"Jó napot, pacák" Which, as somebody here must surely know, means "What's up, guys?" in Magyar, that peculiar non-Indo-European language spoken by Hungarians for which, given the fact that cognitive diversity is at least as threatened as biodiversity on this planet, few would have imagined much of a future even a century or two ago. But there it is: "Jó napot, pacák" I said somebody here must surely know, because despite the fact that there aren't that many Hungarians to begin with, and the further fact that, so far as I know, there's not a drop of Hungarian blood in my veins, at every critical juncture of my life there has been a Hungarian friend or mentor there beside me. I even have dreams that take place in landscapes I recognize as the landscapes of Hungarian films, especially the early movies of Miklos Jancso.
"Jó napot, pacák!" Čo, ako to niekto z Vás určite vie, znamená v maďarčine "Nazdar, chalani!", v tom čudnom, neindoeurópskom jazyku, ktorým hovoria Maďari a ktorému, vzhľadom na to, že kognitívna diverzita je na tejto planéte aspoň tak ohrozená ako biodiverzita, iba málo ľudí pred storočím či dvomi nechávalo budúcnosť. Ale tu ho máme: "Jó napot, pacák!" Povedal som, že niekto z Vás to určite vie, keďže napriek tomu, že vo svete nie je až tak veľa Maďarov a že, pokiaľ viem, niet ani kvapky maďarskej krvi v mojich žilách, v každom dôležitom bode môjho života stál vedľa mňa nejaký maďarský priateľ alebo učiteľ. Dokonca mávam aj sny v krajinách, ktoré rozpoznávam ako krajiny z maďarských filmov, najmä z prvých filmov Miklósa Jancsóa.
So, how do I explain this mysterious affinity? Maybe it's because my native state of South Carolina, which is not much smaller than present-day Hungary, once imagined a future for itself as an independent country. And as a consequence of that presumption, my hometown was burned to the ground by an invading army, an experience that has befallen many a Hungarian town and village throughout its long and troubled history. Or maybe it's because when I was a teenager back in the '50s, my uncle Henry -- having denounced the Ku Klux Klan and been bombed for his trouble and had crosses burned in his yard, living under death threat -- took his wife and children to Massachusetts for safety and went back to South Carolina to face down the Klan alone. That was a very Hungarian thing to do, as anyone will attest who remembers 1956. And of course, from time to time Hungarians have invented their own equivalent of the Klan.
Ako teda vysvetliť túto záhadnú spriaznenosť? Možno je to tým, že štát Južná Karolína, z ktorého pochádzam a ktorý nie je oveľa menší ako dnešné Maďarsko, si kedysi vysníval budúcnosť ako nezávislý štát. A ako následok tejto trúfalosti bolo moje rodné mesto spálené do tla útočiacim vojskom, čo bola skúsenosť, aká postihla mnoho maďarských miest a dedín počas ich dlhej a pohnutej histórie. Ale možno je tom tým, že v 50. rokoch, keď som bol mladík, môj strýko Henry, ktorý kritizoval rasistický Ku Klux Klan, a zažil nejeden bombový útok či pálenie kríža vo vlastnej záhrade, žil pod hrozbou smrti, a tak vzal svoju manželku a deti do bezpečia štátu Massachusetts a vrátil sa do Južnej Karolíny, aby sa sám postavil Klanu na odpor. Bol to čin veľmi maďarský, čo dosvedčí ktokoľvek, kto si pamätá revolúciu v roku 1956. Samozrejme, Maďari si z času na čas vymysleli svoj vlastný ekvivalent Klanu.
Well, it seems to me that this Hungarian presence in my life is difficult to account for, but ultimately I ascribe it to an admiration for people with a complex moral awareness, with a heritage of guilt and defeat matched by defiance and bravado. It's not a typical mindset for most Americans, but it is perforce typical of virtually all Hungarians. So, "Jó napot, pacák!"
Zdá sa mi, že prítomnosť Maďarov v mojom živote je zložité vysvetliť, ale v konečnom dôsledku to pripisujem obdivu, ktorý mám voči ľuďom s uceleným mravným povedomím, s dedičstvom viny a porážky, zladeným s odporom a statočnosťou. Nie je to typické zmýšľanie väčšiny Američanov. Je však typické pre prakticky všetkých Maďarov. Takže: "Jó napot, pacák!"
I went back to South Carolina after some 15 years amid the alien corn at the tail end of the 1960s, with the reckless condescension of that era thinking I would save my people. Never mind the fact that they were slow to acknowledge they needed saving. I labored in that vineyard for a quarter century before making my way to a little kingdom of the just in upstate South Carolina, a Methodist-affiliated institution of higher learning called Wofford College. I knew nothing about Wofford and even less about Methodism, but I was reassured on the first day that I taught at Wofford College to find, among the auditors in my classroom, a 90-year-old Hungarian, surrounded by a bevy of middle-aged European women who seemed to function as an entourage of Rhinemaidens.
Do Južnej Karolíny som sa vrátil po viac než 15 rokoch ako do cudziny na konci 60. rokov s nedbanlivou povýšenosťou voči tomu obdobiu, mysliac si, že zachránim svojich ľudí. Nič to, že si iba pomaly uvedomovali potrebu záchrany. Pracoval som v tej vinici štvrť storočia pred tým, než som sa prepracoval do malého kráľovstva spravodlivých na severe Južnej Karolíny, do metodistickej inštitúcie vyššieho vzdelávania zvanej Woffordova univerzita. O Woffordovi som nič nevedel, o to menej o metodizme, ale hneď v prvý deň učenia na Woffordovej univerzite ma upokojilo, že som medzi svojimi poslucháčmi našiel 90-ročného Maďara obklopeného skupinkou Európaniek v strednom veku, ktoré vyzerali ako sprievod lesných víl.
His name was Sandor Teszler. He was a puckish widower whose wife and children were dead and whose grandchildren lived far away. In appearance, he resembled Mahatma Gandhi, minus the loincloth, plus orthopedic boots. He had been born in 1903 in the provinces of the old Austro-Hungarian Empire, in what later would become Yugoslavia. He was ostracized as a child, not because he was a Jew -- his parents weren't very religious anyhow -- but because he had been born with two club feet, a condition which, in those days, required institutionalization and a succession of painful operations between the ages of one and 11. He went to the commercial business high school as a young man in Budapest, and there he was as smart as he was modest and he enjoyed a considerable success. And after graduation when he went into textile engineering, the success continued. He built one plant after another. He married and had two sons. He had friends in high places who assured him that he was of great value to the economy.
Volal sa Sándor Teszler. Bol to šibalský vdovec, ktorého žena a deti boli mŕtve a ktorého vnúčatá žili ďaleko. Výzorom sa podobal Gándhímu – bez zásterky okolo pásu a s ortopedickými topánkami. Narodil sa v roku 1903 vo vidieckej oblasti starej Rakúsko-Uhorskej monarchie v oblasti, z ktorej neskôr vznikla Juhoslávia. V detstve sa mu vyhýbali, no nie preto, že bol žid – jeho rodičia neboli beztak veľmi nábožní – ale pretože sa narodil s vybočenými nohami, čo bol zdravotný stav, ktorý si v tom období vyžadoval hospitalizáciu a sériu bolestivých operácií vo veku medzi prvým a jedenástym rokom. Ako mladý muž navštevoval obchodnú strednú školu v Budapešti. Bol bystrý a rovnako skromný a tešil sa značnej sláve. Po ukončení štúdia, keď sa pustil do textilného priemyslu, úspechy pokračovali. Staval jednu továreň za druhou. Oženil sa a mal dvoch synov. Mal kamarátov na vysokých postoch, ktorí ho ubezpečovali, že má pre hospodárstvo veľký význam.
Once, as he had left instructions to have done, he was summoned in the middle of the night by the night watchman at one of his plants. The night watchman had caught an employee who was stealing socks -- it was a hosiery mill, and he simply backed a truck up to the loading dock and was shoveling in mountains of socks. Mr. Teszler went down to the plant and confronted the thief and said, "But why do you steal from me? If you need money you have only to ask." The night watchman, seeing how things were going and waxing indignant, said, "Well, we're going to call the police, aren't we?" But Mr. Teszler answered, "No, that will not be necessary. He will not steal from us again."
Raz v noci, keď pred odchodom rozdal potrebné pokyny, ho k jednej z tovární zavolal nočný strážnik. Chytil jedného z pracovníkov ako kradne ponožky, bolo to v továrni na pančuchy, kde k nakladacej plošine pricúval s nákladiakom a lopatou nahadzoval kopy ponožiek. Pán Teszler šiel k továrni, postavil sa zlodejovi tvárou v tvár a povedal: "Ale prečo ma to okrádaš? Ak potrebuješ peniaze, stačí o ne požiadať." Keď strážnik videl, kam sa veci uberajú, rozhorčene sa opýtal: "Tak teda zavoláme políciu, však?" No pán Teszler odpovedal: "Nie, to nebude potrebné. Už nás viac neokradne."
Well, maybe he was too trusting, because he stayed where he was long after the Nazi Anschluss in Austria and even after the arrests and deportations began in Budapest. He took the simple precaution of having cyanide capsules placed in lockets that could be worn about the necks of himself and his family. And then one day, it happened: he and his family were arrested and they were taken to a death house on the Danube. In those early days of the Final Solution, it was handcrafted brutality; people were beaten to death and their bodies tossed into the river. But none who entered that death house had ever come out alive. And in a twist you would not believe in a Steven Spielberg film -- the Gauleiter who was overseeing this brutal beating was the very same thief who had stolen socks from Mr. Teszler's hosiery mill. It was a brutal beating. And midway through that brutality, one of Mr. Teszler's sons, Andrew, looked up and said, "Is it time to take the capsule now, Papa?" And the Gauleiter, who afterwards vanishes from this story, leaned down and whispered into Mr. Teszler's ear, "No, do not take the capsule. Help is on the way." And then resumed the beating.
Možno však bol príliš dôverčivý, pretože zostal v krajine dlho po pričlenení Rakúska k nacistickému Nemecku, ba dokonca aj po tom, čo sa v Budapešti začalo zatýkať a deportovať. Ako jediné opatrenie si zohnal kyanidové kapsuly uložené v medailónikoch, ktoré mohla celá jeho rodina nosiť zavesené na krku. A potom sa to v jeden deň stalo: spolu s rodinou bol zatknutý a všetkých ich odviezli do domu smrti na brehu Dunaja. V počiatkoch konečného riešenia to bola krutosť vykonávaná rukami – ľudí ubili na smrť a ich telá vhadzovali do rieky – a nik, kto vstúpil do domu smrti, z neho už živý nevyšiel. Prišiel však zvrat, ktorému by ste neuverili ani v Spielbergovom filme. Nacista, ktorý dohliadal na surové mlátenie, bol ten zlodej, ktorý kradol ponožky z továrne pána Teszlera. Mlátili ich kruto. Počas toho surového činu sa však jeden zo synov pána Teszlera, Andrew, opýtal: "Je už čas na kapsuly, tatko?" A nacista, ktorý sa neskôr z príbehu vyparil, sa naklonil k pánovi Teszlerovi a zašepkal mu do ucha: "Nie, nevyberajte kapsuly. Pomoc je na ceste." A potom ich začal opäť mlátiť.
But help was on the way, and shortly afterwards a car arrived from the Swiss Embassy. They were spirited to safety. They were reclassified as Yugoslav citizens and they managed to stay one step ahead of their pursuers for the duration of the War, surviving burnings and bombings and, at the end of the War, arrest by the Soviets. Probably, Mr. Teszler had gotten some money into Swiss bank accounts because he managed to take his family first to Great Britain, then to Long Island and then to the center of the textile industry in the American South. Which, as chance would have it, was Spartanburg, South Carolina, the location of Wofford College. And there, Mr. Teszler began all over again and once again achieved immense success, especially after he invented the process for manufacturing a new fabric called double-knit.
A pomoc... pomoc bola na ceste a krátko na to prišlo auto zo švajčiarskeho veľvyslanectva. Odviezlo ich tajne do bezpečia. Boli zaevidovaní ako občania Juhoslávie a podarilo sa im byť krok pred prenasledovateľmi počas celej 2. svetovej vojny – prežili požiare a bombardovania a na konci vojny aj sovietske zatýkanie. Pán Teszler dostal pravdepodobne časť peňazí na švajčiarske účty, pretože sa mu podarilo previezť rodinu najprv do Veľkej Británie, potom na Long Island a napokon do centra textilného priemyslu na juhu USA. Zhodou náhod bolo týmto centrom mesto Spartanburg v Južnej Karolíne: sídlo Woffordovej univerzity. Tu začal pán Teszler úplne od začiatku a opätovne dosiahol obrovský úspech, najmä po vynájdení procesu na výrobu novej látky nazvanej dvojitý úplet.
And then in the late 1950s, in the aftermath of Brown v. Board of Education, when the Klan was resurgent all over the South, Mr. Teszler said, "I have heard this talk before." And he called his top assistant to him and asked, "Where would you say, in this region, racism is most virulent?" "Well, I don't rightly know, Mr. Teszler. I reckon that would be Kings Mountain." "Good. Buy us some land in Kings Mountain and announce we are going to build a major plant there." The man did as he was told, and shortly afterwards, Mr. Teszler received a visit from the white mayor of Kings Mountain. Now, you should know that at that time, the textile industry in the South was notoriously segregated. The white mayor visited Mr. Teszler and said, "Mr. Teszler, I trust you’re going to be hiring a lot of white workers." Mr. Teszler told him, "You bring me the best workers that you can find, and if they are good enough, I will hire them." He also received a visit from the leader of the black community, a minister, who said, "Mr. Teszler, I sure hope you're going to hire some black workers for this new plant of yours." He got the same answer: "You bring the best workers that you can find, and if they are good enough, I will hire them." As it happens, the black minister did his job better than the white mayor, but that's neither here or there. Mr. Teszler hired 16 men: eight white, eight black.
A potom, ku koncu 50. rokov, keď súdy zakázali segregáciu na školách a keď sa na celom juhu USA znova prebúdzal Ku Klux Klan, pán Teszler vyhlásil: "Tieto slová som už počul." Zavolal si hlavného asistenta a spýtal sa ho: "Čo by ste povedali, kde je v tejto oblasti rasizmus najostrejší?" "Neviem presne, pán Teszler. Myslím, že by to mohlo byť v Kings Mountain." "Dobre. Kúpte v Kings Mountain nejaký pozemok a ohláste, že sa tam chystáme postaviť veľkú továreň." Asistent tak urobil a krátko po tom navštívil pána Teszlera biely starosta z Kings Mountain. Musíte vedieť, že v tom období bol textilný priemysel na juhu USA notoricky segregovaný. Biely starosta prišiel za pánom Teszlerom a povedal: "Pán Teszler, verím, že zamestnáte veľa bielych robotníkov." Pán Teszler mu vraví: "Prineste mi najlepších robotníkov, akých nájdete, a ak sú dosť dobrí, najmem ich." Rovnako ho navštívil aj vedúci komunity čiernych a pastor, ktorý mu vraví: "Pán Teszler, naozaj verím, že vo svojej novej továrni zamestnáte nejakých čiernych robotníkov." Dostal rovnakú odpoveď: "Prineste mi najlepších robotníkov, akých nájdete, a ak sú dosť dobrí, najmem ich." Prekvapivo, čierny pastor si dal záležať viac ako biely starosta, ale to nie je dôležité. Pán Teszler si najal 16 mužov, osem bielych, osem čiernych.
They were to be his seed group, his future foremen. He had installed the heavy equipment for his new process in an abandoned store in the vicinity of Kings Mountain, and for two months these 16 men would live and work together, mastering the new process. He gathered them together after an initial tour of that facility and he asked if there were any questions. There was hemming and hawing and shuffling of feet, and then one of the white workers stepped forward and said, "Well, yeah. We’ve looked at this place and there's only one place to sleep, there's only one place to eat, there's only one bathroom, there's only one water fountain. Is this plant going to be integrated or what?" Mr. Teszler said, "You are being paid twice the wages of any other textile workers in this region and this is how we do business. Do you have any other questions?" "No, I reckon I don't." And two months later when the main plant opened and hundreds of new workers, white and black, poured in to see the facility for the first time, they were met by the 16 foremen, white and black, standing shoulder to shoulder. They toured the facility and were asked if there were any questions, and inevitably the same question arose: "Is this plant integrated or what?" And one of the white foremen stepped forward and said, "You are being paid twice the wages of any other workers in this industry in this region and this is how we do business. Do you have any other questions?"
Mali byť jeho počiatočnou skupinou, budúcimi vedúcimi. Dal namontovať mohutné stroje pre nový výrobný proces v opustenom sklade neďaleko Kings Mountain a dva mesiace tam tých 16 mužov žilo a pracovalo spolu, aby si osvojili výrobný proces. Najskôr, po úvodnej prehliadke podniku si ich všetkých privolal a opýtal sa, či majú nejaké otázky. Muži sa iba obzerali a prešľapovali na mieste, až napokon jeden z bielych robotníkov vystúpil dopredu a povedal: "No, áno. Poobzerali sme sa a – je tu iba jedno miesto na spanie, jedno miesto na jedenie, je tu iba jedna kúpeľňa, jeden kohútik s pitnou vodou. To bude táto továreň integrovaná alebo čo?" Pán Teszler na to: "Dostávate dvakrát taký plat ako ktorýkoľvek textilný robotník v tomto regióne a my vedieme podnik takto. Máte nejaké iné otázky?" "Nie, myslím, že nie." A o dva mesiace neskôr, keď sa otvorila hlavná továreň a stovky nových robotníkov, belochov i černochov, sa prihrnuli, aby sa po prvýkrát pozreli na závod, ich privítalo tých 16 vedúcich, belochov i černochov, stojacich bok po boku. Spolu si prezreli závod a spýtali sa, či má niekto nejaké otázky. Samozrejme, objavila sa rovnaká otázka: "Toto je integrovaná továreň alebo čo?" Jeden z bielych vedúcich predstúpil a povedal: "Dostávate dvakrát taký plat ako ktorýkoľvek robotník v tomto priemysle v tomto regióne a my vedieme podnik takto. Máte nejaké iné otázky?"
And there were none. In one fell swoop, Mr. Teszler had integrated the textile industry in that part of the South. It was an achievement worthy of Mahatma Gandhi, conducted with the shrewdness of a lawyer and the idealism of a saint. In his eighties, Mr. Teszler, having retired from the textile industry, adopted Wofford College, auditing courses every semester, and because he had a tendency to kiss anything that moved, becoming affectionately known as "Opi" -- which is Magyar for grandfather -- by all and sundry. Before I got there, the library of the college had been named for Mr. Teszler, and after I arrived in 1993, the faculty decided to honor itself by naming Mr. Teszler Professor of the College -- partly because at that point he had already taken all of the courses in the catalog, but mainly because he was so conspicuously wiser than any one of us. To me, it was immensely reassuring that the presiding spirit of this little Methodist college in upstate South Carolina was a Holocaust survivor from Central Europe. Wise he was, indeed, but he also had a wonderful sense of humor. And once for an interdisciplinary class, I was screening the opening segment of Ingmar Bergman's "The Seventh Seal." As the medieval knight Antonius Block returns from the wild goose chase of the Crusades and arrives on the rocky shore of Sweden, only to find the specter of death waiting for him, Mr. Teszler sat in the dark with his fellow students. And as death opened his cloak to embrace the knight in a ghastly embrace, I heard Mr. Teszler's tremulous voice: "Uh oh," he said, "This doesn't look so good." (Laughter)
Žiadne však neboli. Pánovi Teszlerovi sa tak jednou ranou podarilo integrovať textilný priemysel v tej časti juhu USA. Bol to výkon hodný Gándhího, dosiahnutý prefíkanosťou právnika a idealizmom svätca. Keď pán Teszler vo svojej osemdesiatke odišiel na dôchodok, vybral si Woffordovu univerzitu, na ktorej každý semester navštevoval prednášky. A pretože bol náchylný pobozkať čokoľvek, čo sa hýbalo, dostal láskavú prezývku Opi, čo v maďarčine znamená starý otec, ktorú používal každý. Keď som sa tam dostal ja, univerzitná knižnica už bola pomenovaná po pánovi Teszlerovi, a keď som v roku 1993 prišiel, univerzitný zbor sa rozhodol vyznamenať sa a vymenovať pána Teszlera za profesora univerzity. Sčasti aj preto, že v tom období už absolvoval všetky prednášky na zozname, ale najmä preto, lebo bol výrazne múdrejší ako ktokoľvek z nás. Mňa to nesmierne upokojovalo, že vedúcim duchom tejto maličkej metodistickej univerzity na severe Južnej Karolíny bol človek zo strednej Európy, ktorý prežil holokaust. Bol naozaj múdry, ale mal aj úžasný zmysel pre humor. Raz som na jednej z interdisciplinárnych prednášok premietal úvodnú scénu zo "Siedmej pečate" Ingmara Bergmana. Keď sa stredoveký rytier Antonius Blok vrátil z bezvýznamných križiackych výprav a prišiel ku skalnatým brehom Švédska, kde naňho už čakalo zjavenie smrti, v tme miestnosti sedel so svojimi študentmi aj pán Teszler. A keď smrť roztvorila svoj plášť, aby ním hrozivo zahalila rytiera, začul som roztrasený hlas pána Teszlera: "Aj, aj," hovorí: "Toto nevyzerá veľmi dobre."
But it was music that was his greatest passion, especially opera. And on the first occasion that I visited his house, he gave me honor of deciding what piece of music we would listen to. And I delighted him by rejecting "Cavalleria Rusticana" in favor of Bela Bartok's "Bluebeard's Castle." I love Bartok's music, as did Mr. Teszler, and he had virtually every recording of Bartok's music ever issued. And it was at his house that I heard for the first time Bartok's Third Piano Concerto and learned from Mr. Teszler that it had been composed in nearby Asheville, North Carolina in the last year of the composer's life. He was dying of leukemia and he knew it, and he dedicated this concerto to his wife, Dita, who was herself a concert pianist. And into the slow, second movement, marked "adagio religioso," he incorporated the sounds of birdsong that he heard outside his window in what he knew would be his last spring; he was imagining a future for her in which he would play no part. And clearly this composition is his final statement to her -- it was first performed after his death -- and through her to the world. And just as clearly, it is saying, "It's okay. It was all so beautiful. Whenever you hear this, I will be there."
No bola to hudba, najmä opera, ktorá bola jeho najväčšou vášňou, a keď som ho po prvý raz navštívil v jeho dome, poctil ma tým, že som mohol vybrať, ktorú hudobnú kompozíciu si vypočujeme. Potešil som ho, keď som pred operou "Cavalleria Rusticana" uprednostnil "Hrad kniežaťa Modrofúza" od Bélu Bartóka. Milujem Bartókovu hudbu rovnako ako pán Teszler, ktorý mal doslova všetky jeho vydané hudobné nahrávky. A bolo to práve v jeho dome, kde som po prvý raz počul Bartókov "Klavírny koncert č. 3" a kde mi o ňom pán Teszler prezradil, že bol skomponovaný v neďalekom Asheville v Severnej Karolíne toho roku, keď Bartók umrel. Vedel, že umiera na leukémiu, a tento koncert venoval svojej manželke, Ditte, tiež koncertnej klaviristke. Do pomalej, druhej časti, nazvanej "Adagio religioso", vkomponoval štebot vtákov, ktorý počul za oknom na jar, o ktorej vedel, že bude jeho poslednou. Predstavoval si budúcnosť svojej manželky, ktorej nebude súčasťou. A je úplne jasné, že táto kompozícia je jeho záverečným vyznaním sa Ditte – prvýkrát bolo predvedené po jeho smrti – a cez ňu aj celému svetu. A rovnako zreteľne vypovedá: "Je to v poriadku. Všetko to bolo nádherné. Kedykoľvek toto začuješ, budem tam."
It was only after Mr. Teszler's death that I learned that the marker on the grave of Bela Bartok in Hartsdale, New York was paid for by Sandor Teszler. "Jó napot, Bela!" Not long before Mr. Teszler’s own death at the age of 97, he heard me hold forth on human iniquity. I delivered a lecture in which I described history as, on the whole, a tidal wave of human suffering and brutality, and Mr. Teszler came up to me afterwards with gentle reproach and said, "You know, Doctor, human beings are fundamentally good." And I made a vow to myself, then and there, that if this man who had such cause to think otherwise had reached that conclusion, I would not presume to differ until he released me from my vow. And now he's dead, so I'm stuck with my vow. "Jó napot, Sandor!"
Dozvedel som sa to iba po smrti pána Teszlera, že za nápis na hrobe Bélu Bartóka v meste Hartsdale, štát New York zaplatil Sándor Teszler. "Jó napot, Béla!" Krátko pred tým, ako pán Teszler umrel vo veku 97 rokov, ma začul, ako som rozoberal tému ľudskej zločinnosti. Dával som prednášku, v ktorej som dejiny opísal celkovo ako prílivovú vlnu ľudského trápenia a surovosti a pán Teszler za mnou prišiel po prednáške a s miernou výčitkou mi povedal: "Viete, pán doktor, ľudský tvor je zásadne dobrý." A vtedy a tam som sa zaprisahal, že ak tento muž, ktorý mal toľko dôvodov uvažovať o tom inak, dospel k takémuto záveru, tak nemôžem ani ja uvažovať inak, až kým ma spod mojej prísahy neoslobodí. Teraz je však mŕtvy a moja prísaha mi ostala. "Jó napot, Sándor!"
I thought my skein of Hungarian mentors had come to an end, but almost immediately I met Francis Robicsek, a Hungarian doctor -- actually a heart surgeon in Charlotte, North Carolina, then in his late seventies -- who had been a pioneer in open-heart surgery, and, tinkering away in his garage behind his house, had invented many of the devices that are standard parts of those procedures. He's also a prodigious art collector, beginning as an intern in Budapest by collecting 16th- and 17th-century Dutch art and Hungarian painting, and when he came to this country moving on to Spanish colonial art, Russian icons and finally Mayan ceramics. He's the author of seven books, six of them on Mayan ceramics. It was he who broke the Mayan codex, enabling scholars to relate the pictographs on Mayan ceramics to the hieroglyphs of the Mayan script.
Myslel som si, že séria mojich maďarských učiteľov prišla ku koncu, ale takmer bezprostredne na to som spoznal Francisa Robicseka, maďarského lekára, srdcového chirurga z mesta Charlotte v Severnej Karolíne, ktorý sa blížil k svojej osemdesiatke. Bol priekopníkom operácie na otvorenom srdci a ako domáci majster vo svojej garáži za domom vynašiel veľa prístrojov, ktoré sú obvyklou súčasťou tých operácií. Od svojich lekárskych začiatkov v Budapešti bol tiež nesmiernym zberateľom umenia, ktorý začal zbierať holandské umenie a maďarské maľby zo 16. a 17. storočia a keď prišiel do Spojených štátov, prešiel na španielske koloniálne umenie, ruské ikony a, napokon, na mayskú keramiku. Je autorom siedmych kníh, šesť z nich je o mayskej keramike. To on rozlúštil mayský kódex, čím umožnil bádateľom, aby priradili k hieroglyfom na mayskom rukopise piktogramy z keramík.
On the occasion of my first visit, we toured his house and we saw hundreds of works of museum quality, and then we paused in front of a closed door and Dr. Robicsek said, with obvious pride, "Now for the piece De resistance." And he opened the door and we walked into a windowless 20-by-20-foot room with shelves from floor to ceiling, and crammed on every shelf his collection of Mayan ceramics. Now, I know absolutely nothing about Mayan ceramics, but I wanted to be as ingratiating as possible so I said, "But Dr. Robicsek, this is absolutely dazzling." "Yes," he said. "That is what the Louvre said. They would not leave me alone until I let them have a piece, but it was not a good one." (Laughter)
Keď som ho po prvýkrát navštívil, prezreli sme si jeho dom a pozreli stovky umeleckých diel muzeálnej kvality. Potom sme zastali pred zavretými dverami a Dr. Robicsek s očividnou hrdosťou povedal: "A teraz prichádza zlatý klinec programu." Otvoril dvere a vošli sme do miestnosti s veľkosťou 6 x 6 metrov bez okien, v ktorej boli od podlahy po strop police plné jeho zbierky mayskej keramiky . O mayskej keramike síce neviem vôbec nič, ale chcel som mu zalichotiť, ako sa len dalo. Povedal som: "Ale Dr. Robicsek, toto je úplne úchvatné." "Áno," povedal. "To vraveli aj ľudia z Louvra. Nenechali ma na pokoji, až kým som im nedal jeden z kusov. Ale ten nestál za to."
Well, it occurred to me that I should invite Dr. Robicsek to lecture at Wofford College on -- what else? -- Leonardo da Vinci. And further, I should invite him to meet my oldest trustee, who had majored in French history at Yale some 70-odd years before and, at 89, still ruled the world's largest privately owned textile empire with an iron hand. His name is Roger Milliken. And Mr. Milliken agreed, and Dr. Robicsek agreed. And Dr. Robicsek visited and delivered the lecture and it was a dazzling success. And afterwards we convened at the President's House with Dr. Robicsek on one hand, Mr. Milliken on the other. And it was only at that moment, as we were sitting down to dinner, that I recognized the enormity of the risk I had created, because to bring these two titans, these two masters of the universe together -- it was like introducing Mothra to Godzilla over the skyline of Tokyo. If they didn't like each other, we could all get trampled to death.
A tak mi napadlo, že by som mohol Dr. Robicseka pozvať na Woffordovu univerzitu, aby tam urobil prednášku – ako inak? – o Leonardovi da Vincim. A tiež, že by som ho mohol zoznámiť s mojím najstarším poverníkom, ktorý študoval dejiny Francúzska na Yalovej univerzite pred viac než 70 rokmi a vo veku 89 rokov ešte stále riadil najväčšie súkromné impérium v oblasti textilného priemyslu železnou rukou. Volá sa Roger Milliken. Pán Milliken so stretnutím súhlasil a súhlasil aj Dr. Robicsek. Dr. Robicsek prišiel a prednášal – malo to úžasný úspech. Potom sme sa stretli v rektorskom dome, na jednej strane s Dr. Robicsekom, na druhej s pánom Millikenom. A až v tej chvíli, keď sme si posadali k jedálenskému stolu, som si uvedomil, aké nesmierne riziko hrozilo. Pretože dať dokopy týchto dvoch titanov, týchto dvoch pánov sveta bolo také, ako zoznámiť Godzillu s Mothrou medzi mrakodrapmi Tokia. Ak by spolu nevychádzali dobre, mohli by nás všetkých udupať k smrti.
But they did, they did like each other. They got along famously until the very end of the meal, and then they got into a furious argument. And what they were arguing about was this: whether the second Harry Potter movie was as good as the first. (Laughter) Mr. Milliken said it was not. Dr. Robicsek disagreed. I was still trying to take in the notion that these titans, these masters of the universe, in their spare time watch Harry Potter movies, when Mr. Milliken thought he would win the argument by saying, "You just think it's so good because you didn't read the book." And Dr. Robicsek reeled back in his chair, but quickly gathered his wits, leaned forward and said, "Well, that is true, but I'll bet you went to the movie with a grandchild." "Well, yes, I did," conceded Mr. Milliken. "Aha!" said Dr. Robicsek. "I went to the movie all by myself." (Laughter) (Applause)
Nestalo sa tak. Vychádzali spolu dobre. Vychádzali spolu veľkolepo – až do úplného konca večere, keď sa zaplietli do šialenej hádky. Hádali sa o nasledovnom: či bola druhá časť filmu Harry Potter tak dobrá ako prvá. Pán Milliken tvrdil, že nie. Dr. Robicsek nesúhlasil. Ja som sa však ešte stále snažil pochopiť, že títo titani, títo páni sveta pozerali vo voľnom čase Harryho Pottera, keď si pán Milliken zmyslel, že by mohol hádku vyhrať, ak povie: "Myslíte si, že je rovnako dobrá iba preto, že ste nečítali knihu." Dr. Robicsek sa zmätene zaknísal na stoličke, no ihneď sa pohotovo prebral, naklonil sa dopredu a povedal: "No, to je síce pravda, ale stavím sa, že ste šli na ten film s vnúčaťom." "Áno, šiel som," uznal pán Milliken. "Aha!" Dr. Robicsek na to. "Ja som šiel na film úplne sám."
And I realized, in this moment of revelation, that what these two men were revealing was the secret of their extraordinary success, each in his own right. And it lay precisely in that insatiable curiosity, that irrepressible desire to know, no matter what the subject, no matter what the cost, even at a time when the keepers of the Doomsday Clock are willing to bet even money that the human race won't be around to imagine anything in the year 2100, a scant 93 years from now. "Live each day as if it is your last," said Mahatma Gandhi. "Learn as if you'll live forever." This is what I'm passionate about. It is precisely this. It is this inextinguishable, undaunted appetite for learning and experience, no matter how risible, no matter how esoteric, no matter how seditious it might seem. This defines the imagined futures of our fellow Hungarians -- Robicsek, Teszler and Bartok -- as it does my own. As it does, I suspect, that of everybody here.
A v tej chvíli som si uvedomil, že to, čo obaja muži odhalili, bolo tajomstvo ich mimoriadneho, zaslúženého úspechu. Spočívalo presne v tej nenásytnej zvedavosti, tej neskrotnej túžbe vedieť – bez ohľadu na predmet, bez ohľadu na cenu, dokonca aj v časoch, keď správcovia "Hodín súdneho dňa" sú ochotní staviť sa hoci aj o peniaze, že ľudstvo tu už v roku 2100, iba o necelých 93 rokov nebude. "Žite každý deň tak, ako by bol Váš posledný," vravieval Gándhí. "Vzdelávajte sa, akoby ste žili naveky." A práve toto je moja vášeň. Presne toto. Je to ten neuhasiteľný, neoblomný smäd po vzdelaní a skúsenostiach, bez ohľadu na to, aké sú smiešne či tajné, bez ohľadu na to, aké poburujúce sa zdajú byť. Toto určuje predstavenú budúcnosť našich Maďarov, Robicseka, Teszlera a Bartóka rovnako, ako aj moju. A domnievam sa, že rovnako aj každého z Vás.
To which I need only add, "Ez a mi munkank; es nem is keves." This is our task; we know it will be hard. "Ez a mi munkank; es nem is keves. Jó napot, pacák!" (Applause)
A k tomu stačí už iba dodať: "Ez a mi munkánk, és nem is kevés." Toto je naša práca. A nebude ľahká. "Ez a mi munkánk, és nem is kevés." Jó napot, pacák!