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

by Bánffy, Miklós

  Klara was flooded with joy and relief, all the confidence that had deserted her after the terrible interview with her parents restored by those two simple words. Once again she saw their marriage as certain; in a few months she would stand before her father and say: ‘See, Laszlo isn’t gambling any more. He has given it up for me and this is the greatest proof of his worth! And he’ll never do it again, never ever again!’ And, as these thoughts came to her she also exulted that it had been she who had saved him, this very minute, from certain destruction. Ever since the previous day’s talk with her father, when she had been deeply influenced by his passionate denunciation of gamblers and gambling, she had been forced to recognize the facts and admit to herself that for Laszlo gambling could become a fatal obsession; and in recognizing this she had decided that it would be she, and she alone, who would save him. Now she had done it. He was saved … and the feeling was wonderful.

  For a moment she allowed herself to look at him. Then she saw her younger brother Niki a few steps away. He was looking at them, obviously watching them; and of course this would all be reported back to the princess. It was the moment to send Laszlo on his way.

  ‘We’ve been seen!’ she said softly, and then went on in a loud confident voice, ‘Now hurry off to the tote and put this on for me.’ and, opening her little silken purse, she took out some coins and handed them to him. ‘Here are ten crowns. Do hurry!’

  It was all so natural, or seemed so, and it was equally natural that Laszlo should lean towards her as he took the coins from her hand and that this should give him the opportunity to whisper: ‘Can I sit beside you tonight?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Now I don’t mind anymore,’ she said softly, her lips scarcely moving because she was so happy and thankful and so relieved, and because she loved him all the more for those two little words which rang so loudly in her heart. She had his oath and in her thundered triumphantly the knowledge that he was hers, now and forever. Her ocean-grey eyes sparkled as she watched him leave the stand and walk across the lawn below.

  ‘Which did you choose?’ asked a girl who sat behind her. ‘Not Patience, I hope, she’s everyone’s favourite! You won’t win a sou!’

  ‘I won’t tell you,’ said Klara, turning round. ‘No! No! It’s a secret, my very own secret!’ And she laughed wickedly, but so full of joy was she, joy, triumph and sheer happiness, that her laughter was as soft and voluptuous as the cooing of a dove.

  Gyeroffy hurried through the mass of people on the lawn propelled by a superstitious compulsion that he must, no matter what, put Klara’s money on a horse. When he reached the betting counter he could hardly get to the clerk so thick was the crowd waiting to place their bets, and when he did get to the front and push forward his ten crowns his mind was a blank and he could not remember the name of a single horse that was running. ‘Which horse, please?’ asked the clerk impatiently. Laszlo could think of nothing. He had not even looked at his programme, indeed he seemed to have lost it. A number, quickly, he thought to himself, any number! ‘Nine!’ he said swiftly, without thinking; and then it suddenly crossed his mind that he had chosen right since the nine was a winning number at chemmy and baccarat and would bring him luck. He picked up the ticket and put it in the pocket of his waistcoat.

  When Laszlo left the tote counter he decided not to go back to the grandstand, as he knew that if he did he would be drawn back to Klara. Instead he remained on the lawn from where he could just see the horses moving at a slow canter towards the start. Because of the dense crowd, all that he could see was the flash of racing colours above the undulating sea of black top hats. For the first time he became interested in the race and so started to look for a place from which he would be able to watch properly. He hardly noticed where he was going until his way was suddenly barred by the frothy green lace of a lady’s parasol.

  ‘Stop at once!’ said a merry female voice. ‘So you don’t even notice me any more?’ It was Fanny Beredy, surrounded by her nieces and faithful band of admirers. Greetings and laughter followed, with Laszlo being teased for his sudden interest in the races. Realizing that he must know on which horse he had placed Klara’s bet, he asked the others to let him see a programme. ‘Since when have you been interested in horses?’ asked Fanny. ‘You haven’t actually bet on one, have you?’

  ‘I have!’

  ‘You? Backing the horses now?’ The remark sounded like a mild rebuke, inferring that cards were quite enough.

  ‘Just this once.’

  ‘Which one, may one ask?’ said d’Orly.

  ‘Number nine.’

  ‘That will get nowhere! The Festetic filly’s bound to win hands down!’

  Laszlo’s heart missed a beat.

  Fanny noticed that a cloud passed over Laszlo’s face at this last remark and she turned towards him, concerned. ‘Did you bet a lot?’

  ‘Oh, no! Only a trifle! Just my life!’ And he said it so lightly, with a soft laugh, that they all took it for a joke and laughed. But Fanny looked sharply at him, paused, and then asked him to give her a chair to stand on so that she could have a clear view of the race. Szelepcsenyi handed Fanny his race-glasses.

  There was a sudden hush of excitement as the starting bell rang. Through the glasses Fanny could see the race clearly until the horses reached the first turn and were hidden by other spectators. After a few seconds there was a sudden surge of shouting from the public stands, a thundering roar as the crowd took up the name of the leader. Closer and closer it came, the noise ever louder, though all that could be distinguished was ‘Pa-a-a-, Pa-a-a-’, only that. All at once, in tearing speed, the horses were past Fanny’s little group and the race was over. In front, several lengths ahead of the field, the wonder filly Patience, her jockey carrying the golden Festetic colours, flew effortlessly past the finish.

  ‘Trouble?’ whispered Fanny as Laszlo reached up to help her descend from her chair.

  ‘No! No! I only risked ten crowns. It’s nothing but a farce really.’ Though he smiled as he spoke, Fanny did not entirely believe him and pressed his hand a little longer than was necessary out of sympathy.

  In the grandstand everyone now stood up to look for some refreshment. The princess, who had returned to her place just before the race began, moved down beside Klara.

  ‘Look there!’ she said, her face rigid with disapproval, and as she pointed to where Countess Beredy was surrounded by her little court. Laszlo was helping Fanny get down from her chair, and this was the moment when Klara’s lover was looking up into Fanny’s lovely smiling face.

  In Klara’s heart something tightened and all her doubts flooded back, just as her stepmother had intended. In an instant the girl had chased her fears away, but the radiant sense of joy which had until then filled her whole being had fled, never to return.

  On the evening of the King’s Cup Race a grand ball was always given at the Park Club, and as this was the pinnacle of the spring season everyone felt it their duty to be there. As well as those families with debutante daughters and the young men who attended every dance as religiously as if they were going to work, the King’s Cup ball was also graced by the younger married couples, by leading political figures, by the principal owners of racing stables, by members of the court, ladies-in-waiting and equerries, and all those elderly country aristocrats who contributed to the organization of the ‘Gentlemen’s Ball’, as this event had come to be called. This year the Archduke and Archduchess were also to be present with two of their daughters, and they had brought two royal princes from Germany as their guests. There were so many people that every room at the club was filled with people. The invitations bore the magic legend ‘Decorations’, indicating that royalty would be present, and so all the married women wore tiaras and every man who was able to wore dress uniform just as if he had received an invitation to court. The great oval ballroom had all the air of a reception at Schönbrunn or the Hofburg.

  For once Balint also decided to attend. Since he had been in Budapest for the
parliamentary sessions he had accepted invitations only to a few private dinners and on those evenings when there were no debates he either dined quietly at the Casino or went to a bachelor party with gypsy musicians and girls from the demi-monde. But though he tried hard to find pleasure in the political struggles and in carousing with other young men at the tsigane parties, the truth was that he could raise only fleeting interest in the cocottes while the debates, with their endless trivial argument and the substitution of political slogans for constructive proposals, bored him to death. It seemed that no one would ever put forward any positive plan to solve the country’s problems. All they did was to repeat, over and over again, what had been said before.

  Perhaps the underlying reason for Balint’s disillusion lay in the fact that he was depressed and inwardly perturbed. He seemed to have lost his way. If he were really to have an effective role in what was happening rather than remaining forever a spectator, then he wondered if perhaps he should choose a leader and follow faithfully wherever he might lead. As it was he felt he was an outsider, set apart from the others, forever wondering what line he should take. Surely it was both senseless and somewhat absurd for someone so new to politics to set himself apart as he had done. During this last session this feeling had become stronger and stronger, until it was clear that no matter how hard he tried to discuss things with other members, whatever their political allegiances, he was answered only by a repetition of their party’s official policies which had already appeared in print a hundred times over. Politicians with party ties would shy away from him if he ever tried to discuss seriously what they really thought. Each man with whom he talked assumed at once that he was a secret envoy from one of the parties to which they themselves did not belong. This was extremely frustrating, though now Balint was starting to realize that it was natural and inevitable. A man who tried to see every side of every problem, who bent over backwards to take a fair and equitable view, was a suspect animal in the world of politics. What, to most politicians, could be more equivocal and therefore not to be trusted, than someone who admitted that those with contrary opinions might possibly also be right? Audiatur et altera pars (which might be translated as ‘There are two sides to every question’) held no attraction for committed party members for whom their own party’s programme was no less than Revealed Truth, while that of their opponents was just as inevitably the work of the Devil. We are right and they are wrong, and that was that!

  Thus it was, is now and ever shall be! And in the Hungary of the first decade of the twentieth century it was even more true than it was in other countries and at other times. To the generation that grew up in the years following the 1867 Compromise, the feeling of isolation that stemmed from Austria’s dominant role in the Dual Monarchy together with the long years of peace, taught them to ignore any events that occurred outside the country. Since, until recently, the same Government had remained for time in office, the Opposition had never had the chance of experiencing the realities of government and instead had concentrated all its efforts in increasingly unrealistic criticism. In its turn, the Government saw in the Opposition only an irresponsible enemy who must at all costs be crushed. In these circumstances Balint began to wonder if he might not be better employed by allying himself to some party from whose ranks he could contribute more effectively to political reform. In particular, he was anxious that some attention should be paid to the problems and economy of Transylvania.

  This, thought Balint, was where his mission lay. He had been much influenced by an article which had recently come out in a distinguished English publication, the Contemporary Review. It was written by a Romanian, one Draginesco who, in undisguised hatred of the Hungarians, put the entire blame for the present stagnation of the Hungarians on the repressive and arrogant administration in Budapest. Balint wondered if there was any connection between the publication of this article and the increasingly active agitation from the ranks of the Transylvanian-Romanians.

  It was true that Mihaly had spoken with moderation in the debate on the Address, but had he not said: ‘We who are members of the Hungarian political system’? Could there be a link between the emergence of minority representation in Parliament and the plotting of extremists in the province itself? And, if there were, was this not something of vital importance that the Government should take seriously?

  It was such things as this that occupied Balint’s mind as he was being driven to the ball. He arrived at the Park Club late. Inside the entrance the committee of the Club was grouped around Laszlo who, as representative of the sponsors, was acting as host for the evening. Behind them stood two footmen holding brightly-lit candelabra, for a telephone message from the Palace had just been received announcing that the royal party was already on its way, and custom dictated that the royal guests should be greeted at the door by the committee and escorted up the stairs with all the ritual of candle-light and court procedure.

  Seeing his cousin, Balint was reminded of the rumours that Laszlo had become a reckless and fanatical gambler. When he had heard this he had decided to find an opportunity for having a serious talk with him and, if necessary, to speak to him severely, even harshly, on the dangers of such a life. This was something from which Laszlo must be saved, and he believed that because of their long-standing friendship he was the only person who could rescue his cousin. Until now no occasion had presented itself, for Laszlo was always so busy and in such a hurry that when they had met there had been no chance of an intimate talk. Seeing him now, Balint went up at once and he said: ‘I’ve something very important to discuss with you. It’s urgent. When can I see you? We’ll need a little time.’

  ‘Anytime!’ said Laszlo.

  ‘Anytime is never!’ laughed Balint. ‘Will you be at the Casino tomorrow afternoon?’

  ‘Of course. I lunch there every day.’

  ‘Well then, tomorrow at two I’ll be there. We’ll have to find a quiet corner where we won’t be interrupted.’

  ‘Of course!’ Laszlo replied with a distracted air, for all his attention was directed at the entrance where the royals were expected. ‘Of course, splendid!’ he repeateded absent-mindedly.

  Something is the matter, thought Balint, noticing that instead of his usual open and cheerful expression Laszlo looked serious and withdrawn. He turned away and went up the stairs.

  Balint assumed that Laszlo was worried about his mounting debts but in this he was wrong, for Laszlo, who had just had a run of good luck, owed little to the money-lenders and was not being pressed for what he did owe. What had caused Laszlo to frown and look unusually serious was that he had heard indirectly that a big dinner had been given that evening at the Kollonich Palais and that he, though a close relative and a normally welcome guest, had been left out. He now realized that Peter and Niki, whom he had seen at the races, had been careful not to mention it in front of him. This clearly showed that his aunt had declared war and that the whole family knew it. All his old resentment came flooding back, and it was in a cloud of bitterness that he found himself having to stand at the door of the Park Club and force himself to attend to his duties. In vain he tried to convince himself that Klara would stand firm and be true to him and that together they would win through, but he was constantly returning to the superstitious thought that the horse on which he had staked Klara’s ten crowns as a symbol of their ultimate victory had come nowhere. It was a bad omen!

  Many people were crowded on the wide gallery of the main staircase, not, however, to watch the arrival of the royal party but rather to catch a glimpse of Burian, the Finance Minister of the Dual Monarchy who had that day arrived from Vienna. As the king’s personal representative he had come for discussions with the coalition government, and it was rumoured that this represented the crown’s final effort to achieve reconciliation. Not that Burian gave anything away. Even those who managed to talk with him questioned him in vain for he was a reserved, silent man whose bland expression revealed nothing, even though his short-sighted eyes twink
led merrily enough behind his pince-nez. In contrast to this non-committal and soft-spoken man, General Geza Fejervary was standing not far away talking loudly to a group of pretty women who had immediately surrounded him on his arrival. Fejervary’s unexpected presence had caused a sensation, for though he claimed that he had put in an appearance solely to please his granddaughters, no one believed that this was the whole truth. Boisterously he laughed and joked with the beauties who crowded around him, his tall figure towering above them.

  The general was an imposing figure with a eagle’s beak of a nose above a white hussar’s moustache and a wide manly chest which was shown to its best advantage in his court uniform of white cloth faced with gold lace. Among his many medals was displayed the little cross of the Order of Maria Theresia, which as a young captain he had won at the battle of Custozza. This is a man, said the glances of the women who surrounded him, and they brought into play all their feminine wiles and obvious admiration for the overpowering maleness of his presence, laughing and flirting and ogling the old general, in the hopes of getting him to reveal what he must know of Burian’s mission.

  The rumour had gone around that the general had been designated by the king to play an important role in this new effort at negotiation and so Balint at once decided to join the group around him. Though catching only occasional phrases from what was being said, Balint heard enough to catch the drift. One of the beauties, flashing her eyes boldly, was being more direct than all the others. She was saying that the ruler would have no alternative but to make concessions and accept the Hungarian point of view. Political arguments flowed from her lovely petal-shaped mouth and she ended by saying once again: ‘There is no other way! The King must give in!’

  The old general laughed loudly: ‘Really? Really? You think that?’ he said. ‘What if something else is planned, something quite different? Ha-ha-ha! Quite different from what they expect!’ And he stuck out his mighty chest even further and twirled his white moustache with an air of triumph, his whole being infused with the confident spirit of one who has never lost a battle. Balint thought that he must have been like this when leading his men to victory, and it was with a sudden pang that he heard the general, supremely confident of his own invincibility, let out a roar of mocking, victorious laughter. Balint’s heart constricted. What did this confidence mean? What new, unexpected, violent solution was being brewed up in Vienna? What it could be he could not imagine, but that there was something was certain; Fejervary’s whole bearing was proof to anyone with eyes to see. Was it to this that Slawata had referred when he had written ‘… something quite different to anything the Hungarians expect is now being prepared.’? What could it be? New elections controlled by the army? An attempt to impose absolute rule, putting aside the ancient constitution which Franz-Josef had sworn a coronation oath to preserve? Neither seemed probable. Such measures were unthinkable, yet the self-satisfied laughter of the old military man had made an impression that was hard to erase.