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

by Bánffy, Miklós

  Chapter Five

  A WEEK LATER, to mark the end of the season, the Lubianskys gave an evening party in the garden of their villa.

  This was carefully planned: firstly, so that no one could say that the Lubianskys did not return hospitality – for they and their family were always invited everywhere – and secondly, because it would not then cost so much in champagne and food as many people would have already left for the country not waiting for the last of the races. Everyone was invited, as they should be, whether known to be still in Budapest or not, but the cost to the host and hostess would be far less than if they had given their party earlier in the season.

  Countess Beredy, contrary to her usual custom, arrived early and alone. Tonight she had left her usual court behind; indeed, she had ordered them not to attend, telling them that there was no reason for them to come as it would be too utterly boring. She had to go for manners’ sake, but said she wouldn’t be staying long, and so all of them, since they knew how to behave and were far too well bred not to take a hint when one was offered them, kept away. Not one of them therefore – not old Szelepcsenyi, nor Devereux, nor d’Orly, and especially not her pet poet Gyorgy Solimar, who hated parties anyway – offered to escort her. Fanny, as she had planned, came by herself.

  She had a special reason.

  That afternoon a telegram had arrived from Simonvasar from Warday announcing that he had asked Klara to marry him and that she had accepted. Fanny had suggested this to him when, five days before, she had brought their affair to an end.

  Fanny had given Warday his marching orders in the kindest and most elegant fashion.

  They had been in the young man’s bachelor apartment in Dobrentey Street. Fanny had just got dressed and, hat in hand, was almost ready to leave when she turned to Warday. He was smoking a cigarette on the rumpled bed, a silk dressing-gown partly covering his naked body as he lay on the silk cushions enjoying a well-earned rest.

  ‘Why don’t you marry Klara Kollonich?’ she asked suddenly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘I? Marry Klara?’ said the young man, taken aback.

  ‘Yes, why not? It would be rather a clever move. She’s a very good catch, and she likes you. You seem to like her too, so why not?’

  ‘But, darling Fanny, I love you, really I do, and I don’t even think of anyone else!’

  ‘Not now, I know, but you didn’t think this thing between us would last for ever, did you, my sweet?’

  Imre sat up.

  ‘But, darling Fanny …’

  She walked over to him and lightly stroked his face until her fingers reached his chin and she gave him a little pinch as one does a child.

  ‘You’re very sweet and it’s been very good between us, but you see,’ and, she added, smiling down at him, ‘the rule is to stop eating when you’re still hungry. And as for young Klara, the right moment has come.’

  Fanny’s wide-set eyes, as knowing and wise as a cat’s, narrowed until they seemed even longer than usual. She was thinking of the previous day when the always well-informed Devereux had told her that Laszlo’s affair with Klara had evidently come to an end, for Laszlo had been going round the town for days with a dark scowl on his face while the Kollonichs had left for the country unexpectedly early.

  She did not know any more, but this was enough. If Gyeroffy’s love for Klara had met with a definite reverse, then that was the time for her to get rid of Warday. So, after a few moments, she started again: ‘If I were you I’d get out my car and drive over to Simonvasar tomorrow. It won’t look suspicious as it’s only slightly out of your way to Baranya. Arrive about midday and stay to lunch. Then you’ll see how the land lies.’

  ‘But, Fanny, I don’t know that … Of course she’s a nice girl and I like her all right, but does she like me?’

  Fanny shrugged her shoulders and she rarely looked as beautiful as she did at that moment.

  ‘Men are such fools in these matters! Let me tell you. Do it now, c’est le moment psychologique‚’ and she went on in the same vein as she put on her hat, looked at her reflection in the mirror, and pulled on her gloves. Then, standing erect in the middle of the room, she offered him her beautiful mouth with its arched lips:

  ‘Kiss me,’ she said, ‘and we’ll remain good friends!’

  Warday did exactly what she had suggested. The afternoon his telegram arrived Fanny realized at once that the Kollonichs would certainly have wired the news to the Lubianskys, as they were neighbours and intimate friends, and also, of course to Countess Szent-Gyorgyi who would be at the Lubianskys party that night with her daughter Magda. With so many people in the know it would soon become general knowledge, and Fanny wanted to be on the spot when Gyeroffy heard the news. Oh, yes, it was essential that she should be there. He was such a strange one, so hot-headed and unpredictable that … well, she certainly must be there.

  This was why Fanny Beredy turned up at such an unusual hour at that evening’s garden party.

  The Lubiansky villa was a substantial modern house in a newly fashionable quarter of Budapest. The front door was reached by mounting a shallow flight of steps which led directly from the street entrance and opened into the large entrance hall. Here Fanny took off her wraps. The hall ran right through the house and was dimly lit, perhaps so as to enhance the effect of the brilliant lanterns in the garden beyond.

  As soon as Fanny greeted her host and hostess, they asked if she had heard of the engagement and at once began to discuss the affair in detail with her – not out of maliciousness, however, for Countess Beredy had always been so discreet, and had never shown herself in public with her lovers, that she had never been the victim of general gossip. The fact that Warday had been a regular guest at her Wednesday dinners had passed unnoticed and so had provoked no spiteful rumours. Fanny listened calmly, showing little interest in the news that the others found so engrossing.

  ‘It’s so unexpected, my dear; so surprising! No one noticed that he was paying any attention to her! And it isn’t as if Klara’s doing very well for herself, for her fiancé has only a very modest fortune and doesn’t come from a grand family at all. We all thought she’d marry Montorio, or someone like that from Vienna. It must be a love-match, it must be! There’s no other reason for Klara – who’s so pretty, rich and well born – to throw herself away on such a second-rate and dull young man!’

  Fanny listened to these effusions with an air of mild boredom. She carefully refrained from uttering a word in defence of her former lover. Instead she nodded, smiled, agreed with everything that was said, ate ice-cream and fanned herself; but out of the corner of her eye she kept watch on the wide steps down which more and more guests were entering the brilliantly-lit gardens. Time went by and just as Fanny was beginning to worry that Gyeroffy might not be coming, he suddenly appeared at the door.

  The moment she saw him she was sure that he had already heard the news. There was a strange light in his wide-set eyes and his mouth was drawn and set as if he were clenching his teeth. With his head held high and standing very straight in his impeccably-cut evening clothes, he walked slowly and somewhat mechanically towards the circle surrounding his hostess and, bowing ceremoniously, kissed the ladies’ hands in greeting.

  One of the guests immediately said: ‘Have you heard about Klara’s engagement?’

  ‘Of course! She’s my cousin!’ replied Gyeroffy, trying hard to make his smile seem spontaneous. ‘I got a wire this afternoon.’ He then bowed and went to the other end of the terrace where the young people were dancing.

  Fanny did not follow, though her eyes never left him. That is good, she thought, let him dance. She would stay where he was, near the buffet, with the older ladies. If Gyeroffy was dancing, no harm could come to him and she would not have to worry until the time came for him to leave. That was when she would have to contrive to be at hand. In the meantime she leaned back in the comfortable garden chair she had chosen, the very picture of a lazy, beautiful society woman,
slightly sleepy and apparently giving all her attention to the conversation that was going on around her. No one looking at her half-closed eyes could have guessed how intently she was watching what was happening at the other end of the terrace.

  After the uncertainty of waiting for death, the certainty of death itself – that is what Laszlo felt when he that afternoon received Klara’s telegram: ‘AT NOON TODAY I BECAME ENGAGED TO WARDAY. KLARA.’ That was all, and was Klara’s only answer to the letter he had sent to Simonvasar four days before. It had been a bad letter, long and rambling, full of awkward, confused attempts at explaining and excusing himself. It was full of such phrases as ‘I didn’t think it was so serious … please don’t judge me until you know everything … please think about it … after all, it isn’t such a big thing when everything’s considered …’ and full, too, of half-expressed suspicions that Klara had been removed to the country against her will. He used far too many unnecessary words, begging and beseeching her, which, though they might have had their effect if used face to face when she would have been convinced by his sincerity and despair, on paper seemed no more than empty phrases. Had he written simply, just a few words expressing deep humility from the depths of his heart, it might have had some effect. But nothing is more difficult than to write what one does not know how to say; and Laszlo could not even put his feelings into words. To cap it all he made a further mistake. Having no writing paper at home he wrote on National Casino club paper, and the letter heading, itself symbolizing to Klara his gambling and broken promises, screamed up at her before she even began to read.

  Laszlo never knew what had really happened; nor did anyone else. On the morning that Papa Louis told his daughter that Laszlo had been gambling before his own eyes – apparently recklessly and for huge sums – Klara begged that they should leave at once for the country. She did this for her own sake so as to have no chance of ever again setting eyes on the man who had so deceived her. Never ever again! She was now prepared to believe him capable of the vilest deception, even of having betrayed her with Countess Beredy – for that story was surely no more than the truth, and no doubt the two of them had discussed her and even laughed about her. No! She never wanted to see him again and decided to raise such a wall between them that a meeting would become impossible.

  Laszlo knew none of this, but he sensed most of it, and now the engagement to Warday was the last straw on his load of bitterness and self-reproach. If Klara had married Montorio it would have been bad enough, but at least she would have chosen a famous name and a great fortune, neither of which Laszlo could have provided. But this? Warday? Warday was no better than himself either financially or socially; and so, even if Klara had only accepted him out of anger and disappointment, the fact that the Kollonich clan had approved meant that if he, Laszlo, had not been so stupid and weak, they would in time have accepted him too. He himself, he realized, had been the cause of his own downfall, for he had gambled away his only chance of happiness and, in the midst of all his other reasons for misery, this thought was the most painful.

  Now he had nobody, nobody in the entire world. He was completely, utterly alone, and there no longer seemed any reason for living.

  It was a hot night and as the concrete terrace was not the best surface for dancing, it was only one o’clock when most of the young people settled down in chairs or on the grass to listen to the gypsy band who were playing old Hungarian songs and modern sentimental ballads, ‘swoon-music’ as these were beginning to be called.

  Laszlo sat down with the other young people. From where Fanny was placed he was in profile, but she could see him well. He had pushed his chair slightly back from the group with which he was sitting and did not join in their chatter. Occasionally he would raise a hand to beat time with the music as if he were enjoying it, but Fanny noticed that when one of the waiters offered him a tray of large glasses filled with punch he waved the man away and did not drink. When Fanny saw this her heart missed a beat.

  She knew, for she had watched him, just how much Laszlo usually drank and she had decided that once she had made him hers she would get him to give it up. There was something sinister and tragic in the fact that he did not now even try to find solace in wine.

  It was as if he knew that that night he was faced with an all-important decision and must keep alive his sorrow so as to have enough strength to exercise judgment on himself. Apart from Fanny’s deep knowledge of men her love for Laszlo gave her an instinctive, almost telepathic understanding of what was going on in his mind. She knew that this night she must stay with him and watch over him.

  Some of the older ladies were already beginning to nod with sleep when a few young couples started to demand a csardas. During the slight commotion this caused Fanny saw Gyeroffy get up and move, not in the direction of the dancing but towards the house. She realized he was about to leave and that she must somehow get near the door before he did. Slowly, so as not to attract notice, she rose and left the hostess’s circle and, as she was closer to the house than Laszlo was, she managed to get into the hall before him. When Laszlo came in from the garden she was already standing in front of a mirror apparently adjusting her stole. When he was close to her she turned and spoke to him: ‘Are you leaving, too?’

  Laszlo started slightly: he had been too wrapped in his own thoughts to notice her presence.

  ‘Yes, I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Then would you help me find a carriage? There’s a hackney stand just close to the house.’

  ‘Of course!’

  Wrapping her head and face in her lace shawl Fanny looked at the young man’s reflection in the mirror. He stood quite close but was looking, not at her, but at an arrangement of artificial flowers that stood on the table beneath the mirror. They were well-made and colourful, but old and dusty; for the Lubianskys had thought it hardly worth-while to spend money on renewing them when the hall was always left in semi-darkness.

  ‘Look at these! Look, they might be real. From a distance they look like flowers, but close to you can see what they really are: paper, nothing but torn paper!’ and he began to laugh, quietly and bitterly.

  Fanny put her hand on his arm and squeezed it sympathetically. ‘Come, my dear, let’s leave now,’ She spoke with almost sisterly compassion.

  They left the house and together walked slowly the short distance to Lovolde Square where there was a hackney carriage stand. The pavement was almost in darkness for the thick foliage of the horse-chestnut trees which lined the street cut out most of the light from the street-lamps. This pleased Fanny because it meant that no one would recognize her and when they reached the rank it was she who opened the door of the first carriage, got in and sat down.

  ‘Come on,’ she said to Laszlo, who obeyed without uttering a word. When he was seated and had closed the door she leant out of the window and called to the driver: ‘Museum Street!’

  Laszlo made no sign that he had heard. As the one-horse carriage moved slowly along the dark twisting streets of the Elisabeth district on its way back to the centre of the city, Fanny’s hand searched for Laszlo’s in the darkness and held it gently as if she shared his suffering. It was the very lightest of contact, a mere touch of the fingertips. She said nothing until much later, when they had almost arrived at Laszlo’s lodgings, when she murmured: ‘I’ll stay with you tonight.’

  The night porter opened the door sleepily and together, side by side as if they had been strolling in the Korso, they went up the three flights together.

  They entered the apartment without a word. They did not put any lights on for the glow of the street-lighting below was enough for them.

  Laszlo still did not speak. He might have been alone. He sat down on the shabby divan near the wall and buried his face in his hands. Overcome by fatigue, he stayed there without moving for some time, his heart beating so slowly that he felt that at any moment it would stop – and how wonderful it would be if it did!

  Laszlo noticed nothing of what was going on aroun
d him. Time went by; he had no idea how much, and all at once he felt two cool arms round his neck, a soft woman’s body pressed against his hot lips covering his neck with fluttering, comforting kisses. Then silky hands caressed his head and pulled it down to naked velvety shoulders, a mouth searched for his, a tiny tongue inserted itself between his lips, and scented breath perfumed his own breathing. Slowly the purple darkness of desire wiped out the pain, dulling his misery like that legendary potion which makes a man oblivious to everything but love and passion …

  At the first light of dawn Fanny awoke to find herself kissing the hand of the young man beside her. Dazed with gratitude she kept her eyes closed, happy to feel that his other hand was gently caressing her relaxed body, moving with delicate care over the skin of her thighs, arms, breasts. After a while she looked up at him. He was half-lying, half-sitting on the bed beside her, the upper part of his body raised against the pillows and his head was held high and turned towards the window. Laszlo was gazing out into the dim grey of early morning, his eyes, filled with despair, were wide open and his mouth was contorted with pain. And though his hand was stroking Fanny’s body, his movements were automatic, unconscious. His spirit was not there. It was far, far away … at Simonvasar.

  PART FIVE

  Chapter One

  Denestornya. Village. County of Torda-Aranyos. Gyeres District. Inhabitants: 1‚737: Prot. 1,730; Rom. Cath. 5: Jews 2. Castle and park of Counts Abady. District Post and Telegraph.

  – This much is told us by the County Guide.

  THE CASTLE STOOD on the edge of the Keresztes grasslands A which form the principal plateau of central Transylvania. It was sited on a small eminence seventy feet or so above the Aranyos plain, the first of a group of small hills which rise gradually to the south, eventually becoming the low mountain chain which runs from Torda to Kocsard. The original fortress must have been constructed about the time of Bela III, for the lowest vaults, like those of the church nearby, date from the twelfth century. Whoever chose this site chose well. The low rise on which the castle stood was made of smooth-surfaced clay soil enriched with layers of marl. The eastern face was steep, that to the north sloped gently downwards, as did the western side where the village had grown up under the protection of the fortress above it. When the castle was first built it must have been almost inaccessible due to the marshlands created by the flooding of the river below. Over the centuries, however, the flooding had receded, for now the land was covered in a rich layer of fertile soil. The top of the little hill was entirely covered by the castle. The only open approach was from the south but here there had been dug a deep moat which was once protected by palings and outer fortifications, the outline of whose foundations, since covered over, were now visible only when looked down on from the hills behind.