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

by Bánffy, Miklós

  It was Balint’s fate that evening that he could not escape from politics. Even when he asked Fanny Beredy to dance and then have supper with him and they joined several other ladies at a table near the buffet, the talk was all about politics. He was amazed to see how passionately these elegant ladies argued. They were all supporters of the conservative opposition. Many of them were extraordinarily well-informed, putting forward their views with well-reasoned arguments and sophisticated political acumen just as if they were lawyers arguing a case in court. Dry paragraphs of party views flowed from their rosy lips with astonishing precision and their desirable bare shoulders heaved with the vehemence of their arguments. In their hair, at their ears, and round their necks, diamonds sparkled as if to add hundreds of new arguments to their talk. They were all militant patriots, dedicated to and obsessed by the Tightness of their cause, all of them the more sure of themselves because one of the more influential newspapers had just published a leading article eulogizing the political acuteness of the Hungarian ladies and the importance of their role in the national struggle. This had given these society ladies much pleasure. ‘At last the press gives us proper recognition!’ said one lovely blonde, as she bit into a strawberry with her snow-white teeth. Though this statement only underlined the general feeling at the time, Balint found it worrying. To change the subject he turned to Fanny and asked about Laszlo.

  ‘I hear my cousin Gyeroffy often comes to see you these days?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. He’s a sweet boy and an excellent musician. We all like him a lot.’

  ‘Is it true that he’s gambling heavily?’

  ‘Yes,’ she smiled, ‘passionately.’

  After a slight hesitation Balint said: ‘I rarely see him nowadays, though today we’ve met several times. Has he been losing a great deal?’

  Fanny looked straight at him, her pussycat smile even more inscrutable than usual.

  ‘I don’t think so. My friend Devereux, who is a great gossip and knows everything, would certainly have told me if he had. No! As far as I know he’s on a winning streak at the moment.’

  ‘But I’m sure he has something on his mind. He’s worried about something, I can see it in his face … you don’t know him as I do.’

  There was a flash of interest in her eyes, though she quickly dropped her eyelids to conceal it.

  ‘Yes, I’ve noticed it too.’ And she went on calmly, ‘However, you’re wrong about the reason. It’s not money. He’s much too reckless to count the cost or be worried about that!’ Her eyes narrowed to slits, long diagonal lines that swept obliquely upwards, and her mouth spread in a smile as if she were savouring the taste of honey. ‘Love!’ she went on. ‘That’ll be it! Love! Perhaps something’s gone wrong.’

  ‘Klara?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Does she love him?’

  Fanny shrugged her beautiful shoulders.

  ‘A young girl like that? What does she know about love?’ Fanny spoke scornfully. ‘The choice isn’t hers anyway. She’ll marry whoever is chosen for her. She may protest a bit, but in the end she’ll do whatever Agnes decides. And Agnes, as you know, is a terrible snob!’

  ‘That’s what I thought, too.’

  ‘There you are, you see! As far as Agnes is concerned, our good Laszlo is nobody – Niemand. She wouldn’t care if one of us eloped with the chauffeur, but her daughter will only marry the man she chooses!’

  The thought seemed to give Fanny pleasure, though for what reason only she could tell, and she adjusted the lace shoulder-straps which, as they often did, had slid down her bare arms.

  The Gentlemen’s Ball always finished early. After being on parade from noon most of the guests were tired and disinclined to dance until dawn. By three o’clock in the morning everyone had gone and Laszlo, who had to remain to say goodbye to the last guests, decided to go on to the Casino.

  On arrival he found that the gamblers were still playing. As always on the night of the big race, the room was crowded and the play was higher even than usual. Bets of many thousands of crowns were being laid on the table and the atmosphere was fraught with ill-feeling. There were so many onlookers that it was not easy for Gyeroffy to get near the table. When he finally managed this a place was at once offered to him, as it was an unwritten law that room should always be found for a gambler as famous as Laszlo.

  Laszlo refused the offer. ‘No, thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m not staying.’ For a few moments he stood there watching the play, then turned and left the room.

  ‘He must have a girl waiting for him!’ said somebody, for in that world la bonne fortune (an amorous rendezvous) was considered the only valid excuse for not joining in a game.

  Laszlo went slowly down the stairs, through the halls of the Casino, hesitating as he went as if it were physically difficult for him to leave this sacred place. He then had himself driven to those cheap furnished lodgings which he had rented when he first came to Budapest to study and which he had never changed.

  He went to bed, but did not sleep as it was a long time since Laszlo had come home so early. As he lay stiffly on the narrow bed he seemed to become more and more awake. The day’s events went round and round in his head. Klara ... his promise, ah, that he had to keep and would keep. It would be vile not to do so! But what about the ball? She must have understood that he couldn’t get near her as he had been commanded to partner one of the young archduchesses in the quadrille, an honour that no one could refuse. He recalled seeing Klara supping with Warday not far from the royal table where he sat. They had been chatting vivaciously enough. No doubt that dimwitted farmer had been entertaining her with tales of muck-spreading and ergot in the wheat, thought Laszlo bitterly. Or had Klara been teasing him as she had Montorio two days before? Oh Klara! Klara! He had been dying to dance with her but his duties as elotancos, especially with the royals present, meant that he had been occupied the entire evening and it had seemed he would never even get close to her. Even when, just after the last figure of the quadrille, he had managed to get near her with his specially large saffron-coloured bouquet, she was already being so inundated with the favours brought to her by others that he couldn’t even exchange a word with her, not a single word! How could the Kollonichs leave him out of one of their big dinners when they had always before insisted he must be there? It was obvious that this had been done on purpose so that they should not have a chance to speak to each other. Would this always be the same? It would be dreadful if there should never be an end to it!

  Laszlo felt that he must find a way to communicate directly with her, but how? It wouldn’t be possible through Peter; he’d never go against his mother. Niki was out of the question; he was no friend to Laszlo. Then Laszlo remembered the little maid who had brought Klara’s letter. What was her name, Ilus Varga? Was that what the concierge had said when he brought up the letter after telling the girl that she could not go up to Laszlo’s flat as he had given orders not to be disturbed? He would write a line to her to give a message to her mistress that she must find a way to see him.

  By noon the Casino was already full to overflowing. Even the great glass-covered veranda was packed with people. After their lunch Balint and Laszlo went into the empty billiard-room.

  At once Balint started off severely. Laszlo must be out of his mind, he said. If he went on like this he would be ruined, and then nothing would save him from a shameful life of depravity. Already it was obvious that he was spending far more than his respectable but by no means large fortune could provide, and if he went on gambling, everything he had would disappear. It was madness, sheer madness!

  Laszlo listened to him and smiled, conscious that in a moment or two he would demolish all his cousin’s arguments with a single word.

  ‘Now you must swear not to gamble anymore!’ said Balint. ‘Promise me!’ and he put his hand on Laszlo’s shoulder in a gesture of sympathetic entreaty.

  ‘I have nothing to promise,’ replied Laszlo, ‘as I don’t gamble any more!’r />
  ‘Not possible? Since when?’

  Laszlo laughed awkwardly. ‘As it happens, only since yesterday. Last night, this morning, I didn’t join the game. I promised somebody!’

  ‘Who? When?’

  ‘Somebody … somebody who is even dearer to me than you, yes, even dearer than you!’

  Balint realized that it must be Klara of whom he spoke.

  ‘So much the better then. It’s a pity it came so late, but no matter! I’m very glad, and I’m sure you’ll keep your promise. But look here, my dear fellow, stop this stupid life at once. If you go home now, immediately, it’ll be all the easier to make the break. It’s a dreadful habit and very hard to resist.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I can do it!’

  ‘You’d better,’ said Balint grimly. ‘Habit is strong and when everyone around you … Look! The Burian talks will end today – they’re quite futile anyway, or so I hear – and the House will be adjourned. I’ll go with you to Transylvania tomorrow. We’ll travel together. I’d be happy to do it!’

  ‘No! I can’t leave yet. You must understand. Not yet, not while they are still here. At the end of the season, when everyone goes. In ten or twelve days. Then I’ll go.’

  ‘Better to go at once, while your mind is still made up. I’m really very worried about you.’

  ‘It’s impossible! I can’t leave now because of something quite different. But immediately afterwards, then I’ll go. I swear it.’

  They got up and shook hands. Laszlo, in mock reverence, clicked his heels and gave a military salute.

  ‘This is how I will announce myself. Melde gehorsamst – reporting for duty, Sir!’ And with this he turned around and hurried away.

  Three days went by during which Laszlo hardly saw Klara, and when he did it was always in a crowd where they would have been watched. The princess, guarding her stepdaughter like a detective on duty, was never far away from her. Three days, three bad days, during which Laszlo heard that they had been to some gathering in the woods on the Margit Island or spent an evening at a country-house not far from the city, excursions from which Aunt Agnes had been careful to arrange his exclusion.

  It was more than Laszlo could bear. Somehow he would have to get word to Klara to meet him or he thought he would die of agony and frustration. If only he knew where she was and what they all were doing, then at least he might be able to catch a glimpse of her.

  On the fourth morning he awoke early, still tormented by the thoughts that had kept him awake so late the night before. How to do it? How? If he wrote to Klara, the letter was sure to be intercepted by her mother, for Princess Agnes was capable of any act, however mean, to ensure that her commands were obeyed. Then again he remembered the little maid, Ilus. She was a good girl, even if she always seemed so sad. He was sure she would do anything for her mistress so if he could send a message through the maid, then it stood a chance of reaching Klara. Nobody would bother about a maidservant’s letters.

  He got up at once and went to his desk. As usual he had no writing paper, so he took out one of his visiting cards and wrote a few words on the back: ‘Dear Ilus, Come to see me today. I’ll be at home all afternoon. Please come!’ Only this, nothing more.

  As Laszlo never had any envelopes either, he dressed hurriedly and went down to ask the concierge’s wife if she could give him one. It was large and rough, but it would have to do. Slipping into it the card, he wrote on the outside the maid’s name and addressed it merely to the Kollonich Palais.

  Then, still unshaven, he hurried to Kalvin Square. It was about ten o’clock. Not wanting to go up to the house where he would be recognized he handed the letter to a street porter.

  ‘Do I wait for an answer?’ asked the old man when Laszlo had told him what he wanted and put some coins in his hand.

  ‘No answer. But you must give it to her personally, into her own hands, you understand!’

  ‘Yes, sir. Just as you wish, sir!’

  It had been a bad mistake to send a street porter. If Laszlo had sent his message by post it would have arrived the same afternoon at the latest. As it was, the whole operation drew unnecessary attention to itself. Firstly, it was unusual for a maid-servant to receive letters by special delivery. What sort of person was it, anyone might wonder, who would spend money having a letter carried 50 yards just for a servant? It certainly wasn’t any relation. A member of her family, someone of her own kind, would never lay out forty cents for something that normally cost eight; not only that, they wouldn’t be in such a hurry. A stranger then? But who could it be? It was very odd and out of the ordinary.

  The porter was a conspicuous figure who always wore a red beret. This would have attracted little notice in a block of apartments with several floors and many different tenants. There he could have entered quite freely. But it was no means the case when he presented himself at the covered portico of the grand town house of the princely Kollonich family. There he was prevented from entering the mansion by a liveried door-keeper, a huge man with a bushy beard who wore an intimidating quantity of gold braid and who peremptorily demanded where the man thought he was going and asked him to state his name and the name of the person to whom he was delivering the letter. The Kollonich door-keeper was not only powerfully built but was also filled with a sense of his own importance.

  The porter, an honest and conscientious fellow, explained his mission and insisted that he had been instructed to hand the letter only to the person to whom it was addressed. This started an argument which, brief though it was, at once brought a footman running out, for the door-keeper had a stentorian voice and this undignified noise could be heard inside the house.

  ‘Well? Who’s it for?’ shouted the doorman, ‘Ilus Varga? No you can’t go up. If you want an answer you can wait outside on the sidewalk. What? No answer? Then move along! I don’t want any hanging about outside this house, thank you very much!’

  There was nothing that the porter could do but hand over the letter and move on before he caused any more trouble.

  The footman came down the steps to where the doorman stood. There he was joined by a serving-man in a baize apron and hands covered in brass polish who had been cleaning the fittings of the inner doors. ‘Who’s this for?’ they both asked. ‘Ilus?’ The doorman handed over the envelope and both the other men handled it trying to establish what it contained. All that they could determine was that a little rectangular disc seemed to be inside. It certainly wasn’t money and therefore must be a visiting card which meant that it had been sent by a gentleman despite the poor quality of the envelope. ‘Ilus must be doing all right!’ chuckled one of them, as they stood round the doorman.

  At this moment the butler Szabo, who was doing the rounds of the house, came down the steps.

  ‘What’s all this going on here?’ he asked sternly, gesturing to the under-servant in the baize apron to get back in the house and carry on with his work. The footman, to explain why he had left his post at the foot of the main staircase in the hall – and because he was terrified of the butler – started to gabble incoherently:

  ‘Well, you see, sir, a letter arrived, for Ilus Varga ... a street porter … he wanted to come in … a porter …’ he hesitated. ‘Just a porter … therefore …’ he tailed off lamely.

  ‘Where is it? Give it to me!’ and, as the footman handed it over, Szabo went on, ‘I’ll take care of this!’ Slipping the letter into his breast pocket he turned and went back up the steps.

  In a few moments all was back to normal. The lackey was polishing the brasses, the footman was back yawning at the foot of the great staircase, and the doorman went back to his place standing with splayed legs and chest thrown out to dazzle the passers-by with the importance of the house in front of which he stood.

  The princess was just going from her bedroom to her dressing room to get out of her morning negligé and put on her afternoon dress when Fräulein Schulze, her German maid, came in.

  ‘Your Grace! The butler Szabo begs your Grace’s
pardon and asks the favour of a short audience.’

  ‘Now?’ said Princess Agnes, surprised because such a request was unusual.

  The household arrangements of the Kollonich Palais were performed so automatically and smoothly that something exceptional must have arisen if she had to be consulted at this hour.

  ‘Let him come in,’ she said, sitting down by her writing desk – for one must always be seated when interviewing servants.

  Fräulein Schulze, whose corsetted figure had all the rigidity of a sergeant-major, went out as soon as Szabo entered the room. He stood respectfully near the door.

  From head to toe the butler’s whole body seemed to epitomize that of an honourable man. The expression of his face was never less than stony; not a muscle of his handsome classical features moved to reveal the smallest emotion. He was scrupulously clean and always closely shaven. With his exceptional height and the bearing of a great English statesman, no one would have thought that he was born a simple peasant boy somewhere in the country of Feher.