Miklós Bánffy - They Were Found Wanting

Abady interrupted him, asking ironically, ‘And your brother-in-law? Did he agree too?’

Azbej smiled, not in the least disconcerted. He knew well that he had never mentioned any brother-in-law to Balint, and indeed that he had merely invented a brother-in-law’s participation for the benefit of the old countess because he thought it sounded better. Such inconsistencies never bothered Azbej, so he merely skated over this obvious crack in his story by blinking and saying, ‘Of course! Naturally! With him too; though, as he had never paid my wife’s dowry in full, all he had to do was to sign a draft.’

He went on talking volubly, bowing whenever he could and swearing that his only desire was to remain in his Lordship’s good graces; and all the time he kept a fixed smile on his little red mouth to conceal from the noble Count how much it hurt that some of the fat profit he had planned for himself was now to be plucked from him.

Well, thought Balint, it’s just as well that I did intervene. My mother may still be annoyed but in time she’ll forget about it. When Azbej took his leave Balint sat down and wrote a few words to Dodo telling her what he had achieved, thinking that if she was so concerned for Laszlo she would be made happy by his news.

Later that afternoon he heard that the Miloth family had returned and that Countess Miloth would be buried on the following day.

He left for the capital that evening.

IT WAS THE BEGINNING of May and Spring was at its most beautiful. There was not a cloud in the clear blue sky which covered the whole mountainous landscape like an azure dome.

Far away to the south, behind the bare peaks of the Korosfo mountains, there started a dark wavy line high up in the sky, which marked the highest and furthest ranges. This continued to the south-west past the triple summits of the Vlegyasa and the steep crags of the mountains closing the gorge of Sebesvar, crags that were crowned by thick forests of oak, until, in the west and north-west, it merged with the towering Meszes range which, stretching far into the distance, ridge after ridge, descended gradually into the bluish vapour above the river Almas. Then to the north, there appeared the bare clay slopes and leafy beech forests of the Gorbo country. Finally the circle was closed to the east by the strange mushroom-like cone of the Reszeg — or Drunken — mountain. All around the horizon there was a pale shimmering almost grey radiance which became more deeply blue as it rose into the clear azure of a sky so clear, so immense, so virginal that it was as if it had never known the sign of a storm cloud. In the silence and stillness the earth seemed to vibrate slightly as if the whole world were throbbing with the expectation and desire for the great re-birth of Spring.

On the wide plateau at the heart of this panorama, whence rose the springs which on the one side fed the Almas river and on the other the Koros, in the centre of a gently sloping little circular meadow shaded by the low hanging branches of the surrounding trees, stood Balint Abady. With him were Geza Winckler, his newly-engaged forest manager, and, a little way off, the estate forester ‘Honey’ Andras Zutor and a small group of other men who carried red-and-white painted poles, compasses, measuring tapes and a set of binoculars on a tripod — all the tools of forest-planning.

Winckler, a highly qualified forester, was explaining his plans. Firstly, he said, he had made himself familiar with the Abady holdings by himself walking all over them. Now, he suggested, the plantations should be laid out on each side of a main drive which, starting from where they stood, would run from one end of the property to the other right to where, just east of Count Uzdy’s holdings, the Abady forests marched with municipal lands. On each side, north and east, smaller drives would separate each stand of timber into 50-acre plots. All this he explained to Abady, showing him detailed maps that he had drawn up himself. One problem remained to be decided: should they now let each plot follow the contours of the valleys on the side of the plateau until they ended naturally on the crests of the surrounding hills, or should they disregard the lie of the land and plan the separate plots on a strictly geometric basis which, of course, had certain administrative advantages but which would entail reckoning with different soil conditions. The first proposition was more complicated to administer but, from the point of view of husbandry, might well prove the more profitable.

Abady was trying hard to pay attention to what the manager was saying. It was important to him, as the whole future profitability of the holding depended on what was now being decided and so he made every effort, mentally, to take in what was being suggested. His mind was with it. His eyes were not.

Abady’s eyes did not see the maps. They looked elsewhere, into the distance, where, far away through a gap between the young foliage of two great oaks, just visible behind a lacy curtain of pale green leaves, could be seen two vertical lines, the colour of newly churned butter, which shone in the early morning sunlight. They were the two remaining walls of the donjon of the ruined fortress of Almasko. From where he stood these two distant lines were only tiny strips but one felt that they must in reality be very high indeed, standing like two exclamation marks reaching into the sky demanding attention. At their feet lay the forests, wave after wave, until at length they ended at the two oak trees between which the ruins could be glimpsed. It was like a window, just large enough for the two massive walls to shine through from the far horizon, from the distant past …

Balint moved his position: one single step and the forest closed up, the ruins disappearing. Now his whole attention was given to the forest manager.

By the late afternoon they had walked to all the more important parts of the forest, returning at last to the sloping meadow from which they had set out. Here Abady’s tent had been erected as, although the meadow was by no means at the heart of the property but was close to the eastern border only a few hundred metres from the Uzdy forests, it had an excellent water supply which was always important to the people of the Kalotaszeg.

The sun had already disappeared below the Kiralyhago — the King’s Pass — but, high above, the light clouds which had started to gather during the afternoon, shone brightly in the distant sunshine.

The foresters were busily occupied in bringing wood and building a fire and preparing their beds. Winckler was writing up his notes.

Balint set off to walk in the forest, following a narrow deer track.

Now that at last he was on his own Balint walked slowly, and his thoughts returned to the time he had just spent in Budapest and to the violent debates in Parliament which had arisen only a few days before.

Discussion had raged about Apponyi’s proposals for a new schools law which, while bringing substantial financial help to the minority schools (and incidentally adding a heavy load to the State budget), would at the same time have exacted an even more intensive instruction in the Hungarian language and increased State control of the teaching profession. The motion represented a radical change, especially for the ecclesiastical schools, because it gave the State school inspectors the authority to suspend teachers if their teaching of Hungarian was felt to be inadequate. Previously such sanctions had been the privilege of the church authorities alone.