forest pretending to search for kindling, and how he staggered back under huge loads in the morning before stealing off to the next village to sell the skins. They watched the whole comedy and laughed their heads off when he was out of earshot. Even the children would enter into the spirit of the game, sometimes calling out: ‘What are you carrying, Uncle Marton?’ and when the old man merely growled back ‘Can’t you see? Wood, of course!’ or ‘Mind your own business, you little bugger!’ they would pull faces behind his back and laugh about it all the following week.

Laszlo knew nothing of all this.

But on that one day it happened that he was stone cold sober and in a foul mood because his weekly allowance had all been spent and at the shop they wouldn’t give him any more to drink. Little Regina would have given him something, but it was Friday afternoon and because of the Sabbath Bischitz would not be leaving the shop and so Laszlo would have no opportunity of getting the girl on her own. He got more and more desperate. Money had to be found somehow or he felt he would go mad. At that moment he happened to glance at the worn chest-of-drawers — a worthless piece of furniture from one of the old servants’ rooms that Azbej had generously allowed him to take from the manor house. On its top lay a long smooth leather case with triangular little canvas covers on the corners to prevent it from scuffing and a tiny elegant snap-lock. It was an English-made case for a pair of guns, though now it held only one. It had been sent after him from Desmer when Sara Bogdan Lazar had sent back everything that had belonged to him. The feeble lamp cast only a faint glow and yet the smooth hard leather and the brass of the lock and clasps on its leather straps still shone brightly. Laszlo gazed at the case as if hypnotized.