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

by Bánffy, Miklós

  ‘Of course. Yes, of course.’ Uzdy’s little eyes looked around the room, apparently searching for something. His glance fell on the little Browning on the lower shelf of the bedside table.

  ‘You have a revolver? Since when?’

  Adrienne did not answer. With the bedclothes pulled up to her chin she merely stared at him. Uzdy laughed.

  ‘That’s good! Very clever! Out here, so far from the town, anybody could cross the mill stream, a burglar, anybody!’ He walked up and down for a minute or two, taking long strides with his extra-long legs. Then he abruptly stopped by the drawing-room door, opened it and peered into the darkness of the room beyond. He seemed to be listening. It was only for an instant but to Adrienne it seemed like an eternity. Her heart was beating strongly, but she did not move or speak.

  Uzdy closed the door.

  ‘You are right to be prepared,’ he said. ‘Anyone could get in from there. Would you like a wire fence by the river? Or perhaps a wolf-trap? What? A trap, eh? That’d be good, very good! What?’ He laughed again, though for what reason it was not clear. Towering above her, his laughter seemed to come from the ceiling. Still Adrienne said nothing. He went on: ‘Well, I’ll be going now. You just sleep … sleep … sleep.’ He threw his head back and, seemingly even taller than ever, he turned to go. At the door he looked back, and with no expression on his satanic features, said ‘Au revoir!’ and left the room as quickly as he had come.

  At noon on the following day Uzdy left again for the country.

  That night Abady had come again and told her how he had stood, scarcely daring to breathe, behind the open door and they had both laughed about it regardless of the danger they had been in. Neither of them minded, for neither was afraid for their lives.

  But, thought Adrienne, now it was not because of the danger that these stolen meetings would have to stop. What was life? That signified nothing … but there was something else.

  On their last night together something had happened that had frightened her. A strange new feeling had flooded over her and filled her woman’s body. She knew not what, but it had frightened her. It was something altogether new, and came without warning.

  Until now she had always remained calm when Balint was caressing her. It had been agreeable, soothing, so soothing that sometimes she had fallen asleep in his arms just like a child. Those hands that stroked her body, that glided so gently over her skin, the lips that strayed from her mouth, always kissing so gently, gently, and then returning to take possession of her lips for longer than before, had given her merely a sense of agreeable languor, so that this unnoticed conquest to which she had yielded more and more territory had not disturbed her and indeed had hardly meant more than when they dined at the same table or danced together at the public balls, But last night, as their farewell kiss came to an end, Adrienne had felt overwhelmed by a sudden and unexpected weakness. From somewhere deep inside her there came an altogether new feeling which threatened to overcome any strength she had, to sweep away all control, all will power so that her very bones seemed to melt in the radiance of some magic daze. Somehow she had managed to recover herself sufficiently to push him away, suddenly, almost rudely, saying: ‘Go! Go now!’ It was an order: ‘Go! Go!’

  Balint looked down at her for a long time, and she was still not sure whether there had not been just the shadow of a smile upon his face.

  ‘May I come tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow, yes! But now you must go!’

  It was of this that Adrienne was now thinking.

  For a long time she pondered, wondering if she should write to tell him not to come any more. Should she write that she did not want to yield to him and become his lover, his mistress? That this was something that she couldn’t, wouldn’t do? Should she tell him all the thoughts that had obsessed her the whole morning, that she had pondered over a hundred times? She did not know how to write such things, and yet she could hardly put him off without giving some reason. Her courageous nature was such that she had always been prepared to face anything, and now what she would have liked most in the world was to open her heart and tell him face to face, when he came to her that evening, everything that was in her mind. But for once she was afraid, afraid of herself, afraid that she would not have the strength to resist him and afraid that his searching, caressing hands, his mouth, his eyes, his very presence beside her, would overcome her will and soothe her anxieties as they so often had before until she became bewitched into acquiescence. She was afraid that at this meeting, which she planned to be their last, her sorrow at parting would so shake her determination that now, just when they should part, she would no longer be able to resist him and they would at long last be joined for ever together.

  And so she would have to write.

  After a long time she took up her pen and started, and when she had started she wrote hurriedly, finding the right words with great difficulty and often scratching them out and starting again. Luncheon was announced long before she had finished, but still she did not move. Margit came into fetch her, but still she did not get up. ‘You go in,’ she said. ‘Sit down, start without me. I’ll join you later, perhaps, but don’t disturb me now!’ And she went on writing, the words pouring from her helter-skelter, just as they came from her heart, muddled, haphazard, desperate.

  When she had finished she felt dizzy. Nevertheless she folded the sheets and put them in an envelope and rang for her maid. When the woman came she found Adrienne standing erect, apparently quite calm.

  ‘Please take this at once and be sure that you give it only to him. To nobody else, you understand?’

  The elderly, grey-haired Jolan curtsied and left the room and then, and only then did Adrienne dissolve in tears.

  My dearest,

  I have changed my mind Don’t come to me tonight! Or any other night. Never again! Never! This is a dreadful word I know, but the whole thing is impossible. I didn’t realize it until last night. I didn’t know. It was so good, so beautiful. Do understand. I know that you love me and I, too, love you, every day more and more and more, if that is possible, and I now know what it is to love, I know that … one day, sooner or later … the thing will happen and we will become true lovers. But now that is impossible, so impossible that if it ever happened I would have to kill myself. Please don’t be angry with me! Just think of what would follow. Think how impossible everything would be! I am that man’s wife, his possession, What could happen then? That I … with you … and him. Even now it is terrible with him. You know it. You’ve felt it and you have understood even better than if I had ever spoken about it … But if I became yours, then afterwards … if with you and then afterwards …? No! Never! Never that, I would rather die! There would be no other way for me. You would say that I should divorce. If I could have I’d have done it long before you came into my life. But I can’t! He clings to me, pinions me, holds me down – he will never let me go, never release me and if I breathed a word of all this to him he would kill me. Me, and you too, or anyone else. You know what he’s like. I don’t have to explain. He would kill in cold blood, and enjoy it, laughing as he did so. I can’t let all this happen, start all this off, bring about this, this nothing! Just think where it would lead us. Only to death, and what use would that be?

  We must part. We must, there is no other way, no other way at all. You must go abroad. Please, I beg you! Don’t even try to see me again, not after this. Perhaps later, when we are both calmer – but, until then, no! I could never refuse you if I saw you again. I know it now and freely admit it. If you came I would yield at once … and it would be the end of me. I would die … I would have to…. after that I could only face death. Please have pity on me! I never meant to do you any harm I know now what I’ve done to you, so have pity on me, I beg you. If you could forget me, it would be the best for you. If this is to be our final goodbye it would be best for both of us. Try it, please try it! Perhaps it will be easier for you than for me, perhaps? I only had you, nothing else. It will
be so difficult for me, still I do beseech you to go away and wherever you go remember me and keep me in your heart knowing that I shall love you always and knowing that you didn’t kill me because I came to love you …

  I know that you’ll be strong enough to do this and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the sacrifice that you will make for my sake, a sacrifice I believe is just as great as mine. Know that I am filled with gratitude for having known your love and that I kiss your mouth as you have taught me and that I shall for ever be lying in your arms and listening to the beautiful things that you tell me and that you write for me and that I kiss you and that I am always … and forever … yours … and yours alone … But don’t kill me, I beg you … don’t kill me …

  Two days later Balint was back in Portofino. He went there straight from Budapest without stopping except to change trains, hardly noticing the changing landscapes, the continuous rumbling of the carriages, the discomfort of two sleepless nights and two endless days. Everything was unreal to him compared with the throbbing of the pain he was feeling and the feverish visions conjured up by his imagination. He knew then that Adrienne had glimpsed something she had never before imagined or experienced and that from it she had recoiled in terror.

  It was this last troubled look in Adrienne’s eyes that Balint saw most often in his mind as he fled away, back to the Riviera. He read and re-read Adrienne’s letter a hundred times and always he came to the same conclusion, that what he was doing was right and that there was no alternative but to do what she asked of him.

  He had to obey her, give her up, go far away from where she was, disappear from her life. Poor, poor Addy! She had been right; there was no other way open to them.

  At last, after driving along roads bordered by orange groves and gardens filled with spring flowers, azaleas and camellias, he arrived at the little hotel beside the bay. The colour of the sea was as blue as a picture postcard, and all around him nature seemed to mock his anguish by displays of healthy, luxuriant growth, as if telling him that the world was indifferent to his pain and, no matter who fell by the wayside, life still renewed itself annually and eternally.

  Countess Roza received him in her room. She had been angry that he had stayed away so long, making her wait three whole weeks for his return and she was sure that the excuses he made in his one short letter were nothing more than awkward pretexts to conceal a truth he did not want to reveal. As she was getting ready to receive her son she decided to teach him a lesson and at every sound outside the room she glared balefully at the door with a carefully prepared expression of disapproval. When, however, the door finally opened and her son appeared, everything was changed in an instant. With one glance she saw in the tenseness of the young man’s face the expression of one who had been in hell. Countess Roza had never seen her son like this before. Looking at him, she knew at once that this was a man in torment and all her thoughts of his neglect of her vanished as if they had never been. She was flooded by a mother’s anxiety, ran to the door to greet him, lay her head on his shoulder, her tiny hands holding him closely to her, so moved that all she could say was: ‘My little one … my son … my own little boy…’

  On their way back they stopped for two or three days at Milan, Verona and Venice; and wherever they went, to museums, palaces, picture galleries, to churches and in their hotel at mealtimes, Countess Abady discreetly studied her son. She asked no questions and she knew no details, apart from the fact that he had stayed longer than planned at Kolozsvar – and from the reports of the two housekeepers who had not failed to tell their mistress not only who was staying in town but also the fact that – Lord preserve them! – Count Balint seldom came home before dawn. Countess Roza had built up a picture for herself, a picture of what had been happening. She, of course, knew no details and mostly was far from the truth; but of one thing she was certain and that was that it was Adrienne, that wicked, wicked Adrienne, who was the reason for her son’s desperate unhappiness. It was she, that selfish, depraved, wicked woman, who had caused this terrible change in her beloved son; and the heart of the tyrannical old chatelaine of Denestornya was filled with hatred and the desire for vengeance on the creature who was responsible.

  They arrived at Budapest at the end of March and there they parted, Countess Roza travelling on alone to Transylvania. Not for a moment did the old lady try to persuade her son to come with her. Not a word did she utter. Let him stay in Budapest, she had no need of him at home. She would go back to Denestornya, and later, when spring came, he would join her there. ‘Until then, my darling, you stay here and enjoy yourself. I’ll be all right. Don’t mind me!’ and she travelled on home alone, something she had never done before.

  The political atmosphere was quite different from what it had been when Balint had left Budapest in February. Now, by a sudden volte-face, the leaders of the Andrassy and people’s parties had to accept what they had so often and so publicly rejected. A pact had been made and a new ministry formed. Apart from the three portfolios reserved for nomination by the king – these were the positions of Minister of War, Minister of Croatian Affairs, and the sovereign’s personal representative, the Minister a latere – the cabinet was to consist of three members of the 1848 Party and three members of the 1867 Party, all of whom had voted for the universal suffrage measure. Thus everyone who had opposed the liberalization of voting rights would be excluded.

  However, matters did not turn out quite as everyone had feared. That same afternoon Kossuth called a meeting of the central committee of the coalition parties so that he could present and explain the projected agreement.

  No one expected what was to follow.

  The leaders of the Constitution party and of the People’s Party both announced that they too accepted Kristoffy’s universal suffrage measure.

  For a moment there was consternation, until everyone present grasped that though it had been a great sacrifice for these astute politicians suddenly to agree to something they believed dangerous and against the national interest, they had taken this course so as to exclude from office those time-servers who were prepared to ignore the will of the people provided they could be seen to bend the knee to the Emperor. They agreed also so that if the universal suffrage became a reality the running of the state would still be in their own experienced hands. The mood changed immediately. The skies had cleared and now, suddenly everyone ran about in joy and ecstasy shouting that victory had come, that everything they had always wanted was now theirs. Victory! Victory! At last! Never mind if there were no separate army, no Hungarian words of command, no sword-tassels in national colours, never mind if the economic union with Austria remained as strong as ever with no independence for the banks or customs: these issues, of course, were merely postponed. Everyone agreed that a clever formula had been found which upheld the rule of law. Everything was now legal again and so everyone’s face was saved, though no one would have admitted it.

  Flags were hoisted all over town and speeches were made to the gathering crowds from the balcony of every party headquarters. The politicians shouted their triumph and the populace roared their approval. El Dorado, the Promised Land, call it what you will, had that day been found in Budapest.

  Balint himself was relieved that at least some solution had been found to that dangerous and unhealthy situation which had threatened the stability of the state. His own position was not affected, for Ordung, the sheriff who had been suspended and who was now Prefect of Maros-Torda, did not want any change of member. Ordung had realized that it would not be easy to oppose Abady and so he decided to concentrate all his efforts on the northern part of the district, where until now old Miklos Absolon had held absolute sway. In this he had been supported by Aunt Lizinka, who never let drop her enmity for Absolon and who now came forward as the self-appointed figurehead of the new order. Balint she protected and approved of because, on the eve of the assembly at Vasarhely, he had been her escort when she had tried to enlist that no-good Tamas Laczok, and also because
he had shouted ‘Scum!’ at the rioters in the egg battle.

  At the same Balint was not happy. There were two things that disturbed him. The first was a phrase in a recent letter from Slawata who wrote: ‘Was wird bei dieser Lösung mit der Wehrbarkeit der Monarchie – what effect will all this have on the defence structure of the Dual Monarchy? It is dangerous to keep on postponing bringing our armies up to date. We alone will come too late into the arms race. Everyone else is hard at it, but we remain idle …’

  Balint tried to chase away the thoughts that these words provoked, saying to himself that surely their only enemy was Russia and that she was too preoccupied with recovering from the shameful disaster of the war with Japan, with controlling the latent revolutionary movements, with the recurrent mutinies in the army and the recent re-emergence of pogroms against the Jews, to pose any threat to Austria-Hungary? It would take a long time for Russia to recover her strength, though it was true that, as she had been repulsed in the Far East, it was likely that she would next turn her attention to the Balkans. However, there was time enough to start thinking about that.

  The other matter was more personal. As soon as he arrived back in the capital he asked about Laszlo Gyeroffy and, unhappily, the man he asked was Niki Kollonich.

  Niki laughed maliciously: ‘Haven’t you heard? Don’t you know about it?’ he said, with obvious enjoyment. ‘You won’t see him at the Casino any more! His gambling went too far, but they allowed him to resign, thank God. He was lucky to escape being thrown out!’

  ‘You seem pretty pleased about it!’ Balint rounded on him angrily.

  ‘Not at all,’ the other said hurriedly. ‘I only meant that it was just as well for the rest of us, for his family. It would have been very awkward if there had been a scandal and he’d been thrown out publicly. It was all hushed up.’