Miklós Bánffy - They Were Found Wanting

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 less 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’.