Balint gave an outline of recent events, explaining what the Burian talks had been about and how futile they had proved, and giving a brief résumé of the various solutions that had been put forward. At first Balint was listened to in silence, but gradually his audience began to get more animated and express their own opinions, some even quite belligerently.
Most of what they said merely echoed what they had read in the columns of the opposition newspapers, quoting, perhaps unintentionally, the most sonorous phrases from the previous days’ leading articles. The loudest spoken was the Armenian butcher, Kirkocsa, who sat at the end of the long table with sleeves rolled up, thick neck bulging from an unbuttoned shirt-collar, and smote the table with his great fist each time he opened his mouth. The quietest was the Romanian priest, who sat at the other end of the table without ever opening his mouth, though his moustaches seemed to be hiding what could have been a discreet smile of amusement. As one hour and then another went by, the atmosphere became more and more heated. The chemist and the miller argued so bitterly that they almost fell to blows, though neither of them had really had a chance to justify their opinions, since they were constantly interrupted either by the butcher, who bellowed like a bull bison, or by the physician, who screamed in a high falsetto. Everyone had long forgotten that the reason for the gathering was to greet their Member of Parliament and hear what he had to say, and so they all spoke at once saying what they would have done had they themselves been the party leaders. Time went by and the wine bottles were emptied. The smoke-filled room was filled with noise, and everyone was enjoying himself.
‘We shouldn’t pay the taxes!’ they shouted. ‘We don’t need more soldiers! Give the arms to the people … and we’ll march to Vienna!’
Borcsey lifted his hand. Everyone fell silent.
‘The Old Hangman should be kicked out of the Hofburg – and that’d be an end of it!’ said the old revolutionary and rapped his stick on the floor.
This unexpected intervention had a most surprising effect. Suddenly the whole gathering calmed down. No one spoke, and for a moment all that could be heard was an occasional cough or clearing of the throat. The Emperor Franz-Josef commanded such general respect that they were as shocked by this remark as if old Borcsey had blasphemed in church. Few of them had realized that he was still thinking of the terrible reprisals taken after the 1848 uprising in Hungary when the Emperor, then a very young man, had ordered some of the rebellious Hungarian generals to be hanged rather than shot. Balint alone understood; he made as if to get up. No one spoke. They were all pretending that they had heard nothing.
Then the mayor turned to Balint and asked: ‘Will your Lordship be staying with us long?’
In a few moments everyone rose and started to take his leave.
The next morning Abady was kept busy with visits from his constituents, who came to ask his advice or present some request or petition. Among his visitors were several of those who had been present the previous evening and, even if they thought every minister an unscrupulous scoundrel and despised anyone who even spoke to such persons, they still wanted Abady to approach them and arrange for their petitions to be accepted, real life being a thing apart from politics. And, as before, each request ended with the words: ‘It only needs a word from your Lordship!’
This went on well into the afternoon. At six o’clock the last petitioner left and he was free to get away. He decided to visit the Miloths and so, ordering his man to saddle up, he left the inn and together they took the road back up to the grassland plateau. Balint knew, of course, that Adrienne would not be there but thought, as he was so near, that if they heard that he’d been to Lelbanya and not ridden over they would think that last September he had come only to see Adrienne.
When they reached the ridge above the town they rode first to the north and then shortly afterwards turned to the north-west. In half an hour they could see Mezo-Varjas in the valley below. Balint stopped for a moment as from where they were they could already see the whole Miloth estate and manor house as well as the village nearby.
Riding into the stable yard they had hardly dismounted and handed over their horses to the Miloths’ grooms when a voice could be heard from somewhere inside the barn. It was old Rattle, as usual shouting a stream of complaint at his servants.
‘You idiots! A guest arrives and no one tells me! I’ll beat the daylights out of you all!’ and he came bustling out crying, ‘Where are you, my dear chap, where are you?’ as he peered out among the lilac bushes that surrounded the barn doors. Then he turned back to face the interior of the barn, waving his arms furiously. ‘Asses! Idiots! Pig-headed brutes!’ but, seeing Balint, he came forward open-armed: ‘How nice of you to visit us! What a pleasure! I am glad you came!’
When they reached the house even the normally sour Countess Miloth seemed pleased to see him, as well as her younger daughters, while Mlle Morin managed a weak smile and became almost cheerful.
Nevertheless nothing was the same as when he had last been there.
After dinner the girls went into a corner to whisper together while Countess Miloth and the French governess sat down to their needlework in silence. Only old Miloth was in his element having someone in the house to whom he could retell his stories of Garibaldi and the campaigns that unified Italy. He was so fully in his stride when Countess Miloth rose to say goodnight and left the room accompanied by the others, that he never paused or drew breath except to make sure that Balint did not leave too.
The two men remained together for a long time. The old soldier paced up and down the room laughing loudly at his own tales and describing with wide gestures and arms flung out the oddnesses of Italian behaviour and how he himself had got tangled up in the macaroni that had been hung out to dry, had been thrown from his mule on the slopes of Vesuvius; and, most hilarious of all, how once Garibaldi had scolded him in mistake for someone else! Old Rattle had not had such a good time for many a day.
Balint listened to it all with pleasure. He liked the old man and he liked, too, the fact that his tales were good-natured and humorous. Hearing him run on was like listening to a stream of light-hearted melody, flowing and unstoppable. All Balint had to do was occasionally to interject a word or two, such as ‘Bravo!’ or ‘How amusing – fascinating – embarrassing – amazing!’ or whatever adjective seemed most appropriate, and Rattle would at once embark on another tale, full of simple humour and good fun. For the first time Balint was able to observe the old man and so he remarked, as he never had before, that Rattle had the same golden eyes as Adrienne, a sort of glowing amber, and for some reason this came with a shock of surprise, for it had never occurred to him that there might be any resemblance between his Adrienne and the faintly ridiculous Akos Miloth. But the discovery of the likeness between them endeared old Rattle to him and so he listened once again to his much-told tales with affection and emotion.
Finally they went to their rooms.
Balint had just taken off his jacket and was unbuttoning his waistcoat when he heard a faint knock at the door of his room. He looked at the door-handle but it did not turn and Balint thought that perhaps he had been mistaken. There was another knock, so Balint opened the door and looked out.
It was Judith.
‘Can I come in for a moment?’ she asked and slipped into the dimly-lit guest-room.
The young man quickly put on his jacket again.
‘There’s nothing to be upset about!’ said the young girl hurriedly. ‘I just wanted to ask a favour of you. Don’t worry, it isn’t much, really it isn’t!’
‘Well, what can I do for you?’ Balint tried to look serious and conceal his amusement at what he took to be some little girl’s prank.
‘Look, AB, the thing is … well, you see, they all treat me like a child, as if I ought to be ashamed of it. But I’m watched all the time … controlled … and, well, it isn’t very much but could you just take this letter and post it, anywhere’ll do, just put it in a postbox. Will you do it? Pleas
e! It’d be a great favour. You will do it, won’t you?’
They stood facing each other near the bed. The single candle that Balint had put down on the table lit Judith’s face, passionate, determined, desperately waiting for his reply.
‘A letter? In secret so that your parents won’t know?’
‘Yes! Please take it, please!’ and she handed him a long narrow but thick envelope.
Balint’s face clouded over. It occurred to him at once that the letter could only be for that scoundrel Wickwitz. After a moment’s reflection he said: ‘Forgive me, Judith, but no! You’re asking me something I can’t do!’ And his voice was even colder than his words.
‘I see! You really won’t?’
‘No.’
Judith stepped back, hatred in her eyes, her lips pulled back from her even white teeth: ‘I understand. So you’re on their side, are you, with all the rest of them, with my mother and Adrienne? I ought to have known better than to have asked you, of all people. I see now that it was you who put Adrienne against him, because you hate him, don’t you? Oh, I’ve known that for a long time, I’ve seen it in your eyes. You’re the one who’s responsible for this horrible mess. First you persuaded Adrienne and then she got at my mother. I see it all now; you might as well admit it!’
Abady was very angry. Looking her straight in the eyes, he said icily: ‘I didn’t have to! It wasn’t necessary, but if it had been, I certainly would have!’
They looked at each other for a moment. Then Judith tossed her head and left the room.
Balint was annoyed with himself for letting his last words slip from him. If he hadn’t been so angry he would never have done so.
Why say such things, why he asked himself. He lay awake for some time thinking over what had just happened.
No one came to wake him in the morning, to rap on the shutters and get him out of bed. In consequence he slept late and it was nearly ten o’clock before he was dressed. He breakfasted alone on the vine-covered veranda. Everything was calm. No one bothered him and no one hurried him. It was all very different from the last time he had been there! Balint began to regret that he had come.
Eventually old Rattle came in from the fields. He was an assiduous farmer who every day from dawn until midday made the rounds of his property. He went everywhere and, as he used to say, he would put everything in order, a process which consisted mainly of scolding everyone he met. Today he returned to the house so soaked in sweat that the back of his homespun jacket was wet to the touch. He was in the high good humour that sprung from consciousness of a job well done. He shook hands with Balint and greeted him effusively: ‘How are you, my dear chap? Did those idiots give you breakfast? Did they bring you any bacon? It wasn’t ‘off’, was it? Janos, where the devil are you hiding?’ he called out suddenly.
Balint assured him that everything had been done just as it should be and that his breakfast had been excellent. He asked if they could go to see the mares and their foals and then have a look at the Miloth breeding stables.
Rattle agreed, much pleased to be asked. His horses were all large, handsome and strong, big-boned animals showing all the best signs of the old Transylvanian breed though with a special touch of class, for Rattle’s father, Ferenc Miloth, had been one of the first of his compatriots to bring in thoroughbred stallions from England. The first one that he had imported was called Jason and his portrait hung in the drawing-room.
When they returned from the paddocks they went to the stables where Rattle explained everything passionately. Balint noticed that the boxes were none too clean and that the horses they contained, though beautiful, had been carelessly groomed. None of this seemed to be noticed by Rattle, but then he lived surrounded by disorder, perhaps because he never ceased to shout and scold whether or not there was any reason.
As they strolled back to the house they met the two girls. Margit, as always, was bright and smiling, but Judith looked cold and withdrawn. The two men walked on and Balint, glancing back, saw that the girls had turned into the stableyard.
After lunch Balint started for home. Once again they climbed up to the grassy prairies to the crest of the ridge that led to the south. It was a cloudy day and it was perhaps as a result of this that Balint felt strangely depressed.
When they reached Maros-Ludas and were walking their horses side by side the groom suddenly broke his silence and spoke to his master:
‘If your Lordship has no objection I’d like to stop for a moment at the post office.’
‘Why?’ asked Balint.
‘One of the young ladies asked me to post a letter at the first post box we came to!’ replied the young man as he took from an inner pocket the same thick envelope that Judith had tried to give Balint the night before.
‘There’s no point in stopping now,’ said Balint. ‘Give it to me and I’ll post it myself at Maros-Szilvas.’
He took the letter from the lad and put it in his own pocket, thinking that it was insufferably cheeky of Judith to use his servant to smuggle out her clandestine correspondence. He was extremely angry, and became even angrier when he reflected that if Judith’s parents came to hear about the letter they would think that he had been the girl’s accomplice.
Balint broke into a smart trot, though he knew that this could only be kept up until they came to the next steep climb up to the plateau again. By the time they had to reduce their speed to a walk Balint’s anger had subsided and he began to wonder why he had so abruptly and eagerly taken charge of the letter. It was nothing to do with him and it was always far better not to meddle in other people’s affairs. He wondered what he should do with it. Burn it? Hardly that, for he had no right. If he sent it back to Judith it would probably fall into her mother’s hands and then the girl would get into trouble. Post it? Not that either, because then he would be guilty of helping that loathsome Wickwitz with whatever he was now up to. He pondered the matter all the time they were climbing upwards. As they reached the top the solution came to him; he would pass the letter on to Adrienne and then she could decide the best course. He would go to Almasko as soon as he could and get rid of this embarrassing burden. That would be the best, indeed the only solution. Balint was immensely pleased with himself at the thought that he had found a way out of this latest predicament. It was always satisfying to find a suitable answer to a difficult question and Balint now felt such a sense of happiness that he whistled cheerfully as he rode along the next stretch of the way. The tune was Toselli’s ‘Serenade’, then very much in fashion.
The garden of Dinora Malhuysen, Countess Abonyi, was hidden behind the long wall that bordered the road. Inside the gates a winding avenue of thickly planted bay trees led to the house, which was a high one-storey building built in the Biedermeier style. At the front was a long covered veranda whose roof was supported by brick pillars. Here cane garden chairs had been placed, and, from one of those, Dinora jumped up, obviously pleased, indeed delighted, that Balint had arrived.
‘How nice that you’ve come!’ she cried, running down the steps to greet him and holding out both hands joyously. They went back up the steps hand in hand and sat down next to each other in the comfortable, white-painted chairs.
‘I didn’t think you’d come! You rode past the other day, didn’t you – the day before yesterday it was, surely? But you didn’t stop. I saw you from the summer house.’
‘I was in a great hurry. I was already late.’ lied Balint.
‘It doesn’t matter. Everything’s all right now that you have come!’ And Dinora jumped up again, kneeled coquettishly on the cane seat next to Balint and kissed him suddenly on the mouth. Then she laughed: ‘That’s your punishment for avoiding me, Little Boy, naughty Little Boy!’ She turned away and sat down again where she had been before.
‘How bold you are!’ said Balint. ‘That was foolhardy, anybody could have seen us!’ But he was laughing too.
‘Oh, there’s no one here. Tihamer’s having a siesta in his room. He’s having an early nap now
as he’s going to Budapest on the night train. Can you sleep in the afternoon? I can’t, and anyhow why sleep so much? It’s a waste of time …’ and she chattered on, twittering merrily about a host of trivialities.
This was the moment, thought Balint, when he should speak to her and suggest that they come to an understanding. Why, even tonight, or tomorrow? Clearly there would be no difficulties, but somehow the words did not get spoken.
To lead up to the subject, he asked: ‘What’s the news about Wickwitz?’
‘Nitwit? I don’t know. Yes, I do. He’s somewhere near Kolozsvar, shacking up with a fat Armenian widow, they tell me! Very fat, ugh! You can imagine what she looks like in bed!’ She raised her hands in disgust and crinkled up her little nose. ‘Yes, a widow lady, it seems, and she’s called something like Bogdan Lazar. What a pretty name!’
‘She isn’t fat!’ remarked Balint.
‘You know her, then?’
‘I met her at some charity do, a bazaar or something. She’s much too good for Nitwit! She’s dark – rather beautiful, I should say.’
‘Of course! I know who you mean, I’ve seen her too. Do you fancy her, Little Boy?’
To tease, Balint paused for quite a long time and then, rather mysteriously and with a serious expression, he said: ‘I’m not sure … who knows?’
Dinora fell for this, completely believing him, and at once started to ask how anybody could possibly make love to such a creature, who probably had hairy legs and no doubt gave off the oddest odour when she got over-heated. How could Balint think of such a person, she demanded, he who was so fastidious? Jumping up and walking about, Dinora got quite excited trying to disgust Balint at the idea of Mme Lazar’s charms.
They Were Counted (The Writing on the Wall: the Transylvanian Trilogy) Page 55
