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

by Bánffy, Miklós

  ‘Bless you! Well said!’ shouted the mob.

  ‘And I’d lift all the taxes! Yes, sir! I’d wipe them all out!’

  ‘That’s rubbish!’ cried someone from the crowd. ‘You can’t run a state without them!’

  ‘I would! And I’d get enough money from the customs for the country not to need taxes. What do they want so much money for anyway? Only to make our boys into Austrian soldiers!’

  ‘Hear! Hear!’

  Then he started on foreign affairs. ‘The Russians thought they’d teach the Japs a good lesson, and look what happened! They’re finished! Well then, why does the Austrian Emperor need so many soldiers? Why does he want Hungarian boys to be bossed about in a foreign language – in German! – by foreign officers who are nothing but henchmen of the Austrian monarchy? Enslaving our good simple Hungarian lads, laughing at them and boasting of their own superiority …’

  It was at this moment that an open carriage was driven towards the mob where Cseresznyes was speaking. It slowed down and finally stopped as the road was blocked. ‘Hop! Hop! Move along there!’ cried the coachman, but no one moved and some of the men in the crowd started to grumble menacingly. In the carriage sat a tall dark-haired lady and next to her was an officer in a blue uniform tunic: it was Mme Bogdan Lazar, who had been born Sara Donogan, and Egon Wickwitz.

  Cherrytree saw them. ‘Look there!’ he shouted. ‘The sacred assembly of the good Hungarian people is menaced by the army!’ and he pointed to the uniformed figure of Baron Egon.

  Many faces were turned towards the carriage, ugly, menacing faces that surrounded it completely. The coachman began to get alarmed and Wickwitz put his hand on his sword, ready to draw if he should have to, for the ‘Kaiser’s Rock – the King’s uniform’ – must never be desecrated. All the same, he did not move. Mme Lazar, on the other hand, leapt to her feet, threw back the carriage veil which protected her from dust on the road, and drew herself up to her full height.

  ‘What is all this nonsense?’ she cried in a commanding voice. ‘Isn’t a Hungarian hussar respected any more? Shame on you all!’ Then, recognizing the speaker on the bench, she shouted directly at him: ‘And as for you, Cherrytree, you scoundrel, you’d do better to account to me for that money I gave you to buy calves with last week instead of playing the fool here! Be off with you!’

  ‘I kiss your hands, Gracious lady,’ said Cherrytree, jumping down from the bench. ‘Why, I was on my way to find your Ladyship. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘That’s all right then!’ She turned to the crowd. ‘And now, my friends, please let me by. I still have much to do.’

  Many of the people in the square knew Mme Lazar. She was generally respected and known to be a clever and industrious woman who managed her own estates. She was often to be seen mingling with the crowd at the hay auctions or in the market place, and she always had a good word for everyone she met.

  Some men came forward at once and saw to it that a way was cleared for her carriage.

  For nearly two months Wickwitz had been dancing attendance on the attractive Armenian widow. Mme Lazar was a good-natured woman who accepted the bad with the good, and saw through Wickwitz at once. Many men had come chasing her and she never despised or ignored the good things of life. She was tall and desirable, handsome and strong, with a small head and long limbs. Her skin was brown and healthy, over her red lips there was a faint line of velvety down which extended also along the line of her jaw. She radiated health and strength and her large eyes glowed like black diamonds behind thick lustrous lashes, so lustrous indeed that they could have been brushed in with charcoal.

  Her husband had died ten years before, and since then she had managed her estates better than most men would have done. Her son was at the same school as young Zoltan Miloth.

  She was both desirable and rich. She owed more than two thousand acres close to Kolozsvar, and Wickwitz was sure that she also had a respectable balance in the bank. It would be a sensible move to marry her, he thought; it looked as if nothing would be easier as he had already been accepted as her lover. And as for the matter with Judith … well, that was really very complicated and he thought that maybe there he had bitten off more than he could chew! It was for this reason that he had written the girl a letter full of sad resignation, giving up honourably all that he had ever asked of her and filled with such phrases as ‘and anyhow I’m not worthy’ and ‘It would be dishonourable of me, and unscrupulous, if I were to ask you to share my disreputable life’. It was a good letter. It was full of romance and honourable regret and it left him free to look elsewhere, while not entirely breaking everything off between them. Mann kann ja nicht wissen – who knows? He had this letter delivered by young Zoltan Miloth and the boy had brought back a brief note which had merely said: ‘I’m desperate! I can’t write now, but I will soon. Wait for me! I love you!’ Nothing more.

  Wickwitz had a whole sheaf of letters from Judith and these he had kept by him. Now, seated in the open carriage with Mme Lazar, he pondered over the nature of his relationship with the widow. It was true that she was very kind to him, exceptionally so – and generous – but it seemed to him that she did not take their friendship very seriously. It seemed that she quite realistically took the situation for granted as a simple, obvious, natural arrangement which could hardly be bettered and which could last indefinitely without any change. Perhaps she would be content to go on for ever like this? That would never do, not in his situation! The thing to do would be to throw a good scare into her, make her jealous, wave a few of his other possibilities in front of her, show her that there was someone else, younger too, who was prepared to be his wife. I’ve got to speed things up, he said to himself in sporting terms, for he rarely thought in any others, and so he would use Judith as a ‘running mate’ – as in racing they call the horse who will never win but who will keep his stablemate going until that last effort is needed to be first at the finish. If Mme Lazar realized that she was in danger of losing her soldier lover then it shouldn’t be difficult to steer matters in the right direction. Perhaps she herself might even suggest marriage. Nothing would be better than that. Nothing.

  After they had had lunch and were sitting sipping their coffee in Mme Lazar’s cool sitting-room, Wickwitz broached the subject.

  ‘Dearest Sara,’ he said, his eyes swimming with sadness. ‘I’d like to ask your advice about something very delicate. In confidence of course, because one shouldn’t really talk about such matters.’

  From the sofa where she was reclining, leisurely smoking a cigarette, Sara looked up from under her heavy eye-lashes: ‘What sort of matter?’

  ‘I’ve got some trouble on my hands. There’s a girl who … who … well, I can’t help it, says she’s in love with me and I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Who is she, this girl?’ asked Sara, though she knew, and had done for some time, all about Baron Egon’s pursuit of the Miloth girl. She knew about it because young Zoltan, who had often read the letters he had carried between them, had boasted to Mme Lazar’s son about the matter and he, thinking she would want to know everything about someone who called upon her regularly, had recounted what he had been told to his mother. Where is all this leading to now, she wondered?

  Wickwitz told his tale, little bit by little bit. It was his own version, of course. He explained how he had felt sorry for the girl, indeed so sorry for her that he’d even considered marrying her out of pity. Just that, out of pity, because she was so desperately unhappy.

  Sara shrugged a generous shoulder. ‘There’s no reason to rush into anything, especially marriage. She’ll get over it in time. All girls have some unhappy love affairs when they’re young, but no one ever died of it!’

  Egon insisted: ‘But this isn’t quite so ordinary. In fact, it’s an extreme case! Look, meine Liebe, these are the letters I’ve been getting!’ and he brought out a packet from his inner pocket. ‘I always carry them with me,’ he said untruthfully, ‘as I’m afraid to leave them
lying about in my hotel room. Have a look at one or two of them, and you’ll see what I mean!’

  Sara took the letters and started to read. When she had finished one she placed it in her lap and took up another. She read for a long time, with great attention, and when she had finished the last one, she turned to him and said: ‘Poor girl! She really is very smitten!’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? You see how serious it is?’ replied Wickwitz, triumphantly thinking that his plan had worked. And he suddenly broke into a peal of that strangely ugly barking laughter which transformed his otherwise handsome if melancholy features into an ugly satyr’s mask.

  The woman watched him as attentively as she had read the letters. She took shrewd note of his laughter. Then she said: ‘I think you were right: the best thing would be to marry the girl!’

  This was quite the wrong answer and Wickwitz, shattered, did not know how to proceed. His plan hadn’t worked. For a moment he looked at her dully and then, though not very convincingly, he said faintly: ‘But, Sara, I love you, only you!’ He reached out to take her hand and looked up with infinite sadness in his great calf-like eyes.

  ‘Ah, well, that doesn’t really matter, does it?’ She laughed lightly. ‘These things aren’t very important for people like you and me. But, since you’ve asked, that’s what I think you ought to do!’

  ‘Have I done anything to offend you?’ asked Wickwitz putting on his saddest expression.

  ‘Absolutely not! On the contrary, I feel flattered that you have confided in me and, naturally, for the present, and until you’re married, you’ll always be welcome here! As always – on the same terms. These things really are so unimportant. It makes no difference at all.’ and she allowed Baron Egon to start kissing her arm all the way to the shoulder.

  Later on, before he left, Wickwitz asked her to let him have back Judith’s letters, but she did not hand them over.

  ‘I’ll keep them here for you!’ she said in a decided manner that brooked no denial. ‘They are much too dangerous’ – she almost said ‘valuable’ – ‘to keep in a hotel room!’ She went to her desk and locked them in a drawer. ‘This is a much better place!’

  Thus did Wickwitz’s plans go awry; worse, in fact, than even he knew, for when his carriage drove away and she waved him goodbye from the window he was quite unaware that she was thinking: An agreeable animal, but, oh dear, what a scoundrel! And stupid! Even stupider than I thought. Imagine trying to trick me with all that talk about marrying the girl! And as for letting me see everything she’s written to him, it’s despicable! That poor girl! I’m glad I’ve kept her letters. Stretching voluptuously she got up, dressed, selected a sunshade and went out to oversee the afternoon milking.

  Wickwitz was angry. As soon as he got home he counted what money he had left: only a few hundred crowns. He took a look at the banker’s promissory notes and saw that in February the prolongation of Dinora’s draft had cost him eight hundred and thirty crowns, in May the same. Meanwhile he had to live. There had been Carnival. That had taken a lot. Money just disappeared and he could not go on as he had. Something had to he done, and done immediately. His only remaining chance was Judith: they would just have to elope, for there was no other means of being sure of her. But for this, too, he would need money. The only way would be to cash Countess Abonyi’s drafts; he could think of nothing else.

  A day or two later he went to Vasarhely to see Soma Weissfeld the banker. But Baron Weissfeld would not co-operate even when shown Dinora’s signatures. In fact he refused even to discuss the matter. ‘We can’t take these into consideration,’ he said. ‘We did it originally only because you told us the Countess would repay the drafts when she had sold her crops. Since then we’ve agreed to delay the repayment, but the matter is not straight and above-board, so I am afraid …’

  In vain did Wickwitz try to intimidate the banker by glaring at him menacingly; but the latter held his ground and, far from becoming immediately submissive, himself took the offensive. ‘Should Count Abonyi get to hear of all this, what would be the effect, do you think?’

  There was obviously nothing doing here.

  Back in Kolozsvar Wickwitz found a café-restaurant near the railway station which he had heard was frequented by commission agents. After giving the head-waiter a good tip he asked if the man knew where he could borrow some money. As a result of what he was told he took a train to Varad and there, at the Privatbank Blau, which was obviously more of a money-lending shop than a real bank, he obtained nine thousand crowns on the promise of repaying twelve thousand in six month’s time. It was expensive, but he had to have the money. What was worse, however, was that now he had to countersign the drafts himself, with his own name. He knew that this was dangerous, for everything that he had borrowed previously had been in Dinora’s name and had been covered by her signature. Until now there had been no proof that he had been involved and so, if it came to it, he could have denied all knowledge of the transactions. No one would have blamed him, or even accused him, for his word would have been quite enough, since in matters where a woman was involved it was the accepted thing that one knew nothing. Discretion was the privilege of a gentleman. But now that he had himself signed the Privatbank’s drafts the matter was quite different, and much more serious. He had just six months to arrange everything and that meant that he would have to move quickly. It was lucky that before going to Nagy-Varad he had given young Zoltan a beautifully phrased sentimental letter for Judith in which he had renewed the link that he had so recently severed and asked if they could not meet somewhere in secret.

  The girl’s reply arrived a fortnight later. It came in a thick envelope which also enclosed the letter which Abady had given to Adrienne and which she had sent back to her sister. Judith had written the first letter when she had received that from Wickwitz saying goodbye to her. Of course it was no longer important to either of them but Judith still sent it on to him as a sort of self-justification, telling him of its history and how it had been given to AB’s groom, intercepted by AB and then … but there really was no need to go into all these details because eventually she had got it back. Now she wrote with love and devotion: ‘Of course I’ll join you whenever you ask. I trust you with my life.’ She told him how carefully she was guarded, so it would be impossible to see her now, but that if the family came to Kolozsvar as they usually did at this time of year, then no doubt something could be arranged.

  Chapter Five

  ABADY DID NOT RETURN to Budapest, for it hardly seemed worth-while to make the journey for a single session which had been called only for the House to consider – and, of course, pass – a motion calling upon all national and provincial assemblies to civil obedience.

  Every day a different province, county or district would turn against the nominated government, now mockingly known as the Darabont – Bodyguard or Lackey Government – which was a play on words since Fejervary had previously commanded the Darabont Guard and the word darabont (though only in Transylvania) had a secondary and derogatory sense, for in most great aristocratic houses in that province it was the name used for a kind of inferior lackey or man-of-all-work, ever at the beck and call of his masters. And the word Bodyguard, of course, at once conjured up pictures of the monarch’s own Household.

  Kristoffy, who was Minister of the Interior in the ‘Bodyguard’ government, at once proclaimed a universal suffrage measure in an attempt to win popular support. The opposition political leaders countered with a new slogan: ‘The Will of the People must be the basis of the Constitution, not its destruction!’ This soon became the rallying cry of all the opposition parties. It was a good phrase and expressed what everyone felt, especially at a moment when there was a general feeling that this was not the time for inter-party feuds or for war between the right and left. Everywhere could be sensed a universal fear that the independence of Hungary, as guaranteed in the 1867 Compromise, was itself threatened, that their hard-won liberties were being secretly undermined and menaced by subvers
ive hostile forces working towards undisputed dominance by Vienna. Even independents like Abady, who were convinced of the rightness of many of the Austrian proposals – such as those for the armies of the Dual Monarchy – and who had despised the mindless obstructions and flag-waving of the anti-Vienna lobby, now docilely fell into line with everyone who opposed the ‘lackeys’. Abady realized that many people had now sensed what Slawata had already revealed to him of the plans being laid by the Heir in the Belvedere Palais.

  The government declared null and void the civil disobedience motions passed by all the provincial assemblies, and those sheriffs who had supported these motions were dismissed and others appointed in their place. In Transylvania, the first General Assembly called to inaugurate the new officials was to be held in the Maros-Torda district, at Vasarhely.

  For several weeks in advance plans were being laid, not only there but also all over the country, to prevent such inaugurations being effective. At Vasarhely the town was filled to overflowing the day before the assembly was due to be held. There was a grim, serious look on everyone’s face. The main square was packed with people and every table on the pavement in front of the Transylvania Café was crowded. There was not a place to be found and it was difficult even to thread one’s way from one table to another. At one of the marble-topped tables sat the great Samuel Barra, who had been the idol of the county ever since, the year before, he had led all the obstructionists and in particular had dared to oppose Ferenc Kossuth after the latter had suggested reconciliation between the parties. He had also taken a leading part in the controversy concerning the use of Hungarian as the language of command in the army. Barra was a dark, stocky, broad-shouldered man with a short beard and shining, dome-like forehead. He had large, dull-coloured eyes set under bushy eyebrows, but everyone who looked at him normally noticed only his enormous mouth which seemed to have become overdeveloped perhaps by the tremendous number of words that were constantly emerging from it. His lips were thick and the muscles round the mouth so exceptionally powerful that he could transform himself into a human loudspeaker at will.