The eastern fancies of Count Adam, however, did not long remain unchallenged. As the nineteenth century brought added riches to the family so the Laczok of those later days, inspired by the same building mania as his predecessor, decided to enlarge and as he thought, improve the castle. As a modern and up-to-date magnate, his contribution was in the then fashionable Empire style that had come in at the end of the eighteenth century and spread throughout Europe at the time of Napoleon. The wide courtyard behind the house was quickly transformed into new kitchens and stable-yards. Then, leaving the entire rococo mansion untouched, two classical wings were added and embellished with a wide colonnade, which reached out each side of the house to the old outer walls. These two wings were then brought forward at right angles to form a symmetrical U-shape. And as defensive walls were no longer needed to keep out marauding tartars, that part of the battlements that lay in front of the house was demolished and replaced by a broad terrace which overlooked the spreading Laczok lands.
This was the aspect that the old fortress of Siklod presented to the arriving guests as their carriages passed from the long poplar avenue and through the great entrance gates which were bordered by the ancient spreading oaks that marked the boundaries of the park. The drive swept past the main façade of the house and climbed gently to the huge iron-studded doors under the eastern tower of the precinct. Beyond these doors the carriages passed through the stable court and, turning left again under an arch formed in the eastern wing, found themselves beneath the columned portico that gave onto the great terrace in front of the house.
When Balint arrived he found that the portico steps were lined with waiting servants. On the lowest rung was the butler, Janos Kadar, grey and stooping, dressed in the long braided coat of the Laczok livery. It seemed as if he were so frail that he could barely support the work and worry that would be his lot that day. Behind him stood the hired footmen, and with them the odd-job boy, Ferko, who rushed forward to take Balint’s coat and bag.
As he walked up the steps Balint told the old butler that before greeting the family he would like to wash off the dust in which he had been covered during the drive from Vasarhely.
‘Of course, my lord!’ he replied, and turning to the boy, ‘Ferko, show Count Balint to the corner room. And see that there is water … and clean towels!’ But thinking the boy too inexperienced he went on impatiently, ‘No! No! I’ll go myself’ and, taking Balint’s things from him, he hurried ahead, showing the latest visitor the way through the vast entrance hall to a door at the back. The room set aside for visitors had clearly already been used. A few soiled towels were scattered here and there, some on the floor, some on the washstand. The tin bucket was full of dirty water and the jug was empty.
‘I beg the Count’s pardon,’ said the old man, hurrying out through a door at the far end of the room. From the court behind the house his voice could be heard querulously chiding, ‘Aniko! Mali! Where are you … Hurry now … clean towels and water to the guest-room … quickly now! Must I do everything myself?’ And a door was slammed somewhere.
In a few moments a young servant girl bustled in, curtsyed to Balint and sighing deeply replaced the sodden towels with fresh ones, changed the water jug and hurried out with the tin bucket, her bare feet slapping softly on the scrubbed pine floorboards.
In a small drawing-room on the first floor the older ladies were gathering in a group round their hostess. Aunt Lizinka was already there, sitting as she always did with her knees drawn up in a large armchair, with the widowed Countess Gyalakuthy, the rich Adelma, and two or three other mothers who had brought their daughters to the dance. With them were some other ladies, among them Countess Bartokfay, who lived nearby, and the wife of the family lawyer, Beno Balogh-Peter, had come in merely to greet Countess Laczok on her name-day. Their husbands had already made a brief appearance upstairs, kissed their hostess’ hand, and then gone down to the garden where Count Laczok received the male guests. Only the ladies remained. They had been offered tea and coffee, plumcake, cold ham, sugared biscuits and lemonade, and the room was still littered with empty cups and crumb-filled plates, for the servants had more important things to do than clear away.
The little room soon filled up, the guests sitting on small chairs in a semi-circle round their hostess who, as she always did, had placed herself on a small sofa with its back to the wall near the door. Countess Ida chose this narrow boudoir to receive her guests because from there she could remain in close contact with the running of the house. Every so often the door beside her would be slightly opened and one of the maids or other servants would put their head in, whisper something in the countess’s ear and disappear discreetly as soon as they had received her equally discreet and softly-spoken order. The ladies’ conversation would then go on as if there had been no interruption.
Countess Ida always received on her saint’s day and for her it was always the most difficult day in the entire year. Invited or not there were masses of callers in the afternoon, and in the evening there was always a large dinner followed by a dance. Rooms had to be chosen and prepared for the guests who stayed overnight, the great reception rooms prepared and polished, the reputation of the famous Siklod cooking had to be maintained and every detail, including the baking, needed her personal attention. Something always went wrong if she didn’t see to it herself. On her last saint’s day she had nearly died of shame when it was discovered that salt had found its way into the iced puddings; and the year before, at the very last moment, a most peculiar smell had been identified as coming from the potted veal tongues, and a carriage had had to be sent post-haste to Vasarhely to find some more, Alice Laczok, her sister-in-law who should have helped her, was so vague that she needed more supervision than the servants. In recent years her daughters had begun to be useful, running errands, checking the larder and the cold store, but today they had gone to those idiotic races, disappearing at midday and not returning until it was almost dark. They had left their mother to see to everything herself. And so she had, until the guests started arriving and she found herself nailed to the sofa and making polite conversation while her whole mind was on the thousand details of the preparations for the evening. She could hardly wait to get rid of all those who had dropped in, knowing that there was little time left before she would have to go and dress.
Not that any of the ladies would have guessed that they did not have her full attention. With a sweet smile on her still beautiful if rather full face, she would turn from one to another with every sign of sympathetic interest, ‘Yes, indeed, my dear. How well you put it, I do agree!’ And all the while she was thinking: Did they put the champagne on ice? Have they let the cream curdle? Did someone remember to shut up the ice pit? Was there enough beef for the guests’ coachmen’s dinner? Was Alice actually checking all these things or not? Despite the fact that her husband’s sister was so unreliable she had been forced to entrust it all to her; and until the girls got back there was nothing else she could do. But though reconciled to the inevitable, she still worried.
It was a mercy that Aunt Lizinka was there and that she never drew breath. In her high, piping, and surprisingly penetrating voice, she held all the country ladies spellbound with her version of the latest scandals. No one ever interrupted her: neither the mothers of marriageable daughters who feared her evil tongue and what she might say if she were offended, nor the country ladies who had come to pay their respects, for they knew that however frail and ancient she might seem she was still a power to be reckoned with in Maros-Torda. Only two years before she had used this power, to the whole province’s rage, to ensure the election to Parliament of its first peasant member, the demagogue Makkai, simply because she had been angered by the choice of a candidate she did not approve. People said that even Makkai’s election speeches had been dictated by Aunt Lizinka.
Her latest tirade concerned her old enemy, Miklos Absolon, who, although he hardly ever left his estates in the northern part of the province, still wielded great
influence, usually in direct opposition to whatever Aunt Lizinka was trying to achieve. She never lost an opportunity of discrediting Miklos Absolon, who for many years had lived with his housekeeper, a fact well-known to everybody, and who according to Lizinka was nothing more than a ‘crack-heeled servant’. ‘And now, my dears – I know it for a fact – she’s cheating on him with every Tom, Dick and Harry! It’s true! I know it because it is so!
All this was happening while Balint was washing in the guest cloak room. As he stepped out into the hall he met again the butler Kadar carrying a large tray of glasses.
‘Where can I find Countess Laczok?’ he asked.
‘The Count should leave her be,’ replied the old man testily, ‘and go on out into the garden. That’s where all the gentlemen are.’ And without waiting for an answer, he marched on breathing heavily.
So Balint went out through the front door again. About a hundred yards away on the edge of the old moat was a gaunt old lime tree under which the men were gathered. Some of them had come from the races, while others were husbands of the ladies upstairs who had come from Vasarhely and the country around Var-Siklod to call upon the hostess. Under the tree was a round table made from an ancient mill-stone, on which had been placed decanters of wine, bottles of lemonade and mineral waters and several trays of glasses. Directly under the tree sat the host, Count Jeno Laczok. The visitors, on benches and garden chairs – and some standing – had grouped themselves according to their political allegiance; one party on his left, the other on his right.
Next to the host, on his right, sat Crookface, who had been Prefect for fifteen years during the Kalman Tisza régime, and beside him the present Prefect, Peter Kis, with Soma Weissfeld, the banker who was also a State Counsellor. This last honorary title had been obtained for Weissfeld by Jeno Laczok as a reward for having helped him run the private company which had been formed to manage the combined forestry interests of the different branches of the Laczok family. Nearby sat Beno Balogh Peter, the ambitious notary who was always being wooed by the opposition; Uncle Ambrus who, though he secretly inclined away from the party in power, gave outward allegiance to whichever policy was supported by his cousin Crookface; Adam and Zoltan Alvinczy, who followed Uncle Ambrus in everything; and, finally, Joska Kendy, who sat silently smoking his pipe. Joska never discussed politics but he had placed himself there because he had two horses to sell and planned to palm them off on the Prefect.
Here the party line was broken by a large and hairy man with a black beard, Zoltan Varju, a neighbour of the Laczoks, who was generally regarded as an irresponsible and dangerous demagogue, and who sat facing the host.
On Count Laczok’s other side sat Ordung, the County Sheriff, whose dealings with the opposition were by no means as discreet as he believed; his friend the Deputy Sheriff Gaalffy, and an elderly man, Count Peter Bartokfay, in Hungarian dress and boots, who had been Member for Maros-Torda for many years in the past. Beside the old politician sat Zsigmond Boros, an eminent lawyer in the district and one of the leading political figures in Vasarhely; and a round-faced, puffy young man, Isti Kamuthy, who was politically ambitious and so liked to keep in with anyone important.
Between Kamuthy and Varju sat old Daniel Kendy who had no political ideas of any sort, but who had chosen that place because there he was nearest to the wine. He never spoke, but just sat quietly drinking, refilling his glass the moment it was empty.
A little further away, outside the main circle, stood and sat the young men who had been asked to the ball, together with a few others who had not found places nearer the host. Among these last was Tihamer Abonyi who had placed himself beside Laszlo Gyeroffy, partly because they came from the same district and partly because of Laszlo’s grand Hungarian connections. Balint went at once towards Laszlo, his friend and cousin, rejoicing to see a kindred spirit. As he did so he recalled the words of Schiller ‘Unter Larven die einzig’ fühlende Brust – in all these grubs just one faithful heart’, but even as he quoted the words to himself he was seized by the Prefect, Peter Kis, who greeted him with as much warmth as if he had been the prodigal son.
Balint, who had met only the Countess Laczok, asked him: ‘Which is the host?’
‘I’ll introduce you at once, my dear friend,’ replied the Prefect, putting an arm round Balint’s shoulders and propelling him forward as if Balint were his special responsibility. They had to stoop to pass under the low spreading branches of the tree to reach the wide pine bench on which Count Jeno was sitting.
The host was a heavy-set man, fat and almost completely bald. A single lock of hair was combed over his forehead, like a small brown island in the yellow sea of his smooth shining hairless skull. There were two ridges offat at the nape of his neck and he had three double chins, and his large pale face was given distinction only by an impressive black drooping moustache and the upward sweeping eyebrows that peered out from the layers of fat. Count Laczok sat rigidly upright, neither leaning on the arms of the bench nor against the tree behind him. One of his short legs reached the ground, the other was drawn up under him, and he held his hands spread on his knees. Balint at once thought of those squat Chinese soapstone figures displayed in oriental bazaars. The Lord of Siklod, sitting hieratically under the old lime tree, seemed a reincarnation of some Szekler-hun ancestor from the distant past.
‘May I present Count Balint Abady, my latest and dearest Member?’ said Peter Kis, pushing Balint forward with a special squeeze on his shoulder as if he were thus sealing their friendship.
‘Welcome, my boy! Welcome!’ said Count Jeno, extending his hand but not otherwise moving, as neither rising nor turning was easy for him.
After greeting his host, Balint introduced himself to the guests he did not already know and went to sit down beside Laszlo Gyeroffy.
‘Your Member, my dear prefect?’ quietly asked Sheriff Ordung from the other side of the table, in a mocking tone that barely concealed his underlying animosity. Ordung had two reasons to resent the Prefect: firstly because, unlike Peter Kis whose father was a middle-class merchant from far-away Gyergyo, the sheriff came from an ancient noble family of Maros-Torda and secondly, because they belonged to different political parties. As a result they were on worse terms than were usual between elected sheriffs – who could hold office for as long as they retained the confidence of the voters – and the prefects who, as appointees of the government, were apt to come and go with every political upheaval in the capital.
‘Well, Lelbanya is in my country,’ the Prefect replied heartily, but somewhat on the defensive.
‘Elected members belong to the people who have elected them,’ cried Zoltan Varju.
‘… or to the town or country,’ added old Count Bartokfay.
The Prefect, finding himself cornered, took refuge in evasion. ‘I only said “my” because I like him so much!’
Even this did not satisfy the demagogue Varju.
‘Sheer absolutism! Just as if he were appointed by the government,’ went on Varju. ‘It’s not as if it hasn’t happened before.’
‘But he supports the ’67 Compromise.’
‘He’s not a member of any party … and this means he disapproves of the government and the Tisza party,’ intervened Peter Varju who, turning to Balint, went on: ‘Am I right, Count?’
‘I am far too much of a beginner to give an opinion,’ answered Balint, who was not at all sure what to say and felt he was getting into rather deep water.
Now the host thought it was time he intervened.
‘Well spoken, son! That’s the way to defend yourself. I keep clear of opinions too and keep my mouth shut. It’s the only way not to be torn to pieces either by the dogs,’ and he waved at the politicians on his right, ‘… or by the wolves,’ indicating their opponents. ‘Frankly, gentlemen, I don’t see why you all growl at each other so much. The peace has been made by old Thaly, the Hungarian curse has been laid to rest, and all should be friends!’
While saying this, Count Laczo
k spread his arms wide and then brought them together again, hugging his own huge bulk as if it were the whole world. ‘Be friends, my good fellows, be friends!’ And bursting into loud derisive laughter, he reached for his wineglass, refilled it to the brim, and raising it high, said:
‘Long life to this clever and excellent peace! Drink up, my friends. Vivat! Vivat!’
And with this ironic toast to the uneasy parliamentary truce, the floodgates of party discussion were opened again.
The bitter battle in Parliament about responsibility for national defence, which had begun a year and a half before and which had brought into the open many old grievances about the complicated legal relationship between Hungary and Austria, had dwindled into an uneasy peace in the previous spring. Though the party leaders in power had managed to overcome some of the technical objections to the integration of the Austrian and Hungarian armies – and indeed had isolated the small group of those politicians who clung to the 1848 policy of complete independence – they still needed, so as not to lose votes, to brandish patriotic slogans that demanded, if not the separation into two of the monarchy’s armies, at least the appointment of Hungarian senior officers. Without such token signs of resistance – and some even thought the national colours woven into Hungarian officers’ insignia would be enough – they were defenceless against the persistent stubbornness of the little group headed by Ugron and Samuel Barra which, though in the minority, took every advantage of the absurd anomalies in the old Hungarian parliamentary rules of procedure to block the passing of budgets, and the approval of foreign contracts, all essential if the business of government was to continue.
They Were Counted (The Writing on the Wall: the Transylvanian Trilogy) Page 6