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

by Bánffy, Miklós

  Laszlo did not reply.

  ‘Look, my dear fellow, if you really have to part with family things it’s absurd to give them away for practically nothing to the village store. My mother and I would be only too pleased to have a valuation made and give you the proper price. Far better than let it go to waste!’

  Laszlo screamed at him, ‘Leave me alone, all of you! I don’t need telling how to run my life. If I want to go to hell, I’ll go to hell. And I’ll sell what I please to whom I please and when I want to. As for you, you can stop sticking your nose into other people’s business!’

  Now it was Abady’s turn to get angry. He turned away and left the room without saying another word.

  Laszlo followed him out slowly. Only now did he realize how offensive he had been to the only man who had been a faithful friend to him as long as he could remember. He wanted somehow to make amends, but was not quite sure how. By the time Laszlo reached the head of the stairs his cousin had almost reached the bottom, so he called out, ‘My love to Aunt Roza! As soon as I get some money I’ll come over to pay my respects. Do forgive me, Balint, please. I’ve become such an ill-tempered bear these days,’ and he turned and went back to his room. Despite the implied olive branch he still could not resist the temptation to slam the door behind him.

  Chapter Two

  WEEKS WENT BY and it was the end of March before Balint was able to get back home to Kolozsvar. Parliament had now been adjourned after a winter session made monotonous by a series of futile verbal battles, mostly about the proposed new House Rules. The only serious piece of legislation to receive the assent of the House was the motion concerning land reform in Transylvania. This was the first tangible result of the Szekler congress at Homorod. It was only a modest beginning to what Balint was anxious to bring about, but at least it was a first step. The rest of the debates were given over to meaningless obstructive measures put forward by those who wished to embarrass the government; or resentful echoes of matters the Hungarian representatives had discussed in Vienna, particularly a proposition made there by the Hungarian Minister of Defence concerning army officers’ pay.

  There seemed to be some connection, though no one was quite sure what, between these events and the reappearance on the political scene of Kristoffy. At the beginning of March his banner arose again when he presided over a political meeting called to announce the formation of a new so-called ‘Radical’ party. Since his resignation from office Kristoffy had been in close touch with the Heir and the party which surrounded him. When he had been a Minister he had, of course, been a faithful servant of the old King, but now he had transferred his allegiance.

  The Radical party itself existed only on paper. It was a sort of slogan to be brandished only by those few university professors, do-gooding intellectuals and the recently-formed Galileo Circle made up of cranky university students who described themselves as ‘citizens of the world’ or ‘superopeans’. The group was of thoroughly bourgeois character and as it included neither socialists nor anyone of the working class, it was not taken seriously by the general public, particularly as Kristoffy, as a former member of the unpopular Bodyguard government, was generally thought of as politically tainted. Nevertheless, though of course it was not then realized, it was from these sources that flowed the current that, ten years later, would lead to revolution. Neither, of course, was it then known that Kristoffy had sold his soul to the Belvedere Palace.

  For Balint these weeks passed slowly. He went to meetings, to sessions of Parliament, to dinners and evening parties, but he felt his life to be meaningless and empty. He tried to take up once again the half-philosophical, half-doctrinal treatise that he had started to write under the spur of his love for Adrienne but which he had dropped when it seemed that this love was doomed never to be fulfilled. Then it had been a song of love, for Addy had not yet been his and his yearning for her had inspired every line.

  Now that he had not seen her for several months his desire for her had in some way been strengthened and he determined not to put off any longer serious plans for their future life together.

  While they had been able to meet frequently this thought had not been so compelling. Even when they had had to take extra care in planning their secret meetings – and days had often gone by without any opportunity of seeing each other – the intervals of separation had never been prolonged and this gave them both the feeling of belonging to each other, almost indeed of their living together with his absences caused only by his work. The previous spring, summer and autumn had passed in this manner. Balint had often had to absent himself for political reasons, for his work for the co-operative projects or simply to look after the Abady lands and interests at Denestornya and in the mountains; but all this time, because they both knew that they would soon be together again, these absences did not seem to matter. But for the last three months, three long months, things had not been the same. They had had no opportunity to meet at all and their situation was far from happy. There was no way now that they could meet; they were inexorably shut off from any contact. If Adrienne had fallen ill he would not have been able to go to her or help her in any way. He could only wait in the hope of perhaps hearing something by chance gossip just as if he were a stranger. It was dreadful and deeply frustrating. Adrienne managed occasionally to write and this was how he learned that her daughter’s attack of measles had developed complications, that the girl’s convalescence would be slow and that she could not leave her side until the child was completely recovered. Waiting …waiting … waiting …

  As the days passed into weeks and the weeks into months Balint’s determination grew ever stronger: he must somehow force Adrienne to seek a divorce. They had to marry.

  There were only two obstacles in the way, and from a distance both now seemed to him far less formidable than they had previously. The main problem was Uzdy, and Adrienne always insisted he would never let her go. Although she never said it, behind her words lay the conviction that he would rather kill both her and the man she dared to love. But was this really so or merely a fantasy of hers, an imagined nightmare? It was true that he was a deeply confused, unstable man, who was obsessed with firearms and always carried a revolver … and whose father had died insane. She knew that none of this constituted proof, for he had taken it quite calmly when she had refused to sleep with him. Balint had taken heart at this; but what he did not know, for Addy had not told him, was that the following day Uzdy had followed them like a hunter stalking his prey. So for Balint it seemed that all they had to do was to face the situation, confront Uzdy, and tell him openly …

  The other seemingly insurmountable problem was his own mother. She hated Adrienne and would certainly oppose any plans they might make for a life together. Her hatred of Adrienne was unreasoning and senseless and, thought Balint, quite unfathomable. Aware of his mother’s dominant and intractable character he knew that it would be far from easy to get her to change her opinions, all the more so since in every other way he had, until now, done everything to please her and avoid giving her pain. And if now he were to defy her and challenge her authority? He was deeply sorry for the sorrow he was bound to cause her and, until recently, had thought that their relationship would be destroyed by such a marriage. Now, however, he tried to make himself believe that the inevitable rift would heal, that his mother’s anger would fade and that, in time, she would come to love Adrienne as soon as she had allowed herself to get to know her. Balint, in his loneliness, went on weaving new dreams. He convinced himself that the coldness would pass, that the first grandchild would come, that grandchild for which Countess Roza had always yearned and to whom she constantly referred, and that when there was an heir, a boy, of course, someone to carry on the line … but here Balint’s arguments would dwindle away to be replaced by his yearning for a home-life of his own, for a woman who was his companion in life, who would be a mother to his children – who was a mother already – sitting by a peaceful fireplace, a life without problems, a life of occ
upation and love and lightness of heart and children for whom it would be a joy to toil.

  Wherever he found himself Balint was obsessed by these fantasies: in his seat in the House when surrounded by noisy argument and endless speech-making, at the rooms in the Casino Club where all his acquaintance were still arguing about politics, at formal dinners or at evening parties while languidly drawling sweet nothings to whichever lady happened to be sitting next to him: wherever he was he was like a sleep-walker. Young Magda Szent-Gyorgyi, with her quick-sighted birdlike eyes, had noticed it at once and said to him outright, ‘Whatever have you been doing to get so absent-minded? I suppose you’ve been out carousing with the ladies of the town, what?’ for Magda liked to talk in this way so as to show off how knowledgeable she was about relationships between the sexes. ‘You’ve lost weight too!’ she added laughing. ‘Tell me, do tell me, is all that very … very …’ and she broke off not quite able to put into words the rather uncertain ideas that were floating around in her inquisitive little head.

  Finally, in the middle of March, the long-hoped-for message arrived. Her husband’s mother was going to take the child to Meran where it was hoped she would recover more quickly, and this meant that in a few days’ time Adrienne would be free to come to the Uzdy villa just outside the town. Her young sister Margit would be with her and they would both be there in time to run their own stall at the charity bazaar which was held each year for the benefit of the orphanage. At last they would see each other again.

  The bazaar organized annually by the Archduchess Maria-Valeria Circle was a great event in Kolozsvar. Every lady with any pretensions to a position in Society joined in the preparations, the older matrons acted as official patronesses and the younger ones, and the unmarried girls, manned the stalls and, for one day, pretended to be salesgirls. At each stand there were two or three of them, at least one from an aristocratic family, the others from the prosperous middle-classes.

  There was much jockeying for position in the days that led up to the bazaar itself, for there was considerable rivalry as to who should sell what and in what part of the hall their tent-like stands should be erected. It was not only important to have one of the best positions, it was also hotly disputed who should be placed next to whom and important to make sure that no one was displaying the same merchandise as their neighbours. It was not easy, either, to invent something new and original which might therefore lead to that great triumph of receiving more money than anyone else. The decoration of the stands was therefore also extremely important. It had to be at the same time striking and sufficiently open to attract buyers while being discreet and intimate enough to make them sit down, chat, and open their purses to be milked of every penny they had brought with them. To ensure this was the job of all the prettiest young girls.

  The hall in which the bazaar was held was known as the Redut – a local corruption of the Viennese Redoutensaal named after the masked balls which were held there. The Kolozsvar Redut, which was built in the eighteenth century, had once been the seat of the Transylvanian Parliament. Now it was used for balls – and for the great charity bazaar. It was very large and had an immensely high ceiling.

  On each side of the main hall there were other rooms. On the occasion of the bazaar, one of these was used as a changing room for the amateur artistes who would later give a theatrical entertainment, while the other was made into a sort of drawing-room where the older ladies could withdraw to rest and have some coffee or other light refreshments. Near the door of the first room was a raised platform where there were placed chairs for the Lady Patronesses and which would later serve as a temporary stage. Down the full length of the hall were placed the tent-like stands which were so close to each other that it was difficult to pass between them. Each was different. Some of the stall-holders had used Persian carpets as decoration, others were hung with long streaming ribbons, or peasant embroideries, or bales of silks in a myriad brilliant colours. And as to the goods on sale they were as varied as the colours of the stands themselves. Everything was there from home-brewed liqueurs to delicate needlework. It was a vivid scene suggesting an oriental market which happened to be taking place not in the open air but in a rococo ballroom. And in the centre of each stand there was an elegant lady and some smiling girls ready to tempt the cash out of anyone’s purse.

  A large number of men were strolling up and down the wide alley between the open stalls.

  The bazaar was attended not only by the townspeople but many country folk too who had crowded into Kolozsvar for the great annual agricultural meeting. The ladies of the organizing committee planned this date on purpose because they knew that thereby they ensured the presence in town of all Transylvania’s leading citizens. It was considered an unwritten law that everyone must attend the bazaar, not only to make an appearance but also to buy; and this applied to young and old alike. Therefore at the Maria-Valeria Bazaar you would meet not only the young men but also the old ones such as Sandor Kendy, Stanislo Gyeroffy, and even Miklos Absolon and old Daniel Kendy. Young Farkas Alvinczy and Isti Kamuthy had come specially from Budapest and as both of them were now in Parliament they were treated as important personalities. Even Joska Kendy had put in an appearance, not because of anything to do with horses (which was all that really interested him) but because he too had become a prominent public figure since his appointment as a Prefect of his county. Only old Rattle Miloth had failed to appear. ‘It’s not for me, my dear,’ he had said to his youngest daughter Margit, ‘not for one whose heart is broken like mine! And don’t forget there’s the place to be run. Someone’s got to supervise the ploughing and sowing, and I can’t trust that idiotic farm manager of ours!’ Margit did not insist for she knew that he had recently made friends with their neighbour, the elder Dezso Kozma, one of those brothers who had been childhood playmates of Roza Abady at Denestornya. The previous Michaelmas he had bought some 2,000 acres of land not far from the Miloth estate and, if the road was not too muddy, old Rattle had taken to visiting his new friend almost daily. Kozma listened contentedly to Akos Miloth’s stories for, being a commoner and a newcomer while Count Akos came from a long line of aristocratic landowners, he was flattered by the old man’s attentions.

  All the men visiting the bazaar were happy to let the bevies of pretty girls cajole them into parting with their money. They carelessly bought anything put before them, some of it useless junk of no value but offered for many times the price they would have paid at one of the town shops. And they bought with such recklessness because these inflated prices included the right to a little mild flirtation. The girls were not ungenerous with their favours for it was exciting to see how much more than its worth the lovesick male could be induced to pay for a one-crown pot of flour, a necktie which usually fetched three crowns or a completely useless paper doll. If she smiled a little more than he had expected, if she leaned towards him so that he could catch the scent of her perfumed shoulders, or if – just by chance of course – a lock of her hair brushed his cheek, if she sold just a little bit of herself, then the money came raining in and the sense of triumph made eyes shine brighter and added a touch of real sensuality to every laugh. Even the most upright and straitlaced of women can occasionally succumb to the lure of trying a little hint of seduction without ever realizing that it was perhaps tantamount to prostitution … but by this process the most natural of instincts was satisfied by knowing exactly how much money each girl’s charms were worth to their eager male customers.

  Some of the stands were more popular than others and around one or two there was a positive crowd. Some of the customers were real buyers while others, after making some insignificant purchase, just stayed to chat. The bar this year was in the charge of Isti Kamuthy’s pretty older sister, Countess Szentpali, who had recruited the two elder Laczok girls to help her. They were busy encouraging everyone to sample their flasks of French brandy and Benedictine. The only one of their customers who needed no urging was old Daniel Kendy who made straight for t
he bar on arrival and settled down for the duration of the event, though he was absolutely penniless and did not have the means to buy himself anything let alone spirits at three times their normal price. It was a well thought-out move, for all his friends who passed by found themselves obliged to offer the old man a drink. Daniel had a wonderful time, which he remembered for a long time to come; and it was made even more memorable for him when Laszlo Gyeroffy turned up, sat down beside him and started ordering double-sized drinks for them both.

  In the stand across the way Mrs Bogdan Lazar was selling honey, the product of her own bees, in attractive specially designed little jars. She was being helped by Dodo Gyalakuthy who had brought her own home-made honey-cakes to complement the pure honey. At this stand, too, there was someone who never moved away. He was a large, sturdy red-haired man with a long bony face covered in freckles; and he was a foreigner, Ugo von der Maultasch, who came from Pomerania on the Baltic coast of Prussia. What brought him to Transylvania no one knew, unless it was the mysterious scent of money which was apt to reach penniless Teutonic barons, no matter how far away they lived, and tell them where marriageable heiresses were to be found.

  He had arrived some weeks before the bazaar and had been courting Dodo assiduously ever since. Now he was not buying up the whole stand, as an ambitious Hungarian might have done, but was making himself discreetly useful, always at hand to help, wrapping parcels and praising the merchandise seemingly unconscious of the fact that few people could understand his outlandish north German accent. He was presumably working hard to show what a helpful and useful fellow he could be.