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

by Bánffy, Miklós

  Chapter Five

  IN THE LAST CARRIAGE were Countess Beredy and the host. Though the short journey to the castle only took just over a quarter of an hour there was plenty of time for Fanny to outline her plan. She spoke in English so that they would not be understood by the coachman.

  She had made a survey, she explained. Using the little side-stair she would easily be able to come down to his room that night – no one would see her, for she would wait until everyone was already asleep – really, it was quite simple, she never caught cold anyway and of course she’d wear a well-lined kimono – it would be so amusing, far better than his coming to her – such fun and much more enjoyable too! So she chatted on, showing him every reason why it would really be so much better and of course she had quite understood, the previous night when he had not come to her, that he had been afraid of catching cold and didn’t like to admit the real reason …

  Count Antal’s lean greyhound face never moved a muscle. He looked straight ahead, his expression oddly cold if not icy as he said, like her in English, ‘Oh no! That would not do at all!’ and he gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

  ‘But why not?’ she asked, astonished, and started once again to explain how she had looked carefully at the layout of the rooms and the corridor and the stairway just next to their bathrooms. It would only take a moment, and she’d be very, very careful.

  ‘No!’ he repeated. ‘No!’ and when Fanny, in an attempt to arouse his desire, told him how she had watched him at the end of the drive and had admired him so much that she had wanted to take him in her arms right then, he turned towards her with an unusually stern expression on his face and said‚ ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing! Here, in my own house, my wife’s house. This is my home, this is not …’ and he broke off leaving the word unspoken.

  ‘No!’ he said again. ‘This is not the right place!’ and perhaps to soften a little the effect of what he had just said he gave a little almost apologetic laugh: but his voice had lost none of its decisiveness when he added, ‘I’m such a fool, you know. I have principles!’

  The eyes of the beautiful Countess Beredy narrowed until only two long narrow slits could be seen, catlike, between her lashes. Then, her mouth a thin line too, she made an effort to chatter on as if nothing had occurred. ‘Oh dear! What a charming fool you are!’ she said in English; but inside she knew immediately that she would lose no time in finding a way to be avenged of that barely veiled insult.

  When the carriages arrived at the castle they were driven one by one through the giant gateway and into the courtyard, drawing up at the foot of the great stair to discharge the guests and then turning and backing up to stand in line facing the entrance. They waited there until all the sixteen horses were standing in line apparently quite motionless except for the occasional soft rattle of a curb-chain. They remained like this for a few moments and then, one by one, starting on the left of the line, they moved slowly off, out through the gates and down the hill to the stables.

  No one, alas, saw this elegant and precise manoeuvre which was performed with all the precision of clockwork. The guests hurried up the stairs to their rooms while the accompanying throng, loaders, game carriers, keepers and forest guards, all heavily laden, streamed away through doors at the rear of the courtyard which led to kitchens, game larders, gun-rooms and servants’ living quarters.

  The hostess and her widowed sister-in-law, Countess Illesvary, received the returning guests in a small corner room which was the only one of the castle’s drawing-rooms to be furnished in a style later than that of the Empress Maria Theresia. While all the others were decorated in the delicate rococo popular in Vienna in the second half of the eighteenth century, this little room had been completely refurbished from Paris at the time of the Szent-Gyorgyis’ marriage. It bore the unmistakable hallmarks of the Second Empire.

  Every armchair and sofa was covered with a red repp material, as were the innumerable footstools, and each was bordered with heavily patterned black and red ribbon. The walls were covered in the same stuff and the same ribbon had been used as borders for the artificial panels.

  On the walls were hung a multitude of family portraits in oils, most of them fairly recent in date and many representing Countess Szent-Gyorgyi’s Transylvanian relations. There was a group of Abadys with her grandfather; there was Balint’s dead father with her uncle, Balint’s grandfather, Count Peter; Gyeroffys, her parents and their children including poor Mihaly, Laszlo’s father, who killed himself; and a double portrait by Barabas of her sister Agnes, later Princess Kollonich, and herself as children. On the many velvet-covered little tables were placed miniatures on tiny stands and many, many photographs of her husband and children at various ages from their infancy to the present day. Everywhere, too, there were vases filled with flowers, and the floor was covered with a thick pile carpet.

  Although the little salon was filled to overflowing with all these objects and heavily over-stuffed furniture, it was still warm and harmonious, as cosy and welcoming as a soft all-embracing down-filled nest.

  This was where Countess Elise was always to be found, sitting between the windows, from which she was protected by two screens – for she was extremely sensitive to draughts and always caught cold at once if she sat in the other rooms. In autumn and winter she would only emerge at mealtimes or bedtime, returning immediately afterwards to her chosen place. Today she was sitting, not only with her sister-in-law but also with her niece, Klara Kollonich, wife to Imre Warday. Klara was in her sixth month of pregnancy which is why, instead of joining the shooting party, she had lunched quietly at home with her aunts.

  As the other guests came in one by one they greeted their hostess, kissed the ladies’ hands, made a few appreciative remarks about the morning’s sport and then strolled through to the adjoining dining-room where they sat down informally at a large table laid with platters of cold meats and hot bread, decanters of sherry and pots of tea. This was a light meal designed just to tide over the guests’ hunger because they had all had a huge, rather late breakfast before setting off for the shoot. After all the walking they had done that morning even this light meal was received with pleasure.

  Szent-Gyorgyi alone stayed for some time in the little sitting-room with his wife, telling her in detail everything that had passed that morning, who had been placed where and what they had shot. They chatted together speaking, as well-matched couples do, in a sort of private language of their own that had been developed by years of intimacy and fondness and understanding.

  ‘But you haven’t told me what you shot? More than all the others, I’m sure?’ she said, interrupting him, but smiling at the same time.

  ‘Oh, no! I think that Balint on the right got more than I did.’

  ‘Balint? Pheasants and partridges too? Come on, tell the truth, don’t lie!’

  ‘Ah well, perhaps not those; but then there are always more birds at the centre, you know,’ and Szent-Gyorgyi gave a little laugh as if mocking his own modesty.

  When at last the host went into the dining-room he only took a cup of tea which he started to drink still standing. Imre Warday came over to him and said, ‘Would you allow me to look at your Jersey cows before it gets dark? I’m sure I could learn a lot from seeing how you look after them.’

  ‘Of course! Naturally!’ said his host and gave orders that someone should telephone to the stables for a carriage and then to the dairy farm to expect a guest.

  ‘Yesterday the sheep, the day before the Poland-China pigs! Proper little farmer you are!’ called out young Louis Kollonich in careless mockery.

  ‘And what’s wrong with that?’ answered Warday. ‘It’s quite natural, and nobody but a fool would miss an opportunity to look at the Jablanka farms. It’s rare enough to get a chance to see model farming on this scale; it costs a fortune and few people can afford it.’

  ‘Of course, that’s true,’ said his host, ‘but, you know, it’s absolutely vital. At the time of the great
innovations of Szechenyi…’ and here he started to talk in an impassioned manner unusual for the man who affected to despise all forms of enthusiasm, ‘we started to import thoroughbreds from England, then we experimented with Rambouillet sheep and Simmenthal cattle. Now we must look further afield. All this is much easier on the big estates, easier even than for the State itself. Of course I find it a fascinating hobby as well as being …’ Here he let the sentence trail off with an indefinite gesture of the hand for Antal Szent-Gyorgyi could not bring himself to pronounce the revealing word ‘duty’ and, besides, he found the phrase too pompous.

  Countess Beredy looked across the table at Warday. She said nothing, but when he started to get up she too rose from her seat and said, ‘I think I’ll come with you!’

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather come with the rest of us to see the brood-mares?’ asked Szent-Gyorgyi as he walked with her to the door.

  ‘No! I would like to see something different!’ said Fanny, smiling as she moved past him. Then, laughing softly, she added, ‘And I did ride with you in the carriage this morning!’ before gliding swiftly out of the room.

  Szent-Gyorgyi shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the others.

  The Jablanka breeding stables were a sight not to be missed. The buildings themselves were extraordinary and had been designed by Count Antal’s grandfather who had had them built after a model he had seen in England.

  They stood in the middle of a great meadow in the park. The central building was higher than the others for it contained, on the ground floor, a large drawing-room furnished in Early Biedermeier style, with parquet floors and a wide-open fireplace. It was lit by long French windows and above was a vast hay loft. All around were blocks of ten loose-boxes, five and five back to back, each the size of a room, with enormous doors split in the middle so that the upper parts could be left open to let the brood mares and their foals get enough air even in the worst of bad weather. From each block of boxes radiated white-painted palisades dividing the great meadow into segments which ended only at the edge of the surrounding woods. In some of these paddocks there grazed a single pedigree mare followed by her foal. These were the dams of famous racehorses, winners of great filly races.

  Szent-Gyorgyi showed them round explaining exactly why everything was laid out as it was. As he did so Wuelffenstein knowingly interjected as many sporting phrases as he could, Balint and young Louis gazed at everything with admiration, Slawata pretended an interest he did not feel, and the two girls fondled the muzzles of those mares that were in their boxes and fed them sugar.

  From there they went to the paddocks where the recently weaned colts had been placed, and then on to see the two famous stallions that Count Antal had brought from England.

  It was a pity, thought Szent-Gyorgyi, that Fanny had not come to see all this. Though he never said so, he was especially proud of his thoroughbreds.

  But the beautiful Fanny was far away, driving from farm to farm with Warday in an open carriage. She listened patiently to the explanations and reports of the farm overseers who were eager to show the visitors the milking charts, explain the chemical processes of butter-making, and outline the statistics of percentage yield and cost of transport. Everything produced here was, of course, sent to Vienna. Fanny kept quiet, standing, walking from place to place, turning, stopping again; and again walking on dutifully, always close to Warday, while from time to time she would nod in agreement as if she understood what was being talked about. And always she moved with that peculiar, individual walk, like a cat who placed one little paw directly in front of the other, lightly, in a single line.

  It was already beginning to get dark when their carriage left the third farm and turned towards home. The evening sky was clear and beautiful but it was a trifle cold and this was perhaps the reason why the couple in the carriage sat so close together.

  ‘Imre, tell me, are you happy?’ Fanny broke the silence between them.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ he replied. ‘I can say that, but it isn’t such a great … I mean …’ He paused and then went on, ‘Well, that doesn’t exist anyway. Klara is really very nice, and she’s got some money of her own which comes in handy, and now we’re having a baby. It’s all wonderful, really,’

  ‘I’m very happy to hear it,’ said Countess Beredy. ‘I knew this was the right thing for you to do, and that’s why I made you do it. Remember?’

  ‘Oh, yes! You threw me out at the right moment, just the right moment!’ and he laughed good-humouredly.

  Fanny turned to look at him. She opened her eyes slightly. They shone green in the evening light.

  ‘Though it was so good with you I knew you ought to start a family, and … and Klara was just right, a good match. It wasn’t easy for me to give you up, you know, a real sacrifice!’ The lie came easily from her lips: she knew she would have sent him packing anyway as the love between Laszlo Gyeroffy and Klara had just gone inexorably wrong and so if Imre was out of the way she would at last have the chance to get Laszlo for herself.

  ‘Sacrifice?’ asked Warday, astonished. ‘But, my darling, you told me … I remember the exact words, “you have to stop when you are still hungry”. That’s what you said, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes; that’s what I said‚’ agreed Fanny, but she did not pursue the question of sacrifice, but went on, ‘and wasn’t I right? But we, we still have our appetites, don’t we? And if we wanted to …’

  Warday looked up in startled surprise and pleasure. ‘Do you really mean that? Really?’ He looked down, straight into her eyes. Their faces nearly touched.

  Fanny now opened her eyes wider than ever, the green flame shining ever brighter, filled with an appeal, a message, a command.

  ‘I still ache for you as much as ever!’

  A long kiss followed, a familiar, breathtaking, overpowering kiss that left them both panting when they drew apart. Neither spoke; only her hand searched for his under the fur rug that covered their knees, her fingers, at once so small and yet so strong, clutching at him. They still did not speak; but when the carriage reached the wide lawn before turning into the castle gates she looked up at him and murmured, ‘When everyone’s asleep. The door after the little stair; it’s my bathroom, the first door!’

  On one side of the castle’s great quadrangle, between the chapel and one of corner towers on the south side, two rooms had been thrown into one to make the dining-room; while on the other side was the library which led off Countess Elise’s private sitting-room. Between them the vast old former refectory of the Pauline monks had been turned into the castle’s principal drawing-room.

  As was the custom when there were guests, everyone gathered in this drawing-room before dinner. Balint arrived early and, when he first entered the room, he fancied that he was alone. However he had barely crossed the threshold when from an armchair in the middle of the room opposite the fireplace, there got up a short plump elderly priest. Clean-shaven, well-groomed, pink and shining, he had very small piercing eyes set beneath bushy eyebrows. His rather short nose was thin and pointed. With his well-cut ecclesiastical dress he wore a wide red sash. He walked swiftly over to Balint and introduced himself. ‘I am Father Czibulka,’ he said with a slight Slovakian accent and, when in turn Balint had introduced himself, he went on, ‘Ah, indeed! I have heard a great deal about your Lordship, especially about how you have been promoting co-operative ideas in Transylvania. All that is very good, marvellous work!’

  Balint was taken by surprise.

  ‘Oh, I hear about all sorts of things,’ the priest went on with a slight smile. ‘I often come here to stay with your cousins. And when I am home at Nagyszombat I always come over to say mass on Sundays. I’m really part of the furniture, as I was once Count Antal’s tutor. They call me “Pfaffulus” after the comic character. He gave me that name, impudent brat that he was! Didn’t you ever hear of it? All the children here call me that; behind my back, of course, because only Count Antal has the right to say it to my face!’ And he wagged his fin
ger humorously at Balint.

  ‘I’ve heard it, all right,’ said Balint, laughing. ‘And always with great affection.’

  They chatted for a while, walking up and down the huge room in which, although there were any number of red and gold brocade-covered sofas and armchairs – and also a large concert grand piano and a quantity of potted palms – there was still plenty of room to move about. So large was it that despite all these furnishings there was still an air of emptiness in that huge room.

  When they had exchanged a few sentences the priest looked about him as if to make sure that no one was there to overhear what he was about to say and then turned to Balint and asked, ‘Please tell me. Do you have any news of your cousin, poor Laszlo Gyeroffy, the Countess’s nephew?’

  Abady started to tell the story of Laszlo’s unpaid gambling debts which had led to his resignation from the Casino Club and exile from Budapest society, but Czibulka stopped him. ‘Oh! I know all about that, perhaps a little more than you might guess. I was very worried about him the last time he was here. No! What I want to know – is how is he now? Has he been able to pull himself together? Has he found any consolation for his sorrows?’ and, hardly waiting for Balint to reply, he went on, ‘I feel so sorry for him and think of him often. Look at this,’ and he paused, fished in the pocket of his soutane and brought out a tiny parcel wrapped in silk paper before going on, ‘I brought this for him from Rome. It’s a little medallion, blessed by the Holy Father. Do please give it to him. It may help the poor fellow. And tell him I pray for him. Of course,’ he went on, ‘this must be a secret between us! You understand, don’t you?’ And here he broke off because they could hear the door opening and footsteps approach from the direction of the library which was situated between the drawing-room and the dining-room.