They Were Found Wanting (Writing on the Wall: The Transylvania Trilogy)

by Bánffy, Miklós

  When Dodo tossed off her motoring cap, her dark hair hung free giving forth a subtle sweet female scent and her neck rose smoothly from the open blouse like the throat of a dove. As they chatted easily together Laszlo felt himself gradually being overcome by some magic spell. The girl’s wide-open eyes were filled with tenderness.

  Outside it started to rain, a few drops spattering the window sill.

  Dodo jumped down and went over to the Bösendorfer.

  ‘Are you still working at the piano?’ and when Laszlo shook his head, she went on, ‘No? What a pity!’ For a while they turned over the musical scores that were lying in untidy heaps on the piano top and then Laszlo started to look for some of his own manuscript works and showed them to her and Dodo leant against him, so interested was she, it was like some comradely game of love where words and actions have no real meaning but serve only to tie the two of them together, close to each other, their shoulders and hips touching, and their young blood racing beneath the skin.

  Outside the rain was now falling hard, drumming on the window sill like a prelude of Chopin and forming a curtain of close-knit threads separating them from the world outside. Once again it was Dodo who broke away. Still not quite sure of herself she went first towards the sofa, but it was covered with books and clothes carelessly thrown down and that, perhaps, was why she moved over to the bed, pulled straight the eiderdown and sat down on the edge. Laszlo followed her almost unconscious of his movements and sat beside her.

  Dodo leaned towards him, slipped her arms round his shoulders and without a word offered him her mouth. At once they were welded together in a long kiss until the sound of the raindrops seemed to echo the throbbing of their desire for each other.

  After a while Laszlo pushed her gently away, shook himself, got up and went to sit down on a chair a little way away. It was as if he were fleeing from the passion within him. Then, very softly, he said‚ ‘We shouldn’t … we shouldn’t!’

  Dodo looked at him, smiling. ‘Why not? You know I love you. I’ve loved you for ages, for ever. I’ve always loved you. I’m yours if you’ll have me. Why don’t you marry me? I’d be happy to be your wife! You’ll see how happy we’d both be!’

  ‘But that’s impossible!’ said Gyeroffy‚ though there was no conviction in his voice, only slight protest against the unexpected.

  ‘Why impossible? There’s nothing to stop us. We’re both free. We can do as we please. Isn’t it enough that I ask you?’ and she repeated softly‚ sweetly‚ ‘Well, isn’t it?’

  As Dodo said this she presented a charming picture sitting on the edge of the bed leaning forwards towards him her light raw-silk dress emphasizing the contours of her body, her round breasts, her smooth round neck. Her lips were reddened from their kiss and her eyes were beseeching. Laszlo’s first impulse was to jump up and take her in his arms; but the impulse lasted only a fraction of a second before something stopped him, though not before he had started to move towards her.

  In the last few weeks more and more writs had been served on him, writs for the payment of long-standing debts. The bailiffs had been twice to the house and maybe they had even now fixed a date for selling all his belongings. Laszlo never understood these things. Azbej arranged everything for him, postponements, arrangements for amortizations – how and with what Laszlo had no idea. All he knew was that he was submerged in debt and that any day might find him thrown out onto the street.

  It was the sudden memory of this, the consciousness of his bankruptcy‚ which had stopped him. He looked at Dodo from where he sat and in his distress answered her‚ ‘I, I have nothing, only debts. Even now this place may not be mine. I’m a beggar.’

  If at this moment Dodo had taken him in his arms, pressed her young body to his and had said she didn’t care, or that it didn’t matter, or even if she had said nothing but just pressed her mouth to his without another word, then perhaps all would have been well and their fate would have taken a different turn. It was one of those moments in life when destiny is determined by a single word and what happens thereafter can never be reversed. But Dodo, alas, did not choose either of the ways that would have ensured her happiness. Quite unconsciously it was she herself who undid everything that up until now she had planned with such care and success. She said‚ ‘What does that matter? I know all that already. Everything can be arranged. I’m quite rich enough to take care of all that!’

  From where she sat, facing the window, Dodo could not see how Laszlo’s face crumbled as she spoke.

  At those few short words all Laszlo’s recent past surged back into his mind. At that moment he was faced with everything that had happened to him. It was all there in front of him. There stood his former mistress, the lovely Fanny Beredy, who had loved him and without his knowledge pawned her famous rope of pearls to settle his gambling debts. He could think of nothing but his shame when he had found this out, a shame that had been with him for months until he had freed himself by redeeming the pearls, leaving his new debts unpaid, an action which he had known would lead to his being thrown out of the Casino Club. There too stood the phantom of Lieutenant Wickwitz, his handsome face contorted with mocking laughter, whom Laszlo when drunk had insulted by accusing him of living off rich women, when all the time he had known that he himself was guilty of the same sin. The Austrian officer had been disgraced and had fled abroad but he, Laszlo, he had sat in judgement over this scoundrel and over himself, over all men who lived off women. Never! Never! Never again would anyone be able to accuse him of that! Never! Never! Never!

  Laszlo jumped up and backed behind his chair using it as a barricade between them. He flung out an arm, pointing to the door, ‘Go away! Never! Never that!’ and his voice was filled with menace as he shouted; ‘Go! Go! Go!’

  Pale as death Dodo got up. Then the blood rushed to her face. Picking up the motoring cap that had fallen to the floor, she ran out of the room.

  Once outside she flung herself into her car. ‘Drive!’ she muttered to her driver. ‘Drive!’ and when they reached the main road and he asked where she could only just whisper, ‘Home … home … home …’

  Dodo pulled the thick motoring cap tightly down over her hair and put on the heavy thick driving goggles. The rain ran down her face and clouded the lenses – but it was not only this that misted her vision. Inside the goggles tears poured from her eyes until they too seeped down onto her cheeks.

  It was as if her eyes and nature both competed to weep over her sorrow.

  Chapter Two

  AT THE BEGINNING of October there was a large family gathering at the manor-house of Mezo-Varjas. Since Countess Miloth had only died six months before‚ in February, this was somewhat unconventional; but it was what Count Akos (known to all as ‘Rattle’) wanted. He had told his youngest daughter, Margit, to summon Adrienne and their cousins, the Laczok girls; and his son Zoltan, who was now at college, to round up some young men because his god-daughter, the child of the Miloth estate overseer, was getting married and it was only right, however he might mourn his wife, that Count Miloth should see that the marriage was properly celebrated by the family.

  ‘I know the man’s a fool’, shouted old Rattle to his children, ‘and probably a thief as well, but since he’s served us for so long, and the girl is goose enough to take that good-for-nothing son of the Lelbanya chemist, I don’t see what else we can do!’

  Margit said nothing. Her brother was not so sensible.

  ‘Who do you want me to write to, Papa? Who do you want?’ he said.

  ‘How do I know, you dolt?’ shouted Count Akos. ‘It’s all the same to me. Do you think I care, after losing your mother? Anyone you like! Now get out of here or I’ll hand you one you won’t forget!’ and he aimed a kick at the boy who jumped nimbly out of the way, quite unperturbed by his father’s apparent anger. At the door he turned, smiling, and said, ‘I’ll talk it over with Margit!’

  ‘Do that, you dimwit!’ growled his father and then stumped off to the stables whistling
quietly through his teeth. In a few moments he could be heard shouting again, this time abusing the stable lads. It was what he called ‘keeping order’.

  Margit arranged everything just as it should be. Forty-eight hours before the marriage Adrienne arrived with one of the Laczok cousins and the next day they were joined by two of the Alvinczy boys – Adam and Akos, the second son and the youngest – together with Abady and Gazsi Kadacsay.

  Abady arrived in his own carriage, as did the Alvinczys who came over from their nearby estate at Magyar-Tohat. Gazsi, as might have been expected, rode over from Kolozsvar. Slung across the pommel of his saddle was a large dead fox, because Gazsi’s latest pastime was to chase after any wild animal he saw on the road, and try to shoot it with a huge double-barrelled shotgun he had had made just for that purpose. Usually he was unsuccessful but, occasionally, as today, he would make a kill.

  ‘It’s a great sport, my fr-r-riends!’ he cried out on arrival, ‘because you can’t look where the horse is taking you. You’ve got to keep your eyes on the hare or the fox, and follow wherever he goes, no matter where! I’ve had some staggering falls, I can tell you. Once I nearly br-r-roke my neck!’

  As he was explaining this to the girls who were standing on the veranda that ran the length of the house, Gazsi held his head sideways tilting his raven’s beak of a nose in a most comical fashion. The girls’ admiration only lasted the fraction of a minute. As Gazsi held up the fox they all let out a scream for a myriad swarm of red fleas were seen jumping about in the fur and falling in a rust-covered heap on the ground below.

  Kadacsay was chased away from the house and Count Akos shouted for the servants to bring a broom and sweep away the nuisance. The girls fled indoors.

  Away from the house, and holding his unwelcome booty in his hand, Gazsi stood forlorn not knowing what to do. From the windows the girls scolded him for being so thoughtless, but they hardly knew how to do so they were laughing so much and, after all, it was not very serious.

  Only one of the Laczok girls had come with Adrienne. This was Ida. If anyone had asked Margit why she had arranged it that way, she would have given no reason. Perhaps she could have, but that was not her way. Why give reasons? Why explain? Margit always knew exactly what she was doing, but telling was another matter.

  There was a reason, all the same. One Laczok girl would be quite enough, for it never did to have too many girls. Ida had been chosen because, when Gazsi had had enough to drink, he was always convinced he was in love with her. There was nothing wrong with that and, given the opportunity, he might propose to her. Margit would make sure that there was plenty to drink. Then, of course, this meant that Kadacsay had to be invited too. Of the four Alvinczys two would be enough. Farkas, the eldest, had been ruled out as, since he had elected to Parliament, he had become far too serious; and the third son would only be an embarrassment because, copying Uncle Ambrus, he always got drunk very quickly and then used the most obscene language – and it only needed a glass or two to set him off. The youngest boy, Akos, was necessary as someone was needed who would listen to old Rattle’s oft repeated reminiscences of the past; but Adam’s presence was absolutely vital. Adam had to be there because, as he had for a long time fancied himself in love with Adrienne, who would have nothing to do with him, he used to confide his sorrows to Margit and that, Margit thought, was a step in the right direction. Of course AB would have to be there too. And if one asked why she chose Balint Abady she might have explained it was only correct, as he was the member for Lelbanya, that he should attend the wedding of the Lelbanya chemist’s son. When Margit thought about Balint a tiny secret smile might have been detected on her face; but if anyone had looked at her at such a moment that smile would have vanished, for Margit was nothing if not discreet.

  The day of the marriage came and all the guests gathered in the afternoon in the estate overseer’s office where the ceremony was going to be conducted. It had to be there because the little Protestant church in the village had disappeared many years before. The pastor from Lelbanya came over to bless the young couple.

  Also from Lelbanya, to act as best man, came the squire himself, the ruined old knight Balazs Borcsey of Lesser- and Greater-Borcse.

  This had been brought about after much diplomatic manoeuvring. The original suggestion had been made by the village doctor, the inn-keeper had been in favour and the mayor had managed to organize it. The gift of a cow in calf had clinched the matter and the animal’s upkeep had also been provided for since Borcsey was so poor that otherwise the cow would have died of hunger. Even this would not have sufficed to conquer the pride of the old squire who was puffed up with a sense of his own importance. The decisive point had been the fact that Count Akos Miloth had consented to give the bride away. Though old Borcsey considered that the Miloths were greatly inferior in birth and breeding to the Borcseys of Lesser-and Greater-Borcse, the old man, himself a hero of the 1848 uprising, was told that Rattle had fought by the side of Garibaldi and so could almost be thought of as a comrade-in-arms.

  The overseer’s office was small. At one side was a sofa covered with oil-cloth and, between that and the simple painted pine-wood table, the space was entirely taken up by the priest, the young couple, the parents and the two important witnesses, old Borcsey and Count Akos. The other guests remained outside beneath the tile-roofed portico whence, through the open door, the ladies could admire the bride’s white gauze dress, the groom’s new if somewhat oddly cut black coat, and the imposing presence of two such grand witnesses as the local landowner and the old knight. Of the two it was perhaps the latter who made the greatest impression, despite the fact that not one of the chemical formulae invented by the chemist could remove the ancient stains from his coat. Nevertheless he cut an elegant figure in his tight-fitting breeches; and with his long grey hair and waxed moustaches he looked like an engraving of the sixties.

  By the time the pastor had finished his address, which was extremely long, it was almost dark. Although it was late in the year the weather was still so mild that all the guests were quite happy to stay out of doors in the grassy courtyard where some light wine was served and the gypsy band from Ludas was playing. Stable lamps were brought out, and a supper was to be served later in the evening.

  Sitting round a long table were Borcsey, Count Akos‚ Abady‚ the chemist and his bridegroom son, and the father of the bride, the Miloths’ overseer‚ who sat a little back from the others as a mark of respect in the presence of his employer.

  Borcsey had seated himself in the place of honour at the head of the table, and so forceful was the old man’s sense of his own importance that no one thought to dispute his right to do so. Wine was brought to them as soon as they sat down and, as the wine flowed so did the talk. Their subject, naturally, was politics.

  Just as if he were chairing a meeting the old revolutionary lost no time in asking Abady to take the floor‚ questioning him about the latest problem facing the government.

  ‘Tell us, honourable member for Lelbanya, what is the news about the Quota?’ This was the annual contribution made by Hungary to the Austro-Hungarian army budget. ‘Is it true that our government has come to an agreement with Vienna?’ And he pointed a long finger at Abady and then, folding his hands over the knob of the long stick he always carried, he leant back in his chair as if waiting for a young subordinate’s report.

  Balint at once felt that he was being called upon to account for himself and the actions of the government. He explained that there had been lengthy discussions in Vienna and that, as Budapest had thrown over the existing agreement, all the negotiations about the Quota and the formation of a national bank had to start again from scratch. It was rumoured, however, that agreement had been reached though‚ as far as the bank question was concerned, there was only‚ for the present, to be some form of ‘declaration of intent’ which would leave the details to be settled later. As to the Quota, the government had agreed to increase Hungary’s contribution by two per cent over
the next ten years. This was the price they had had to pay to obtain recognition for their independent customs proposals and for the future acceptance of the bank reforms.

  ‘Do you mean to say that the Independence Party will accept this?’ asked Borcsey in surprise.

  ‘In all probability, yes. Though it is possible that we shall see a few resignations – Barra, perhaps, and Apponyi. But the majority will certainly vote with Ferenc Kossuth who has already given his ministerial approval.’

  ‘To think that Lajos Kossuth’s son should sink so low! So this is all we’ve got after two years of nothing but talk, talk!’ cried the old firebrand and he turned to Rattle and said, ‘It’s just as I’ve always said: cut the cackle and march on Vienna. That’s what we did in my day!’

  Count Akos, himself the most peaceable of men, made suitably belligerent noises and, out of sheer politeness, the others murmured their agreement.

  Abady went on to tell how Andrassy had presented new proposals to strengthen the independence of county districts, and this at once led to a discussion of what they were pleased to call ‘cleaning up the civil service’ – by which was meant getting rid of anyone who had too faithfully served under Tisza or‚ more recently‚ given their allegiance to the government of General Fejervary. Already there had been witch-hunts in the counties of Fejer and Maros-Torda – as a result of which many former government officials had been dismissed – and everywhere people were dividing into opposing party groups. The tranquillity of country life had been shattered, duels were being fought, women joined in the fight with their own weapons of evil gossip and slander, and in some country towns things had gone so far that members of one party would use one side of the street so as not to encounter their political opponents who used the other.