They Were Counted (The Writing on the Wall: the Transylvanian Trilogy)

by Bánffy, Miklós

  Laszlo played a few chords. The harmonies and transitions were unexpected and would need careful playing until he knew them. As he practised, Klara, who had left with the others, came back into the room, gliding silently with her special walk, and stood beside him.

  ‘Oh, Strauss!’ she said.‘I will turn the pages for you.’

  Laszlo gave all his concentration to the music, playing carefully through the accompaniment of the song Fanny had chosen so as to master its complicated harmonies. Then Fanny, her hand still on his shoulder to guide him and sometimes pressing her waist against his shoulder as she leant forward to read the words, sang again. So Laszlo had the beautiful Fanny, rapt in her music, on one side while, on the other, Klara sat close so as to turn the pages of the song. When she reached her white scented hand up to the music stand her arm brushed his sleeve and her firm breast pressed against him; but now Laszlo was so engrossed in the music that he hardly noticed a contact that at any other time would have sent his blood racing. The music absorbed him totally, and yet it did not go smoothly. When they started, Klara was a little late in turning the pages, but from the middle of the song it went wonderfully well.

  Then they stopped and stood up and moved towards the drawing-room, in silence for somehow their spirits were strangely dampened.

  The field marshal, breathing heavily, heaved himself up and followed them. He bowed to Fanny and kissed her hand. ‘Schön, schön, wunderbar schön – So beautiful, marvellously beautiful!’ His old eyes were moist with emotion. ‘Dank, Dank, schöne Frau, vielen Dank! – Thank you, beautiful lady. Many, many thanks!’

  As they moved towards the drawing-room he asked Klara who had been the composer of the last song.

  ‘Strauss,’ said the girl.

  ‘Strauss? Johann Strauss? Grossartiger Kerl! – What a clever fellow!’ and putting an arm round Klara’s waist he pressed her to him and started humming one of the waltzes of his youth, one of those tunes to which he, a young, dashing and handsome lieutenant of Hussars, had danced and carried all before him in the ballrooms of Lombardy.

  In the drawing-room everyone was beginning to say goodbye as most of the guests were leaving early in the morning. Gaily they made plans for meeting again in other country houses or at the next shooting party.

  Fanny, who was also leaving early by car with her brother, found Laszlo standing alone:

  ‘Shall I see you again soon? Thank you again, you played marvellously! When we know each other well it will go even better.’ She told him that she would probably be in Budapest for Christmas or, at the latest, in the New Year, and that he must come and see her. ‘You will come, won’t you? And we’ll make more music together!’

  But Laszlo could only answer with automatic politeness, with a bow and a few words of thanks. He hardly noticed the beautiful woman who was paying him such compliments for every nerve in his body, all his senses, were concentrated on the far end of the room where Klara was sitting with Montorio. He could not see her face, as she was sitting in an armchair with her back to him, but he could clearly see the prince, opposite her, leaning forward in his chair and talking earnestly, his expression deeply serious. He’s asking her to marry him, thought Laszlo with agony in his soul, he’s doing it now, now!

  What if she were accepting him? What could he do about it? The inexorable laws of politeness ensured that he must stay where he was while a cruel Fate decided Klara’s happiness … and his own. And even if he did walk over towards them he could never get near, for Niki and Magda Szent-Gyorgyi had seated themselves close by as sentinels, guards to make sure that Montorio would not be disturbed.

  It seemed like an eternity until Klara and Montorio rose and joined the others who were making their farewells, and though he tried to get a word with Klara he was prevented by her leaving the room with a group of other girls to go upstairs to bed.

  Laszlo found himself alone. All the others had gone. He waited, though he hardly knew why, without reason, without purpose, without hope.

  The footmen started to collect the teacups and glasses and to carry out the trays. They switched out the lights in the salon, in the hall and on the staircase and one of them stood about waiting to finish until Laszlo had left. He could stay no longer and moved slowly to go back to his room at the end of that long dark service passage.

  Once again, as he passed the service stair he saw Szabo, the butler, on the first landing. This time he was not alone but held a girl in his arms, one of the maids, very young and very pretty, who was struggling to get free and pleading: ‘No! No, Mr Szabo! Please let me go, I beg you! … Please, Mr Szabo … please!’

  Nauseated, Laszlo moved on quickly but not before, in a shaft of light coming from above, he had recognized the girl’s face: it was Klara’s personal maid, a country girl who had been with her since she had been in the schoolroom. The little scene accentuated his worry over Klara. It seemed symbolic, as if the butler’s treatment of the maid foretold the rape of Klara by Montorio.

  Back in his room Laszlo sat down still dressed, distraught and staring at nothing. He was tormented by doubts and unanswered questions. Had that fellow Montorio proposed in the salon? Was that why he seemed so serious? Had he dared? And what had Klara replied? Had she refused him, or what? This ‘or what’ seemed to place an icy hand round his throat, suffocating him, pushing all the blood to his burning head. Feeling he would die from not knowing, he walked up and down, bumping into anything in his way. It was like pacing a prison cell, airless and confined. The very room seemed filled with terrible thoughts from which he must somehow escape. He opened the door and stepped into the cool spacious corridor where he could breathe and move about, and maybe escape the phantoms that pursued him. Up and down the long corridor he paced …

  The movement and the coldness of the air calmed him so that, eventually he could once again think rationally and begin to weigh up the situation, analyse the probabilities, the circumstances. He tried to recall every word, smile, movement and glance that Klara had given him, how she sat with him at the shoot, how she had picked up and caressed the dead partridge, blowing into its feathers and looking all the time at him, how they would exchange almost secret glances over the mass of silver on the great dining table.

  Even though she had been seated beside that man at every meal, their eyes had met. If she loved Montorio it was impossible that her eyes should have sought out those of Laszlo and smiled at him in mutual understanding. Even the idea was repulsive! How could he have imagined that she was in love with that loathsome man, had even perhaps accepted him, when it was to Laszlo that she directed her secret glances?

  More calmly, and now more slowly, he continued to walk up and down the corridor until, getting tired he returned to his room and went to bed. But although he turned out the light he could not sleep.

  From a room above he heard some muffled sounds, then silence, and then some footsteps. He fancied he could hear someone crying. Much later a door slammed which, in the silence of the night or maybe only in Laszlo’s keyed-up imagination, sounded like the blast of a cannon.

  And again it seemed as if someone were crying …

  Most of the guests left early in the morning. Only four remained, the field marshal and his wife who were going over to Fehervar in the evening to catch the night express to Fiume as they were going to spend some weeks in Abbazzia; Magda Szent-Gyorgyi, who was staying on while her father and brother went for a few days’ shooting elsewhere; and Laszlo, who, when Balint was already waiting in the carriage, sent word to say he wasn’t ready but would follow him to Budapest that afternoon.

  Louis Kollonich and Niki would be leaving that evening as they were invited to shoot hares and pheasants on one of the archduke’s estates. They planned to leave just as the sun set and in the meantime they had decided to have a little informal shoot in those parts of the Kollonich property where the old cocks had not been properly cleared. The prince loved these quiet days when he could go out with just a few keepers and the dogs, and he
was even more pleased when old Kanizsay sent to excuse himself, saying that he had a touch of rheumatism. So much the better, there would be no waiting about for other people and they would all have a relaxed day with just his two sons and his nephew Laszlo. Impatient to set off, the Prince hurried them through breakfast and they had hardly had time to eat before they were hustled out to the waiting carriages.

  In the castle courtyard were just two vehicles: the host’s low-slung wicker chaise, into which he jumped quickly and drove off alone; and a long tarantas, a Russian-style cart with a bench in front and cushioned planks running lengthwise between the front and rear wheels. The young people climbed into this, the men on the front bench and, behind them, Klara and Magda sitting sideways. They did not take a coachman as Peter would drive. Just as they were setting off a little maid ran out and handed Klara her gloves: ‘You left them on the table, my lady!’ she said.

  Laszlo recognized her as the same girl he had seen struggling in Szabo’s grasp the night before, and thought how sad she looked. Peter whipped up the horses so quickly that Klara’s ‘Thank you!’ was lost as they sped down the drive.

  They were in such excellent spirits that everything was fun. In the clear pale sunlight the hoar frost glistened silver on the fields and trees, and the boys, even in their father’s presence, made a game of every thing, shooting in front of each other, poaching the other’s birds and behaving in a manner they would never have dared during one of the grand shoots.

  Laszlo laughed and joked with the others, but his eyes betrayed him and remained clouded and serious no matter how hard he tried to keep up with the general high spirits. Always he was hoping to have a moment alone with Klara so that he could ask what had happened the night before.

  But no chance came. Every time he attempted to get her on her own he seemed to detect a spark of mockery in her eyes. She eluded him, and he became increasingly hurt.

  And so it went on the whole morning with Laszlo becoming ever more tortured. At last he just followed Klara in silence, and the dry leaves crackling under his feet were the only accompaniment to the gloom of his thoughts. All his attention was riveted on Klara, so much so that he barely heard when someone spoke to him. Even so he just managed to keep enough self-control to disguise his feelings. Though in agonies of doubt and jealousy, nothing showed in his face when he spoke to Klara or to Magda, and he would reply to their questions as lightly as if he had nothing on his mind.

  Even when they got back to the castle and sat down to tea, he could still not get near enough to her to get an answer to that question that never ceased to scream inside his head.

  When it was time for Niki and his father to leave they said goodbye to the princess and the Kanizsays in the marble salon and, accompanied by Klara, Peter, and Magda – with Laszlo just behind them – moved through the great hall to the entrance where their large Mercedes was waiting. Passing through the library Laszlo slowed down; what was he doing, going to the door to see his host depart? What business was it of his? He was only another guest and a quite unimportant one at that, only invited to help with the shooting. Why, his cousin Peter had made it quite clear, even if unintentionally, that it was his skill with a gun that was wanted, not he himself, not Laszlo Gyeroffy! Why should he then go to the door as if he were of any importance?

  He stopped by one of the long windows of the library. It was growing dark and, as the lights had not yet been switched on, long strips of the dying light of day came through the french windows and covered the polished parquet floor with a glow like that on ice. Outside everything had taken on a bluish grey colour, the lawns, the box hedges, the bare trunks of the trees were all grey, as were the lilacs and other ornamental shrubs which had been planted in avenues to lead the eye in three directions; to the artificial lake, to the miniature Greek temple with its Corinthian columns, and to a vista of the great plain that lay between the castle and Lake Balaton.

  Looking at this late autumn landscape, where nature seemed already to have sunk into the sleep of winter, Laszlo felt welling up inside him a great sadness.

  The park had been laid out after the best English landscape models. It gave the impression of being a great deal larger than it was in reality, even though here the trees did not grow tall in the sandy soil which itself was burned brown each year by mid-August. But now, in the twilight, the bare trunks and the ground lightly shrouded by the mists of evening looked mysteriously sad, and spoke to Laszlo only of his own sorrow and loneliness.

  He said to himself that if Klara were to marry Montorio he would never come to Simonvasar again, never! So he stood there, feeling that he was saying goodbye for the last time and must therefore try to etch the scene on his memory so that, later, recalling the hell he was now going through, he would be able to recapture every detail and, in his unhappiness, recall the scenes where once, so many years before, he had been happy and free of care.

  When they were still children they had run about those lawns, played croquet behind the rose gardens – and always he had sided with Klara and hidden among the lilacs with her when they had played hide-and-seek. In every corner of that garden there were a myriad childhood memories.

  The sound of chatter behind him brought him back to earth. Quick, running footsteps and laughter told him that Peter and Magda were on their way back to the red drawing-room. Then his heart contracted as he heard light steps behind him: it was Klara.

  ‘I love this view, especially at dusk!’ As she reached up to put her hand on the handle of the shutters her arm brushed Laszlo’s shoulder. ‘I look at it often … when I am alone.’

  This was the moment to ask. Now or never he must know if Montorio …? But he did not know what to say. His voice was hoarse with emotion. ‘Klara! Tell me?’ It was too late; she had already started to speak.

  ‘Don’t you remember? There! You rescued me from that poplar! What a coward I was! I didn’t dare jump.’

  ‘Of course I remember.’ He hesitated. Should he ask his question now? Again it was too late. Before he could open his mouth Klara turned towards him, very slowly, and when they were face to face she looked him straight in the eye. Though she did not speak he knew that she too was asking him something.

  Her red lips were slightly parted. She was waiting for something, and somehow her whole face seemed different. This was a Klara he had never seen before. Of course she was the same but something about her was new and mysterious. As she looked at him, Laszlo forgot his misery, his doubts, his loneliness and despair. Everything was wiped away as he knew that he had only one thought, one desire; to take her in his arms and kiss her. But still he hesitated. Would she be annoyed, take offence, if her childhood friend and playmate suddenly abused her confidence, took advantage of her weakness and her vulnerability and forced a kiss on her? How could she know how desperately, how deeply, how fatally and forever, he loved her?

  For a moment they stood, neither of them moving; gazing into each other’s eyes. Then Klara turned and with gliding steps made her way back to the drawing-room. Laszlo followed despairingly, knowing that he had let another chance escape him. What a fool he was! Why hadn’t he kissed her? What an utter, utter fool he was not even to ask!

  Laszlo had to find another opportunity to be alone with her, so after dinner he asked if she would like to hear his latest composition. When they went towards the music-room they were joined by Peter and Magda, who were enjoying a light-hearted cousinly flirtation and who accepted Laszlo’s suggestion with joy knowing that they could talk in private if Laszlo were at the piano.

  While they sat down at the far end of the room Klara joined Laszlo, but instead of sitting beside him as she had the night before, she stood in the curve of the piano facing him. Laszlo played a few chords and then looked up. ‘Go on,’ she said and closed her eyes.

  ‘I based this piece on an old Szekler melody,’ said Laszlo as he began to play.

  It was a strange tune, strange and slow, like a musical sentence endlessly repeated in different
keys with unexpected dissonances and harmonies, moody and sad. When the repetition seemed almost unbearably poignant, it broke off with a cry of yearning, a dream-like sob of frustrated desire, and then returned to the little tune with which the piece had begun. At the end an unresolved chord left a question hanging in the air.

  ‘It’s beautiful! Please play some more!’ said Klara, not moving from where she stood.

  Laszlo played two more pieces. One was the half-finished fantasia he had started in Budapest and in which he tried to portray all the sounds of the city. Called Dawn in Budapest, it was wild, chaotic music with a profusion of rhythms and contrasting harmony. The other was a low and sensually beautiful Nocturne which in a legato melody gently rising expressed all the agony of desire. And, when it seemed as if the heart must break, it died away in a hopeless pianissimo. It was new music, cruel and full of sorrow, far from the sugar-sweet melodies of the drawing-room.

  As each piece came to an end Laszlo would look at Klara, enquiry in his eyes. But she just said: ‘Please go on! Please play some more!’ standing motionless where she was, leaning against the piano with her bare arms, bare shoulders, and the curve of her breasts swelling the soft material in which she was clad. She stood there with half-closed eyes, her lashes casting a bluish glow on her cheeks. She seemed to be listening to the music in a trance from which she only awoke to say: ‘Please go on! Please play some more!’

  Now Laszlo started a little Transylvanian peasant song.

  If I could catch a little devil

  I’d put him in a cage

  And shake him up and down until

  He jumped about in rage!

  And as he played he’d speak the words, change the rhythm, play it fast and then slow, now in one key now in another, giving the little tune sometimes in a high treble clef sometimes deep in the bass, a helter-skelter medley of bubbling, teasing good humour, interspersing the melody with sudden shrill notes or thundering chromatic scales, imitating the sounds of cymbals, flutes, brass and drums, conjuring up the sound of a whole orchestra out of one piano. It was something Laszlo loved to do and he knew he did it well, and the music released and revealed all the latent violence within him that he could never show in speech or gesture.