E-Book, Englisch, 256 Seiten
Bánffy The Enchanted Night
1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-78227-593-0
Verlag: Pushkin Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Selected Tales
E-Book, Englisch, 256 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-78227-593-0
Verlag: Pushkin Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Count Miklós Bánffy was born in 1873 in Kolozsvár in what was then Hungarian Transylvania. A brilliant polymath, he studied law, music and painting, became a noted stage and set designer, wrote plays, short stories and novels, and served as his country's foreign minister.During the Second World War he urged both his own and the Romanian governments to withdraw their support for Germany: in revenge the retreating Wehrmacht looted and burned his estate. After the Soviet occupation he was declared a 'class enemy' and had to wait until 1949 before, penniless and in broken health, he was allowed to rejoin his family in Budapest. He died a year later.
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It was winter. Thick snow covered the mountains and valleys of Transylvania. It had left tall round shepherd’s caps on the circular Vlach huts, turning them from black mushrooms into white. It had draped its soft white coat over the mountain slopes, sprinkled the forests with a mica-like glitter, settled thick on the mud and frozen clods and transformed the fields around the River Maros into a sea of blinding white.
Everything so white, so utterly, inexpressibly white.
Only on the Hungarian side, all the way down to the Maros, was the never-ending whiteness ripped apart. In almost every village blackened roof beams poked out through the snow. Scorched and dying poplars thrust their branches into the sky like enormous black brooms. The walls of once-grand houses and mansions, their sides besmirched by fire, criss-crossed each other at strange angles on the ruined street corners, abandoned to the empty silence. As if intent on claiming everything, the snow had poured into the gardens and roofless rooms alike, scattering its fine dust under any vaulting that had not collapsed. But despite its best efforts, on the floors of the houses and out in the gardens, mysterious dark-red stains had welled up, stains that had remained slippery underfoot. The snow had blanketed everything under its immaculate whiteness, but these dark red stains resisted every onslaught. No sooner were they covered over than they appeared again.
Among the scorched and trampled evergreens of what had once been gardens and in the stubble fields beyond, fresh burial mounds had risen. Stray dogs prowled around them, snarling and bickering as they scratched at the soil. Crows swirled above in a vast cloud, cawing loudly.
There was a horror in the wintry silence, a silence more profound than in any previous winter. It was as if life itself had been somehow diminished; as if there were fewer people now alive than in the past.
It was a terrifyingly silent winter, the winter that followed the Horea Peasant Uprising.
The snows had brought out the wolves. They now roamed down from the forests towards the wintry villages, ever closer to the isolated farmsteads and settlements. At first they came singly or in pairs; then, as the winter tightened and extended its grip, there were more and more of them, in ever larger packs.
They roamed in the greying light of evening and late into the night, trotting steadily around the edges of the forests, one behind the other, their heads down, in complete silence – perfectly anonymous-looking predators. At first glance you might have thought they were grey, dirty Komondors, the huge dogs used by the shepherds. They would squat at the edge of the woods, unmoving, as dogs do, and wait – wait with menacing patience for the darkness of night.
They attacked only at night. There would be scarcely a sound, but by morning half a dozen ewes would be missing, with nothing left of them but large bloodstains in the snow. The wolves plundered everywhere, always in the dark of night, stealthily, like craven thieves. Attempts to guard the farms and the flocks proved fruitless. The strong, brave Kuvasz dogs set to guard them could do nothing: they were the first to be torn to pieces, and the silence of the night remained almost unbroken.
The bailiffs put a bounty of two silver twenty-crown coins on every wolf’s head, a great sum at the time. But few were hunted, even though the proclamation was made all across the mountains, for the forests held another quarry that seemed more worth the trouble. On the heads of the rebel leaders an even greater price had been placed: three hundred pieces of gold for Horea himself and the same for Kloska. The two had been duly captured and taken to Gyulafehérvár, and now the hunt was on in the mountains for Horea’s deputy, Gavrila Lung. On his head, dead or alive, were a hundred pieces of gold. The wolves were left to roam in peace.
Late one afternoon a small, drab-looking group of men made its way from Toszerát in the Szamos valley up towards Mount Humpleu. They walked one behind the other, in silence. Leading the way was old Maftyé, the sawmill owner, a short, dog-faced, grey-haired man. Behind him came a tall rifleman, his superior status shown by his enormous sheepskin cap and the blue stitching on his ragged coat. He was the real leader, it was plain to see. Behind him were two men from Gyurkuca, the skinny Pántyilimon and Simion the Israelite. Last of all came the younger Maftyé, a shepherd’s boy from Meregyó, nicknamed “Rooster”.
They had come well prepared for the journey. Over their leather jackets they wore thick loden coats, all very much alike except that the tall rifleman’s was more ornate. Each had a wooden water flask and variously coloured bags and rucksacks on their backs. The tall one carried his forest ranger’s gun, the others long-handled axes.
They were making good progress towards Mount Humpleu, following a single track across the wide expanse. Their tightly laced-up boots and the lower halves of their trousers were dusted with glittering crystals. Under old Maftyé’s tread the powder creaked and groaned. Behind them they left white tracks as bright as steel in the soft clean snow.
When they reached the meadow of Pojén the old man suddenly stopped and pointed with the handle of his axe towards the edge of the forest on the other side. Seven wolves were trotting along, slowly and lazily, one behind the other. They were going in the same direction as the men, towards Mount Humpleu.
“There go fourteen silver twenties,” he said, with a quiet chuckle.
“A bird in the hand,” sneered Demeter Nyág the rifleman. “Keep going.”
And on they went, once again in silence, climbing steadily up the near side of Humpleu, while across the way, in the near distance, the wolves trotted steadily on, into the teeming, mysterious, snow-filled forest.
It was already dark by the time the men reached the top. Three of them hung back while the other two, the elder Maftyé and Rooster, advanced to the edge of the deep, cauldron-like hollow inside the summit. In the middle of the open space at the bottom, hidden by the surrounding rocks and in front of a makeshift hut, a large fire blazed. A young man sat next to it, staring vacantly into the flames. There was a long-barrelled gun at his side. Even before he had reached the edge of the cliff the old man called out, “It’s me, Maftyé! I’ve brought the cheese!”
He seemed to have great difficulty making his way down from the forest and through the snow. He placed his feet with elaborate care on each of the natural stone steps that led downwards, moaning and complaining all the way. Rooster followed in his footsteps. Reaching the fire, he sat down with a jolt, still grumbling and complaining, the way old men do. He offered no greeting; he simply unslung the black-striped haversack from his shoulder and threw it down as if in anger.
“There’s the cheese, Gavrila.”
“Why did you bring this boy with you?” Gavrila Lung glowered and pointed to Rooster with his chin.
But the old man went on complaining, and Gavrila had to repeat his question.
“All these wolves, my lad, all these wolves,” he said at last, and then suddenly found his tongue. In graphic detail, and with a great many gestures, he started to describe how the wolves had torn his finest cow to pieces the previous night – right in front of the shed, his very best cow! He hadn’t heard it squealing, and the dogs hadn’t even barked. He heaped horrific curses on wolves and dogs alike, God damn their evil throats! So many wolves, so many, many wolves. And they hadn’t left a single shred of his cow. He heard their howling only towards dawn, when he was still inside the house.
The old man seemed to have been so carried away by his story – or perhaps it was a signal? – that he followed it up with three long, drawn-out wolf howls. His companions, Demeter Nyág the forester and the two Gyurkuca men, Pántyilimon and Simion the Israelite, appeared at the rim of the crater. Gavrila reached for his gun, but Rooster was sitting on it.
“Who are these people? Maftyé! Who are they?!”
“Hunters, wolf hunters. They came with me,” he replied calmly, and spat in the fire. The flames hissed loudly.
The others approached quietly, heavy-footed, without haste. They greeted Gavrila politely (“God send him a quiet evening”), and, with much complaining and groaning, they too seated themselves round the fire, Demeter Nyág on one side of Gavrila and Rooster on the other. Next were the two men from Gyurkuca, and opposite him old Maftyé, the sawmill owner.
Gavrila and Demeter were from the same village, Felsoaranyos.
“So it’s you, Uncle Mityú?” Gavrila asked. “What brings you here?”
“Yes, it’s me. It’s better up here than down in Zlatna. Soldiers everywhere there.”
A desultory conversation ensued, with long pauses. From time to time one of the men would poke the fire or throw a large...
