The Hungarian Banker
(Part 3)
He went home that day feeling free.
Over dinner, he expected to break the news to his wife but she had already heard. He looked at her, and she looked at him and it seemed that they were looking at each other for the first time in years. He saw a stranger, and he imagined she saw the same.
There was not much to be said. Their conversations were short and to the point.
She asked him if he meant to resume gainful employment and he gave her a frank answer that he was not certain what he would do, but he would never again work in a business that solely existed to exploit the misfortunes of others.
As to the current question of bills to be paid — he suggested downgrading their lifestyle and she would have none of that. A few weeks later, divorce papers were served.
He spent his last few days as a married man wandering around his house and lounging in the garden. A house he had never wanted, a life he had never wanted but had assumed quickly and simply as he had the right aptitude for it.
He was unsure about what to do next. He had guilt about how things had ended with his wife. He had surely loved her at some point, but he couldn’t remember who he was as a person then.
There was pain there, but he felt strangely confident that he was on the right path.
Price paid for clarity.
Is it possible to wipe the grime of life accumulated — without hurting those close to us.
Clarity of thought — it had led to crisp action. There had been no hesitation in his mind, as he had seen the path forward and felt its effortless pull.
But what about those that don’t see life that way.
Are there not obligations we must all recognize and respect?
The banker became the farmhand.
He labored with the rest, with the intent of learning an honest trade. The work was hard. Up at dawn tilling the fields until his hands were coarse and his shoulders burnt. With time, he learned the discipline of labor, and the joy of exhausted sleep.
He realized some things as the days went by. While he enjoyed the work, what he really felt was the warmth of companionship. The people he worked with, the people he supped with — they were not perfect, but they tried. They had their own troubles but they faced them — they had no fancy carriages to travel with or vacation houses to distract them away. They said things they meant, and they felt the joys of life and the depths of despair with open arms and grieved as a community.
There was tragedy here, but there was no subterfuge about it.
The farmhand learned that a good life has many characteristics. There were dimensions to a person’s character that went well beyond their net worth and their social standing. Intelligence and a quick wit were valued, but less so than the solidity of a man’s word.
(To be continued…)
