Miklós Bánffy - They Were Found Wanting

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.

When Jopal had finished he descended slowly to the centre of the hall, laid his memorandum on the presidential table and went back to join his companions.

Later, when Jopal once again got to his feet to answer some questions put to him by the Minister’s representative, Balint was wondering what would have happened to him if he had not refused to allow himself to be helped. Would he now be in London, Paris or New York, the chairman of some great international company, a leader of industry and a power to be reckoned with in the world of science and big business? And just as Balint was thinking of these things Jopal sat down once again in the centre of the little band of stern dignified smoke-grimed men and immediately became just one among sixteen other men, indistinguishable and unremarkable.

A banquet was held in the evening with much wine and drinking of toasts, gypsy music and speeches praising the great patriotic civic virtues of everyone present. No one was left out, no one left without a word of praise or some flattering adjective. The government emissary and the man who wanted the Baris pig above all others were awarded the same laurel leaves of praise.

Only the charcoal-burners and Balint Abady were absent. While the forest men had rumbled off to the Hargita on their small carts, Balint had hired a vehicle and drove away, hoping to get as far as Segesvar where he knew there was a good inn. He minded bitterly that he had made all that effort for nothing. He realized that his speech had been inept and ill-thought-out, and it had perhaps been naïve of him to imagine that his unfamiliar ideas could have been understood by such an audience who had not the faintest notion what he had been talking about. He would have been better advised, he thought, to have written a pamphlet several months in advance and seen that it was properly distributed; and then followed it up by some articles in the newspapers rather than jumping in and throwing such a revolutionary proposal at people totally unprepared for such things. Perhaps if he had given the matter more thought someone would have appreciated what he was trying to achieve — but would they? As it was he could only blame himself for the fiasco of his speech. How stupid it had been of him to recite all those boring figures, to quote at random from abstruse legal precedents. Of course it served him right. But he was still very hurt, especially by the cheap mockery of Barra, to whose effrontery he had been too ashamed even to attempt a reply. To think that in Hungary such people passed for honest men!

Balint’s carriage drove slowly through the country villages, which were now silent and seemingly deserted in the growing darkness with only the occasional gleam of light from behind shuttered windows. Now everyone was safe at home and mostly fast asleep. No doubt they would all wake up again when some great man was to be cheered on his way home, perhaps even the famous Barra?

Half dozing as he lay back against the cushions of the carriage certain images floated into Balint’s mind. They were fleeting impressions of incidents only half taken in on his way to the congress. For instance, at Balazsfalva there had been the Romanian theology student, his glance full of hatred for the travelling Hungarian delegates, who had clearly been waiting on the platform for the arrival of the carriage full of Romanian priests. He had obviously known that they would be on that train; and it was equally obvious that they had known too that they would receive some sort of message, for as the young man handed up his little paper a hand had reached out and taken it without a word even of greeting being passed from carriage to platform. The popas had travelled discreetly in their third-class carriage, grey, modest and unobtrusive as they went on their way to Brasso where only a little mountain ridge separated them from Romania. To cross the frontier was a matter only of a few hours’ trudge across deserted rocky tracks. After that a few more hours’ walk through gently sloping woods led to Sinaia … just a few hours’ walk, that was all. Balint was wondering if he was just imagining things, that it was all nonsense. After all, had not old Timisan said, ‘We have a little meeting there on parish matters!’

On reaching Udvarhely Balint dined early, as it was still some way to Segesvar, but when he had finished his meal he found that the last train had already left and that he would have to find another hired carriage. This was not easy as the best were still at Homorod but eventually the innkeeper rounded up a rickety old fiacre with two tired-looking nags in the traces. Despite Balint’s misgivings the young driver confidently swore that he would soon get the gentleman to wherever he wished to go.

The carriage passed through country quite unknown to Abady, for he had come to Udvarhely by train and what one could see from the train windows seemed quite different when looked at from a slow carriage.

They had been travelling for about an hour and a half, and it was already quite dark, when one of the horses which had been limping for some time now became too lame to go on. By a lucky chance they appeared to be close to a village so Balint walked ahead until he found a post to which was nailed a rough signpost with the village name. After lighting several matches he found it was Kis-Keresztur, where, he recalled there lived his distant cousin, old Sandor Kendy, known to everyone as Crookface, and whose white-columned manor-house he had glimpsed through the now leafless lime trees as he had passed by in the train. The house must be at the other end of the village, he thought, so he went back to the coachman who was vainly prodding the lame horse’s hoof and shaking his head hopelessly.

‘Well,’ said Balint. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘The Devil knows,’ said the young Szekler driver.

Abady took a look himself; the whole underside of the hoof was inflamed, the frog untrimmed and badly overgrown. ‘We won’t get anywhere with this one,’ he said, and when the driver continued to shake his head, he went on, ‘You’ll have to get the shoe removed at the nearest smithy and put a compress on it as soon as possible.’ Balint knew about such matters as he had been well taught by his mother and the grooms at Denestornya.