They Were Counted (The Writing on the Wall: the Transylvanian Trilogy)

by Bánffy, Miklós

  This was too much for the count. Slashing at the machine with his stick until it spun on the cords from which it hung, he cried, ‘What? This idiocy? This crazy rubbish! This is what I think of it!’ and he struck out again, breaking the slender laths and tearing the canvas.

  ‘I won’t stay here another minute!’ screamed Jopal, from behind the swinging remains of the broken model.

  Count Jeno did not answer. He turned on his heel and clumsily, with difficulty, descended the rickety wooden stair. By the time he had reached the bottom his anger had evaporated; and if he had not had the last word at least it was his action that had brought the confrontation to an end. It flashed through his mind, too, that it was all the same if Jopal left now or later. If the tutor broke his contract and left at once he would not have to be paid and, as the boys’ examinations were only two days away, they would not be able to learn much more anyway. This thought put him back in a good humour and he had left the tower and gone for a walk, smiling and quite pleased with himself.

  When Balint got back to old Minya’s house, the girl Julis and the wagoner were still unloading the broken parts of the model and carrying them piece by piece into a little room next to the kitchen. The mathematician stood beside the cart collecting his papers. Defiant and self-righteous, he looked at Balint with open hostility. Balint took no notice but walked over and introduced himself.

  ‘I think we’ve met before,’ he said, ‘at Kolozsvar, at the university. I was in the Law School.’

  ‘Possibly. I don’t remember. What do you want with me?’

  ‘Your uncle told me of your work.’ Balint pointed to a fragment of the broken model. He spoke hesitantly, embarrassed by the fact that he was about to do someone a favour. ‘He also told me what’s just happened. In our place, at Denestornya, there’s a big empty room. I know my mother would be happy for you to use it. You could work there in peace, without any interruption. If you needed anything – materials, wood – I’m sure we could find it for you. l believe a Flying Machine is possible.’

  Jopal’s eyes sparkled.

  ‘Possible? It’s already done. I’ve created it. Yes I really have! The Wright Brothers’ experiments were all very well in their way, but their construction was all wrong.’

  He started to explain what he meant. Previously every attempt to build a flying machine had been based on the mathematical formulæ worked out by Lilienthal, but these, though sound as far as they went, neglected certain important mechanical and practical factors. It was this aspect of the problem that he had been studying, for until these things were solved the theory could never be put into practice. Everything up until now had been nothing more than elementary children’s stuff, scientists’ toys, he said bitterly, thinking of Count Laczok’s insulting words.

  He spoke of natural flight, of birds and their movements and proportions. At first he spoke only in general terms, as one does in popular lectures, but soon he was so carried away by his own enthusiasm that he sat down on the ground beside Balint and began to draw in the sand. With one of the broken laths he drew diagrams of the wing-spans of cranes, falcons and swallows, showing the relationship between size and weight. Alongside, still in the sand, he wrote the apposite algebraic formulæ. Soon the whole space was filled with traced shapes and figures.

  Jopal’s eyes were bright with excitement and his bulging forehead was creased with perpendicular furrows. Until now, he said, no one had discovered the right coefficient to settle the problem of air-resistance. The solution was this: the formula must be based on a fifteen degree sinus-angle – and he stood up and scraped a line with the heel of his boot.

  Then he stopped, and looking at Balint with a shy smile, he said, ‘But I’m afraid that I must be boring the Count with higher mathematics that are beyond the range of his studies?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m very interested. Though I studied law, mathematics was my second subject. That’s why I went to Martin’s lectures at Kolozsvar. So you see I do know enough to follow and appreciate …’

  ‘Oh! Oh!’ Jopal’s face clouded and he looked at Balint reflectively. ‘So you studied mathematics, did you?’

  ‘Not very much! Just the elementary aspects of these problems … Eiffel’s and Langley’s theories. Just enough to know that this problem can be solved. That’s why I would like to support your work.’

  Balint was trying to be encouraging, but the effect was just the opposite.

  Jopal strode up and down a few times, hurriedly stamping out the designs and formulae in the sand, looking more and more pensive and muttering to himself, ‘So! So!’ Then he stopped and turned to Balint.

  ‘Thank you for your offer, but I can’t accept. No! I’m sorry, but I can’t accept.’ He hesitated for a moment and then added, ‘I’ve already promised to go to a friend. I’ll go to him.’

  It was obviously a lie. Clearly he didn’t want to come. Perhaps he thought that Balint planned to rob him of his secret.

  For a moment they looked each other straight in the eye.

  ‘Then you are not coming to Denestornya?’

  ‘Ah! If you hadn’t admitted that you too are a mathematician. You too!’ The ideas that were crowding into his head made the arteries on his forehead swell and his lips draw back tight as if he were getting ready to bite. He bent forward and shouted in a fury of passion: ‘It’s monstrous! Unfair! You sneak back and cunningly make me talk, and all the time you only want to spy on me!’

  ‘I just wanted to help. Really! I had no other motive.’

  Jopal interrupted him, still shouting: ‘Help me? Help me? That’s what every spy says. You think I don’t know?’ And he paced up and down pouring out more and more violent abuse and working himself up until he was completely out of control. Balint had no idea how to react. It was so absurd that he almost found himself laughing, and his initial anger faded away.

  The girl Julis, hearing the noise, came to the kitchen door and looked out bewildered. Her surprise was obvious when Balint turned to her, lifted his hat and began to walk away with an ironic smile on his face. Andras was still jumping about in his rage and shouting. As Balint walked up the hill he could still hear the inventor hurling ever ruder insults after him.

  Balint reflected that this was altogether too much to bear. But if he had hit him perhaps the poor man would have called for seconds and demanded satisfaction. And the idea of a duel with someone of the middle class who had never held a sword would have been too absurd. And how could he, Balint Count Abady, fight a man he had only tried to help? Why, even the seconds would have laughed. Wiser to take no notice as if it were not worth another thought. He walked quickly away and soon crested the little hill.

  Still, as he walked down into the town, he could not quite shake off his vexation that his good intentions had been taken so ill.

  Chapter Five

  BALINT AND LASZLO left Vasarhely early the next morning. While Laszlo went to visit his land up the Szamos river beyond Kolozsvar, Balint left the train at Maros-Ludas, He had sent a telegram to his mother asking for a carriage to be sent to Ludas to meet the morning train as he intended to visit the district for a few days.

  Why had he said ‘a few days’? He had nothing important to do in the Lelbanya district, but the real reason was that he did not want to feel bound to return as he would have done had his mother expected him. Without fully admitting this, Balint tried to convince himself that it was necessary for him to visit Lelbanya to start the co-operative he had always promised himself would be one of the first improvements he would inaugurate. This ought to be discussed with the people on the spot; and then there was the scheme for a cultural centre. These useful projects would justify his being their Member of Parliament.

  But, deep inside himself, though he would not acknowledge the fact, he knew that this was not the real reason why he wanted ‘a few days’. During the week, in the middle of the autumn work in the fields, few of the people he wanted to see would be at home. One afternoon would be enough. The truth
was that from Lelbanya he would be within an hour’s ride of Mezo-Varjas, the Miloths’ place. Adrienne had not invited him to go, but she had said that she would be there for a few weeks. She had said it: so he would go.

  Uneasily aware of his own hypocrisy he made a point of visiting the mayor and the two clergymen of the district. He explained his plans to them; and very convincing they seemed, for when he started to expound his ideas the details seemed to spring to his lips as complete and detailed as if he had studied them for months. But later, when he was eating in the little restaurant, it was as if the co-operative and the cultural centre had never existed: his mind was filled with other things.

  He was worried about Adrienne. What was troubling her? Why did she seem so disillusioned? She had married Pal Uzdy of her own free will – she had chosen him herself. No one had forced her. Presumably she had been in love and so she had married him: why else? But, if that were so, whence came that inner revolt, that tension, the bitter tone in her voice when she spoke of the purpose of life and its aims? Perhaps her husband had turned out to be cruel. Perhaps he even struck her. Balint would not have put it past that evil-faced satanic man. As the thought came to him, he involuntarily clenched his hand into a fist on the tablecloth.

  And why did she still retain that girlish, maidenly appearance? She did not have either the assurance or the mature look that came to most girls with marriage and motherhood. The oddly shy movement on the terrace when she pulled the stole up round her bare shoulders was not the normal assured gesture of a fulfilled woman.

  Something was wrong and he must find out what it was. Perhaps he would be able to help; he would deeply like to. Perhaps Adrienne would tell him, and then he would be able to advise and reassure her, or his unselfish understanding might find a realistic solution to her problem, whatever it was. Obviously he must try to help – and the best way would be to go over to the Miloths’ place that afternoon.

  The two glossy bay horses that the Countess Roza had sent from Denestornya trotted along the smooth well-worn road. The lake, edged by reeds, was on the right of the road and in the distance lay the village of Varjas, a group of thatch-roofed houses surrounded by plum trees. On one side of the valley was the outcrop of rock on which stood the Romanian church with its toothpick spire, and on the other, above the village, were the gardens of the Miloth estate. All around to the west hills rolled towards the sunset as soft as waves. The carriage rounded the last turn in the road by the lake. Ahead on the left the boundary to the Miloth property, a thick hedge of acacia trees planted in a straight line up the hillside completely obscured the view ahead. All at once, as the carriage approached the acacia thickets, there was the sound of galloping horses. Five riders, bare-back and masked like bandits, suddenly appeared from behind the trees.

  The riders were all dressed in extravagant and peculiar clothes. The leader wore a Turkish turban, the others had wide-brimmed Boer felt hats or fur caps with ear muffs and one had a red fez. They wore odd coats: dressing gowns and rubber macintoshes. This most awe-inspiring sight was somewhat diminished by the fact that three of the bandits wore silk stockings and high heels. Galloping towards the carriage they cried out ‘Your money or your life!’ in high girlish voices, while the last, who was perhaps, after all, a man, sounded a blast on a hunting horn.

  The first two jumped off their horses and ran to the carriage shouting ‘Hand over your money! Your jewellery!’ as they menaced Balint with a broomstick and a squash racket. In an instant their ferocity was overcome by merriment as Balint knelt on the carriage floor and with clasped hands begged for mercy, no resistance being possible in the face of such power.

  Laughing, the bandits took off their masks. The turbanned leader was Adrienne, her brother Zoltan the warrior with the squash racket cudgel and two of the others were Adrienne’s sisters, Judith and Margit, who almost fell off their horses they were laughing so much. Everyone started to talk at once:

  ‘We heard you were coming …’

  ‘The man from the stables told us …’

  ‘Did we frighten you?’

  ‘… and when he came out from Lelbanya this morning, he said you’d asked him the way.’

  ‘Why are you so late?’

  ‘How long can you stay?’

  ‘It’s marvellous you’re here!’

  With all the talk no one noticed that Adrienne’s mount, which was only a draught-horse usually employed drawing a plough, had turned away and begun to amble homewards. He was fifty paces away before they noticed and then all was excitement as they realized that here was another chance for a chase.

  Wickwitz, the rider with the horn who had remained behind the others, immediately rushed after the riderless charger. The others followed, while Adrienne jumped into the carriage beside Balint and urged the coachman to give chase: ‘After him! After him! Faster! Faster!’ and she leant forward passionately beating the front seat with her fists. Her turban unwound and her wavy hair streamed in the wind. It was not long but very thick like a rich dark mane. With her laughing mouth, her eyes wide with excitement, her chin jutting forward and the short windswept hair, she looked almost boyish. Adrienne’s whole being was filled with the excitement of the pursuit. She seemed unaware of her tousled hair, of the bodice slipping from her shoulders or the skirt that pulled up over her knees as she jumped into the carriage. Nothing mattered but the excitement of the moment.

  Balint looked at her. How beautiful she was, how different and how passionately alive compared with the Addy of two days before, with whom he had stood on the dark terrace of the Castle of Siklod; the Addy with whom, in whispers, he had discussed the problems of the world at such length, the Addy who had spoken only in short broken phrases broken by long eloquent silences. Today she was a young huntress, an Amazon, her whole being alive with energy and passion. She cared for nothing but the exhilaration of the chase; nothing in the world was important but the need to catch the runaway.

  The farm-horse, normally so quiet and calm, was disturbed to find himself alone and free and soon became frightened. And his fright was increased by the shouts of his pursuers and the thunder of the hoofs on the road. He broke into a canter and then a gallop, and the loose reins slipped until they flapped against his forelegs like the touch of a whip. He raised his head and went off at a speed no one would have believed possible from such an old big-bellied animal.

  Down the road to the village they went, the old farm-horse in front, neighing fiercely, the four riders in hot pursuit and the carriage team from Denestornya bringing up the rear in a swift racing trot. They sped through the village and up the steep slope to the Miloths’ house, cantering straight into the farm yard where the old horse made directly towards the stables just managing to enter without skinning himself against the yard gates. He was lucky not to have been hurt. Everyone thronged after him, relieved to find that he had got back unharmed into his own stall. He was already calmer by the time they reached him and, after snorting a couple of times in their direction, turned calmly to munch the hay in its rack at the back of the loose-box.

  The little group walked up through the farm buildings to the garden of the manor house whose white walls could be glimpsed through a thick grove of ancient elms. As they approached they could hear the noise of someone shouting in apparent rage. Balint stopped, but the others went on quite unconcerned. Young Zoltan turned to Balint.

  ‘Don’t worry! It’s nothing! It’s only Papa!’ he said, not in the least worried.

  As they reached the long vine-covered veranda they could see Count Akos Miloth standing at the top of the steps. He was a stocky, elderly man with a wide moustache and a large mouth. He was shouting furiously:

  ‘How dare they! Galloping off with the farm horses! They could all be crippled! Who did it? And my fur cap, my raincoat, my dressing-gown? I’ll teach them all a lesson and a half, stealing my things!’ and he went on in the same vein, repeating himself and working himself up into a rage.

  Neither his daughters n
or young Zoltan seemed to take the smallest notice but walked quietly up to the veranda. Their father, old Rattle, went on shouting, his voice as loud as any bull bison’s, each new oath emphasized by wild gestures.

  As he paused for breath, Adrienne said quickly: ‘Dear Papa. Look! AB is here!’

  ‘My dear friend, welcome!’ bellowed Count Akos in the same loud tones but the expression on his large mouth had changed in an instant from one of deadly wrath to a wide smile. He hurried down the steps to Balint and took his arm.

  ‘Welcome! Welcome!’ He shook Balint’s hand warmly and, as he did so, noticed young Zoltan at his side. His face darkening, he struck out to give him a cuff on the head. The boy dodged the blow but stood where he was as if nothing had happened.

  ‘You see!’ the count said to Balint, ‘look how cheeky they are!’ By now he was smiling again. ‘They steal all my clothes just for a bit of fun! But from tomorrow things will change. Just you look out!’ he went on to his children. Turning again to Balint, he said:

  ‘Did they offer you tea, my boy? I thought not. Really, these people!’ Then turning, he shouted over his shoulder, ‘Miska, Jozsi! Where the devil are you? Idiots!’ and, back to Balint again, he said warmly, ‘Tea or coffee?’

  A tall footman appeared at the door.

  ‘Where have you been hiding, you ass? You should be here when guests arrive. Bring tea at once!’

  The footman did not move.

  ‘Where does the Count want it served?’ he asked.

  ‘Here, on the veranda, you dolt! Can’t you see? That’s where we are!’

  ‘Soon it will be dark, sir. Perhaps it would be better in the drawing-room. The lamps have already been lit.’

  ‘Very well then. Take it there, you idiot. But hurry! Run! I want it at once.’

  The man turned away with dignity and went unhurriedly back into the house.

  During all this Egon Wickwitz, who had been seeing that the horses were stabled, rejoined the others. He came to take his leave as he had to return to Maros-Szilvas whence he had come that afternoon to play tennis with the Miloths. As Maros-Szilvas – which was the property Dinora Abonyi had inherited from the Malhuysens – was more than twenty kilometres away in the valley of the Maros, Wickwitz explained that he would have to start at once or he would be late for dinner.