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

by Bánffy, Miklós

  The butler stood erect, his mouth closed, calm and without stiffness, waiting to be spoken to.

  ‘Well, Szabo, what is the matter?’ demanded the princess who, when speaking to any of her servants, used the family names only of the butler, the chef and Fräulein Schulze; the last because she came from a better family.

  ‘Your Grace,’ said the face of stone, ‘I beg pardon of your Grace for this inconvenience, but something has happened which affects the reputation and good name of this princely household.’ Szabo spoke ponderously, giving equal emphasis to each word.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the Princess, surprised.

  ‘There is a young maidservant, the Duchess Klara’s maid – her name is Ilona Varga, or something like that. She is not, I beg your Grace’s pardon, worthy to be employed in such a noble house.’

  ‘Really? Ilus?’

  ‘Yes, your Grace. I hesitated for some time before reporting the matter to your Grace, but now, because the good name of such a high ranking household is at stake I feel obliged to bring the matter to your Grace’s notice.’

  ‘What is it? Is she having some disreputable love-affair?’

  Szabo paused. He seemed to be having difficulty in bringing himself to speak of such indecent matters. At last he got it out: ‘She is pregnant, your Grace!’ He bowed slightly, with downcast eyes, and then went on with even greater deference of manner: ‘I beg your Grace’s pardon, but I felt it my duty to dare to inform your Grace.’

  ‘Well! And … since when, may I ask? Who is responsible?’

  The butler sighed sadly and made some uncertain gesture with his hands: ‘I have had my suspicions for some time, but how can one be sure of such things? However, today a street porter brought her a letter … to this house! That really is going too far, your Grace!’

  He brought out the grey, wrinkled envelope and placed it on a table near where the princess was sitting.

  ‘Do you imagine that I wish to read a maidservant’s letters?’ said Princess Agnes coldly, but before saying any more she looked up at him and realized from his expression, sad but emphatic, knowing but respectful, that there was something here, something special, that must be revealed. She reached for the envelope, opened it, and a little visiting card fell out on to the table: Laszlo’s card, engraved on one side with his name and title and, on the other, in the hand-writing she knew so well, the message: ‘Dear Ilus, Come to see me today …’

  Agnes was filled with a dreadful anger. This Laci! Now he was trifling with serving wenches! Dirty, disreputable, perverted lout, to give Klara’s maid a child! And, as these thoughts rushed through her head, she realized that she didn’t believe a word of it and this must only be a way of trying to get a message to her stepdaughter. But what a chance this offered! She would believe it, it was fuel to her anger against him, fuel that could fan the flames of her wrath at his presumption and justify her hatred of her nephew.

  The butler waited without moving. Not a muscle of his face twitched. He did not look at his mistress but only at the carpet beneath his feet. There was nothing for him to do. It was not his place to influence the princess, any more than it was to show that he was aware of her emotion. That would never do. It was an unwritten law that servants were not permitted to notice their employer’s feelings. He was there merely to pass on information, nothing more. He must not utter another syllable. He had said enough to accomplish his duty and now his role was merely to await orders and then to carry them out. He would do what he was told, to the last letter. That was his role. Thus far and no further. Until the princess spoke he must remain silent and for that he would wait as long as necessary.

  The princess rang the bell on her desk and, in an instant, her maid appeared.

  ‘Liebe Schulze! Bring me the employment card of …’ She looked up enquiringly at Szabo.

  ‘Ilona Varga,’ he said.

  ‘Also von dieser Varga. Sofort – at once!’

  The elderly German maid hurried away. She returned in a few moments.

  The princess then issued her orders: Ilona Varga was to be paid a month’s wages and thrown out of the house immediately. In ten minutes she must be out in the street.

  The two upper servants bowed their acknowledgement of their instructions and the princess rose and started to move towards her dressing-room. At the door she turned. ‘Make sure the girl speaks to nobody before she leaves the house. Absolutely no one, do you understand? This is an order, Szabo! No one!’

  The butler made a low bow, showing that the command was perfectly clear and that he would ensure that it was faithfully carried out. He did not speak. What it is to employ someone one can trust, thought the princess … and the thought almost made her cheerful again.

  When the door had closed behind her Szabo picked up Laszlo’s card, slipped it back in the envelope and replaced it in his pocket. If ever the girl demanded maintenance for her child no doubt it would come in handy! Then he followed the lady’s maid out of the room.

  Together Szabo and Fräulein Schulze went to look for Ilus. First they went straight through the second courtyard to the door of the great kitchen where Fräulein Schulze looked in and asked the maids who were busy washing up if anyone had seen Ilus. ‘She’s gone to the drying room,’ said one of them as they crowded round the door eager to know why the ‘Miss’ and the great Mr Szabo were looking for a young maidservant. They had sensed at once that something was up, so they stayed in a group by the door to watch and listen.

  Just at that moment the girl came back, carrying in her right hand two clothes-hangers on which were hung a couple of Klara’s delicate, frothy muslin summer dresses. She held them high and well away from her lest one of the ruffles should be creased or the hem pick up some dust from the tiled floor. She walked lightly, almost tripping as she came.

  Szabo stood back as Fräulein Schulze advanced upon the girl.

  ‘You get out of this house at once! Do you hear me? Out! This very instant!’ shouted Schulze furiously in appalling Hungarian.

  ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ cried Ilus, frightened by the woman’s angry tone.

  ‘Out of here? No buts and ifs! Here’s your card and your month’s wages. Off with you. At once, I say!’

  ‘What? Me? Just like that?’ Ilus paused when she saw that Szabo was standing in the background and then she cried out to him: ‘This is your doing. I know it. It’s you … you, Mr Szabo!’ and then, her voice growing every more strident: ‘You do this to me and now, now you … you …’ She could say no more, so strong was her shame and consternation. She staggered slightly and leant against the wall for support, still automatically holding Klara’s dresses away from her so that they should not spoil.

  At the noise the cook and the kitchen-boy came to see what was going on in the passage and the chef appeared from the door of his room. Seeing that the eyes of so many people were on her Ilus got hold of herself so that they should not gloat over her disgrace. Her courageous, proud little peasant spirit rebelled and gave her strength. She straightened up, raised her head and said to the German Fräulein: ‘All right! Let’s go!’ and started to move away. Schulze too turned on her heel and left, the girl following behind her. As Ilus passed Szabo, who had not moved from his place in the background, she stopped for a moment.

  ‘God will punish you for this, Mr Szabo!’ she said, and then went on, still holding high Klara’s beautiful dresses, dresses of such lightness and elegance, featherlight garments seemingly woven of the stuff that dreams are made of, scented and glittering. So went the little maid along the dark dusty corridor holding dreams – someone else’s dreams – on her outstretched arm.

  ‘That was nicely done! You are a clever fellow,’ laughed the overweight chef, taking Szabo’s arm. ‘First you get her with child and then you have her thrown out! Very clever!’ He went back into his room from which his chuckles could be heard for some little time.

  When the two women reached Ilus’s room, Fräulein Schulze took Klara’s dresses an
d putting down Ilus’s employment card and her money, said: ‘Pack! Straight away, mind you!’ and left the girl alone in her room.

  Ilus packed hurriedly. It was quickly done for she had few possessions, and it would have been finished even sooner if the child in her womb had not moved inside her, that child conceived without joy and for which Mr Szabo was now having her thrown out.

  When she was ready she stepped out into the corridor, her modest little wicker bag in her hand, thinking that at least she should go to the Lady Klara to say goodbye; but beyond the service stair, at a bend in the corridor, her way was barred by the hated Fräulein standing like the implacable guardian at the Gates of Paradise. Schulze hated all the other servants; Szabo, the chef, everyone, but most of all she hated all those pretty young maids – and most of them were pretty – that Szabo treated as his private harem. Joyless and sour herself, it was from the depths of her frustrated spinsterhood that she had conceived a loathing of those ‘depraved creatures’ with whom the butler took his pleasure. She well knew everything that happened in the house, but she was not powerful enough to quarrel with Szabo, whose position was impregnable, and so had to content herself with rejoicing when he arranged to have dismissed the ones he got into trouble.

  ‘I only wanted to kiss her Ladyship’s hand!’ said Ilus sadly.

  ‘She won’t see you. She won’t receive a little whore like you – so eine Hure! Little bitch, out of here at once!’ Schulze’s long gaunt arm pointed back down the stairs.

  Ilus turned back, descended the service stairway whose boards creaked under her little feet from the whitening powder used to clean them, passed through the two courtyards and found herself in the street. Until then she remained calm, but now alone in the bustle of the great city, the enormity of the blow that had come without warning was suddenly so dreadful that she could hardly stand.

  She took a few aimless steps away from the house. Now she realized how tired she was and felt the weight of her motherhood. She would have to find somewhere to sit down, to rest and ponder what she should do.

  Across the road was the garden of the Museum, so she crossed over and found a bench to sit on.

  What could she do? Where could she go?

  Some children were playing near to where she sat. Uniformed nannies and nursery-maids were pushing perambulators or leading well-dressed toddlers. The children were all fat and healthy and well fed and the sight of them filled little Ilus with a sense of her own grief – her own baby would most likely be swathed only in rags. Perhaps it would have been better to follow Mr Szabo’s cynical suggestion that she found out some backstreet ‘midwife’ who knew what to do in such cases. Then she wouldn’t have had any of this worry and trouble. But she hadn’t wanted to and couldn’t bring herself to do it …

  But now what could she do, to whom could she turn? She couldn’t look for work in her condition – no one would have her. Perhaps she could find a protector, a pimp; though she knew of the existence of such people only by hearsay and had never met one. She was a country girl who had come straight from her parents’ cottage to service in the great house of Simonvasar, for at home there were so many mouths to feed that she had had to go out to work as soon as she was old enough.

  Should she go home to her mother, go home to show her shame with a bastard child in her belly, to be the laughing stock of the village and to be driven away again for conceiving a child by some ‘foreigner’, as the people at home thought of all who were not born and bred in the district? And what about that lad who would soon return from his military service with whom she had held hands, and to whom she had pledged herself on the evening before he had signed up and gone away to serve his time with the 44th Infantry? The thought that he should return to find her like this, fallen and despised by all, was unbearable. He, too, would despise her, turn away from her and spit upon her. No! She would rather die than suffer such disgrace.

  So she sat on the bench and pondered, not crying but just staring silently in front of her; seeing nothing.

  Surely the Lady Klara would take pity on her? But that hateful ‘Miss’ had said she wouldn’t see her, as if she too despised her and found her unclean, unfit to enter a lady’s presence. Yet the Lady Klara had always been so kind and considerate. Even last week she had kissed her when she had handed her the letter to deliver, but then of course she didn’t know about the child.

  Laszlo Gyeroffy! Perhaps he could help. Yes, she would go to him. If Count Laszlo asked it of her, perhaps for his sake …?

  Ilus pulled herself upright. Picking up the wicker bag, she started off. Count Laszlo lived somewhere thereabouts, quite near. Of course! She remembered it was in Museum Street. She prayed she would find him at home.

  Laszlo was walking up and down his little sitting-room. He had been doing so for more than an hour, waiting impatiently for Ilus to come to him in answer to his message. He was rehearsing to himself what he would tell her and how he would make her learn by heart, word by word, what she was to say to Klara, that life was impossible, that he could not go on like this and that Klara must find a way. Perhaps she could send Ilus back the following morning, to tell him what her plans were for the day, where he would be able to find her.

  The doorbell rang. Laszlo went quickly to see who was there and indeed it was Ilus for whom he had been waiting so impatiently. As he ushered her into the living-room, he wondered for a brief moment why she was carrying a travelling bag.

  Ilus was out of breath after climbing the three flights of stairs to Laszlo’s rooms. It really was too much for her and she staggered, panting, to support herself on the end of the piano.

  ‘Sit down, please,’ said Laszlo. ‘Rest a moment.’ And though she tried to protest he made her sit down in an armchair facing the window. Then he noticed the desperation in her face.

  ‘What is the matter? Is something wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘Forgive me, please forgive me!’ stammered Ilus uncertainly. She was still feeling giddy from the climb.

  ‘I’m so glad you could come,’ went on Laszlo. ‘I’ve been waiting for you!’ He started to outline to Ilus his plan to see Klara and what we wanted the girl to say. He spoke very quickly and passionately. ‘You do know, my dear girl, that Klara and I … well, we love each other?’

  The girl nodded. Of course she knew, that was why she had come to him. She still said nothing but just nodded.

  ‘I haven’t been able to see her for days, and it’s unbearable, impossible to live like this. Four days without seeing her and I can’t sleep or think. I can’t stand it. Therefore I want her to know that if this goes on I’ll die. It can’t go on! It can’t! Four days is an eternity! And you must tell her as I don’t dare to write – my letter would never reach her – but a message by word of mouth … you could take it. Will you do it? You must have many opportunities – while you’re helping her dress, perhaps?’

  Ilus had kept on trying to interrupt but Laszlo had not noticed. She raised her little hand, which was covered with needlepricks, but nothing would stop him, he just went on, trying in broken sentences, to explain himself. As he went on Ilus slowly began to understand that even Count Laszlo, to whom she had come for help, could not approach the Lady Klara either. This was dreadful; her last hope had vanished and so, her heart constricted with grief, she broke out in great heaving sobs.

  Laszlo was just saying ‘… so that’s why I sent the card.’ when he saw that she was crying bitterly. He broke off and looked at Ilus in wonder.

  ‘What is wrong? Tell me! Why are you crying like this!’

  ‘I … I … I’ve been sent away, thrown out!’ sobbed Ilus.

  ‘You? When? How? Why?’

  ‘An hour ago. Like a dog, thrown out on the street. That’s why I’ve come to you.’

  ‘But what happened? Why?’

  The girl wiped her eyes with her little crumpled handkerchief. She blushed deeply and hesitated for a moment. Then she said: ‘I’m going to have a baby.’

  ‘You? For
Heaven’s sake!’ Laszlo was taken aback.

  ‘Yes, and because of it, and because I wouldn’t have an abortion as Mr Szabo wanted, so that it wouldn’t be known and be talked about, so that the masters shouldn’t hear about it, he’s had me thrown out! It’s him. I’m sure of it.’ And she started to tell her sad story, somewhat confusedly but sufficiently clearly for Laszlo to understand the essential points, of how Szabo had pursued her, pestered her, even though she had tried to explain that she was a good girl, not like that at all, betrothed to a soldier; but how nothing had stopped him. How powerful Mr Szabo was, how well-in with the masters, how he had threatened her with dismissal and finally how he had forced her despite all her entreaties. She was only a girl from a poor family with many brothers and sisters and now she was sent away because no one who got on the wrong side of Mr Szabo was ever allowed to stay. He was a very strong man and it would be terribly humiliating for her if she went back to her village, sent home like this in disgrace. And how could she go back to her mother when it would make so much trouble for her, when they already had difficulty finding food for them all?

  Laszlo listened to the girl’s story in silence. He was sure that every word she said was true for he remembered how, when he had been at Simonvasar for the pheasant shooting in November, he had seen the girl struggling in the butler’s arms at the turn of the service stairs and afterwards had heard the sound of a scuffle in a room above his. Now, as he looked at the crumpled figure of the girl huddled miserably in the armchair in front of him, he could see clearly the signs of her pregnancy. His heart went out to her in compassion and he took her hand and stroked it.