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

by Bánffy, Miklós

  Because Countess Roza had such a respect for tradition he started by bringing up the case of his grandfather on his father’s side, who had also married a divorced woman. This had been generally accepted, and there was no stigma attached, since they were both Protestants. Then he returned to Adrienne and again told his mother that she was the only woman for him and that he could never settle down with anyone else. There never would be another, there never could be. Though he started calmly his mother’s stubborn refusal to answer him, even to speak at all, soon began to pierce his hard-won restraint.

  Slowly the soft persuasive manner he had tried to adopt hardened into something much more natural to him.

  ‘After all,’ he said, ‘it is not as if I were still a child. I am of age and I have every right …’

  ‘So that’s how it is, is it? So it has come to that?’ interrupted his mother, drawing herself up to her full height, tiny though it was, and looking coldly at her son. ‘So now you dare to tell me the things you have a right to. All right. So be it! Do whatever you please. But I tell you this: never, never, as long as I live, shall that woman enter this house. Do you understand me? Never! And now go. I have nothing more to say to you!’

  Once again Balint tried a more conciliatory approach. ‘My dearest Mama, don’t say things like that!’

  ‘No? Now leave me, enough has been said. Go now. At once!’

  Balint realized that he had no alternative but to do as he was told. He tried respectfully to kiss her hand but she would have none of it, merely waving him to the door with an angry little gesture.

  Countess Roza remained in exactly the same position, with her arm stretched out in command, until the door-latch clicked into place behind her son. Then, as if all the strength in her body had suddenly left her, she collapsed and sat sobbing at her desk. She sat there for a long time, racked with tears, her head shrouded by the sleeves of her dress as if she never wanted to see or hear anything ever again. It had not been like this since, so many years ago, she had wept for her young husband dying of an incurable disease in the next room.

  The old lady cried so hard that she never noticed that one of the housekeepers looked in but retired swiftly, not daring to trespass on such grief. After a long time, during which Countess Roza was so absorbed by this devastating sorrow that she did not notice anything that happened near her, she suddenly sat up and pulled herself together. She wiped her eyes and smoothed back her ruffled hair. Then, getting up, she stepped briskly out of the small sitting-room, crossed the great hall on the first floor of the house and, carefully speaking as if nothing had upset her, told one of the waiting footmen to turn down the lamps.

  No one who had not witnessed the scene between mother and son, and who now saw her walk calmly towards the door of her apartments, could possibly have guessed the turmoil she had just endured.

  The next day mother and son did not meet until lunch-time. Balint greeted his mother as he always did by kissing her hand in the old formal manner; but he waited until they were alone before again referring to his marriage plans. He had spent half the night preparing what he was going to say, but it was all in vain for he had hardly begun before his mother interrupted him, saying in a calm but merciless manner, ‘I don’t wish to hear anything more about it. Nothing will change what I have already said. I will only add this: the day that you marry the person you have mentioned we will become strangers to one another. In the meantime, until that dreadful day comes, everything will go on just as it has before, until the very last minute. What is mine is also yours, but our life together will become impossible if ever you speak of this again. I say this so that you are forewarned.’

  And then, so quickly that he could have no time even to think of a reply, she added lightly, ‘I’m going to walk down to see the mares. Hollo’s foal has been stung by a wasp, it seems. On the nose, poor little thing. There must be a nest somewhere about. If we could only find it we could have it removed.’

  And so everything appeared to remain just as it always had been. Balint and his mother walked together around the property, planning flower-beds and ornamental shrubs, discussing a wooden bridge that was rotting away and must be repaired, and deciding which horses should be got ready for the autumn hunting season. They talked about fallow-deer, about hares and about pheasants. But it was all for appearances’ sake only, a sort of formal game that was played to disguise the fact that there was only one subject in both their minds: Balint’s plan to marry Adrienne.

  Their words were carefully chosen, but as artificial as a drawing-room comedy; and their air of being without a care in the world was only a pretence.

  Four days went by, heavy, painful days for them both. It was agony for Balint to see how his mother was suffering, and so he decided it would be better to absent himself for a while. It would be better for both of them if he were not there; and perhaps in time they could forget that dreadful scene in the little sitting-room, which was the first time in both their lives that they had had a real clash.

  When Balint told his mother that he would soon be leaving again she did not ask, as she always had before, either where he was going or when he would be leaving. Instead she merely nodded her agreement and said, ‘All right!’ – nothing more. It was obvious that she imagined that her son was going to the side of the woman she hated; and she clung to this conviction even though Balint declared that he was going straight to Budapest for the next session of Parliament as there were to be important debates on electoral reform, the Turkish Question and on Balint’s own project – the foundation of the country co-operatives – all of which urgently called for his presence in the capital. Whenever the subject was broached she always avoided discussing the matter, repeating the words ‘All right! All right!’ as if she wanted somehow to make it unnecessary for Balint to go on lying to her.

  However, everything that Balint had said was true; and for the moment he had no plans to see Adrienne again. But nothing would persuade Countess Roza to believe him; and so, for the moment, all confidence between them was shattered and it looked as if no words could heal the breach.

  Balint went away sadly. When his carriage turned to pass under the great gateway of the horseshoe court, he looked back, as he always did, to wave to his mother who never failed at that point to come out onto the balcony above the front door of the castle. Today there was no one there to wave him goodbye. Perhaps, thought Balint, she had returned once again to the little sitting-room. Perhaps she was there hiding her tears from the world … and perhaps that was the reason she did not come out to watch him go.

  Balint’s heart constricted with pain …

  Chapter Four

  THE BIG COUNTY FAIR of Szamos-Ujvar was always held on a Tuesday in September. Of all the Ujvar Fairs this was the biggest and most important, both because of the pig-fattening and because it was the time when the distilleries did their buying. Herds of cattle were sent to this market by the farmers, and all the tradesmen and wholesalers were there. It was now that pig prices were at their highest, indeed it was the best moment to sell off any unwanted stock, even horses now that they were in good condition after being at grass most of the summer. It was at this time, too, that anyone with foresight bought their winter clothes – boots, woollen underwear and overcoats and warm blankets – as well as ploughs for the autumn sowing, harness for the beasts of burden, and a myriad other necessities for the farmer. And many people came, too, just for the fun of it, for a big county fair was as good as a carnival. Men and women streamed into the little town from all around: from Mezoseg, from Erdohat and the valley of the Szamos, even from as far away as the district of Kovar. Even if they had no need for serious buying and selling they came to enjoy themselves, for at the fair you could hear the latest news and drink brandy sweetened with honey. People came for all sorts of reasons, just to be there; and they would come in from twenty kilometres away merely for a swig of brandy, a new stem to their pipe, or for a single box of matches.

  The first day wa
s devoted to the livestock sales and the second to all other merchandise. For this reason the livestock to be offered for sale started pouring into the market site long before dawn, for it was important to secure a good stand and also to have time to put out some feelers about this year’s prices … for bargaining was no affair of a minute!

  The handsome Mrs Sara Bogdan Lazar had left her property at Dezmer while it was still dark. In front of her carriage were driven some thirty oxen of various types – animals she had bought in the spring, fattened up on her rich prairie-lands, and would sell at a substantial profit in the autumn – and also some newly-weaned calves. The cattle were driven in front of her so that from her half-closed carriage, which was driven slowly so as not to exceed the pace of her stock, she could keep a careful eye on her cattle-hands, make sure they didn’t dawdle on the way joking with the girls from the farms they passed, and above all that they didn’t harry the beasts and make them go lame before they were offered for sale.

  It may have looked odd that this elegant carriage driven by a coachman in livery should have four large bales of hay strapped onto the box, but Sara Lazar was never one to trouble herself about such things, for she was far too interested in the management of her farms to be bothered about the trivia of appearances. She was her own manager, and there was hardly a man in her district who understood the business half as well as she did.

  So there she was, on the ground as early as anyone; and she always stayed until the very end. Although there was much interest in her stock from the moment that the market opened, she never lowered her prices so as to make sure of a sale. A man she knew – a buyer for the important Papp Brothers’ enterprise – had given her a tip that prices would be higher than usual this year. He had given her the slightest of winks from a distance, but this was enough for Sara. The Papp brothers always knew what to expect for they were the biggest cattle-dealers in the district, shipped their goods to Vienna and other places abroad, and kept their ears firmly to the ground. So Mrs Bogdan Lazar remained cool and held out for high prices herself. She ate her lunch from a hamper, right next to the animals she had brought for sale, and she was proved right. At the very end of the day she sold all she had brought at the very highest prices, for as the demand was greater than the supply, the prices went up as soon as there were fewer beasts left on offer.

  When everything had been settled Sara sent her men home and then had herself driven to the centre of the town as she wanted to find the friendly fellow who had tipped her the wink about the day’s prices. He had well earned the few hundred crowns she would give him, and such gestures were much appreciated and ensured he would go on helping her in the future. She knew just where to find him: in the garden of the Green Tree Inn which, if not very elegant, was roomy and hospitable and had been chosen by the cattle-dealers as their favourite hostelry.

  It was not easy to get through the town for by now it was evening and the roads were full of drunken men and herds of animals being driven away by their new owners. The most difficult to pass were the pigs, for even three strong men found it difficult to make them move, especially as they were kept captive by a string tied to one of their hind legs. Nothing daunted, Sara managed to find a way through the crowd of people, animals, stalls and tents, and finally reached the Green Tree. Boldly she walked straight in. The courtyard and garden were both crowded and the gypsies were playing their hardest so as to be heard over the din of good-humoured talk. Everyone was in a good mood for it had been a profitable day; and so the music played and the drink flowed. The waiters were kept busy carrying trays of food, tankards of beer and huge carafes of wine.

  Mrs Lazar looked around her and soon found the man she sought. He was sitting with a lot of other men, leaning on his elbows at a large table near to where the gypsies were playing. She hesitated for a moment wondering if it might not be better to send him her tip by post. However she soon decided that it was better to do it straight away and so she started to brave the crowd of drunks so as to get closer to him. It did not take long, for drunk though most of them were, nearly everyone at the inn knew and respected and had done business with this handsome sensible woman, and so they made way for her with courtesy and a good grace.

  The Papp Brothers’ representative soon saw her too, leapt up and went over to meet her. They exchanged a few words, standing there face to face, and then the envelope with his commission somehow found its way from her handbag into the inside pocket of his coat. In spite of the noise they managed to talk for a moment.

  ‘Why were the prices so good today?’ asked Sara. ‘Surely this was something of a surprise?’

  ‘They say,’ said her friend, ‘that the army is buying. This would explain why the Remount officer was here and why he bought so many horses. I don’t know much about it, but they say it’s because of the troubles in Turkey.’

  ‘The revolution in Istanbul? Is it possible?’

  ‘That’s what they say.’

  A roar of laughter interrupted them. It came from the direction of the band. Sara looked over in that direction.

  Where the band-leader normally stood there was a slim young man of medium height, and he was playing the violin. His clothes were shabby, both frayed and wrinkled, but they had once been of excellent cut. On his head he wore a copper saucepan that someone had placed there instead of a hat. He was very drunk, but still he played with wonderful skill even though now he was acting the clown and making such fun of everything that the crowd was in fits of laughter. He was full of tricks, crouching, dancing, rolling about like a clown in the circus, walking on tiptoe and reeling from side to side. But, drunk though he was, he still played faultlessly. Now he started the thumping rhythms of the old comic song ‘Mistress Csicso had three daughters …’ and while he played he shouted out the words, not, however, those which most people knew, but an obscene version full of rude words and vulgar innuendo. And to underline the ribaldry he made the violin itself seem to cry out, hiccup and burp its way through the verses.

  It was Laszlo Gyeroffy.

  This was a popular music-hall song he had often played in the old days, now rendered obscene. Once he had played it at evening parties in fashionable and elegant drawing-rooms, and had sung gently its original comic text, not the appallingly vulgar words he now spat out with such zest. But here in the garden of the Green Tree, surrounded by drunken country folk, this was what was required by those for whom he played and who would also pay for his drink.

  When Laszlo was drunk enough the crowd could do anything they liked with him. Today he had not noticed that someone had put a copper pan on his head and another fixed a napkin to his coat so that it fluttered behind him like a monkey’s tail.

  It was by no means the first time that he had made such an exhibition of himself. During the summer he had come several times either to the Green Tree Inn or to one of the other hostelries in the town, and after he had spent the little money he had brought with him he would play wherever there was someone ready with the price of a drink. If he was not quite drunk enough, and if the jokes they played on him were too coarse and humiliating, he would rebel; and then, though still unsteady on his feet, he would suddenly become haughty and rude. However, as the need for the drink grew on him, so he became accustomed to the fact that they were laughing at him. He accepted it and even went out of his way to seek it, finding a bitter twisted joy in the fact that he had fallen so low. Long ago, when he had got drunk with people of his own kind, he had sometimes drawn himself up with unexpected pride and stalked off wrapped in his own ridiculous vanity.

  Nowadays there was still an element of this to be seen in him, but it was modified by the coarseness of his new companions. Laszlo, somewhere deep down, still thought of himself as a Fairy Prince under a spell, who had become a slave of his own will and who revelled in the mud to which he had condemned himself. He mocked himself and also those who mocked him; but this self-deceptive euphoria did not long survive the onslaught of brandy after brandy. Nowadays he could n
o longer carry his wine as he had before … and in no time he would become sodden with drink.

  As Sara was watching one of the revellers in the crowd got up holding his braces in his hand. He stepped over to Gyeroffy, and winking to his friends as it were to show what a good idea he had had, he said, ‘Could his noble Lordship dance as well if I tied his knees together?’ and he laughed maliciously. A roar of laughter greeted the suggestion. Someone shouted, ‘This’ll be worth watching!’ while another offered Laszlo a litre of wine if he could dance without stumbling. Laszlo stopped for a moment and gazed around him as if he took nothing in. Then he laughed stupidly and mumbled, ‘All right. Of course. I can do it any way you like … any way…’

  Something stirred deep inside the handsome Mrs Lazar. Whatever it was, pity or a sense that mercy should be shown, something moved her deeply as the men crowded forward and started to bind Laszlo’s knees together. At this point Gyeroffy was staring straight at her and, though no one could have told if he could really see her or not, Sara read this look as a cry for help. The gleam of moisture at the corners of his eyes may have been nothing more than the inadvertent tears of the very drunk, but to Sara they seemed like the mute plea of an animal led to sacrifice. Of course she already knew Laszlo by sight, for he had sat for a long time at the liquor stall just in front of her stand at the charity bazaar, and he had been drunk then too. At that time she had found the sight mildly disgusting and had not thought of him since. Now, however, some latent maternal tenderness took over and she was ashamed of the unthinking cruelty of men who mocked the weak and helpless.

  Without stopping to think and guided entirely by instinct, she stepped quickly over until she was by Gyeroffy’s side.

  ‘Take that off at once!’ she said in a commanding voice to the man who was kneeling at her feet and strapping Laszlo’s knees together. ‘Take it off! At once, I tell you. You ought to be ashamed!’