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Updated: May 22, 2025
The schoolhouse was small and low, with a simple, thatched roof. Only the church had a wooden roof, but even the House of God was very simply built, and there was no tower to it, only a small belfry at one side. The schoolmaster was waiting for us. If I remember rightly his name was György Majzik.
Many years passed, and things had changed very much in Besztercebánya, but the thing that will interest us most is the door-plate on the house formerly inhabited by old Gregorics, on which is to be read: "György Wibra, lawyer." Yes, little Gyuri is now a well-known lawyer; people come to him from all sides for advice, and young girls smile at him from their windows as he passes.
"Yes, God takes the rich ones too," they said. György Klincsok came running in to the priest. "There will be a grand funeral the day after to-morrow," he exclaimed. The sacristan appeared at the schoolmaster's in the hope of a glass of brandy to celebrate the event. "Collect your thoughts," he exclaimed, "there will be a grand funeral, and they will expect some grand verses."
Only the beautiful verses the schoolmaster had composed for the occasion distracted their attention for a while, and sobs broke forth as the various relations heard their names mentioned in the lines in which the dead woman was supposed to be taking leave of them: "Good-by, good-by, my dearest friends; Pál Lajkó my brother, György Klincsok my cousin," etc.
Only a few of the more important villagers accompanied him to talk over the state of affairs: Péter Szlávik, the sacristan; Mihály Gongoly, the nabob of Glogova; and the miller, György Klincsok. He began to question them, and took out his note-book, in order to make notes as to what his income was likely to be. "How many inhabitants are there in the village?" "Rather less than five hundred."
"Many of the inhabitants of Glogova are never buried in the cemetery at all. The wolves eat them without ever announcing it in the parish." "And some die in other parts of the country," went on György Klincsok, "so that only very few of them are buried here." "It is a bad lookout," said the priest. "But the parish fields, what about them?"
Well, perhaps it was true. The other members of the Gregorics family looked with little favor on the small boy in the Gregorics's household, and never rested till they had looked through all the baptismal registers they could lay hands on. At last they came upon the entry they wanted, "György Wibra, illegitimate; mother, Anna Wibra."
He was not conscious, but he fumbled for his prayer-book, which he gave me, muttering something. His name "Schneidher Gyorgy Pelmonoster" was written on the first page. We started for home at length. Our drive back was terrible. I find that I cannot linger any longer over this affair. Our carts drove over rough stones and ruts and we were four hours on the journey.
As Gyorgy Lukasc put it, 'Communist ethics makes it the highest duty to act wickedly ... This is the greatest sacrifice revolution asks from us. Human agency is null: we are mere dupes of 'the system', until we repudiate it outright. What goes for ethics also goes for history, literature, the rest of the humanities and the social sciences.
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