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

by Bánffy, Miklós

  Pipe in mouth, Joska spoke up. ‘Well, I see you’ve got a tavern! Is no one going to offer me a drink?’ And he looked around him with a sharp all-seeing glance from his small slanting eyes. This glance was directed, not at the girls in the carriages, but at all the horses gathered there at the meet. Joska was only happy when buying or selling a horse and he wanted to see at once what horses were present on which he might do a profitable deal. He had come alone to the meet, accompanied only by a single groom who now jumped down from the folding seat at the back and went up to hold the heads of his master’s greys.

  Simultaneously, and of even more stormy appearance, there pranced forward ten whinnying stallions on the road from the Hubertus House to the north. As if on parade they came, side by side, right across the full width of the road, ridden by ten young infantry officers from the garrison at Szamos-Ujvar, who were no doubt anxious to show what good horsemen they were and so rode to the meet in strict military order. Their steeds were servicing stallions from one of the state stud-farms and every year some thirty of them were lent to the hunt so as to try them out in the field. As a rule only three or four of them came out at once and then just for the whips or some specially chosen hunt member. Then, even if full of go from their diet of oats, they could be placed in front or kept to the sides of the field. But today, ridden straight into the centre of a group of desirable mares, they caused no end of a furore, rearing and screaming and kicking out at each other and any other animal that came near and generally making it quite clear to everyone that they were all too ready and willing to get on with their principal function.

  This was far more serious than Joska’s four-in-hand, since for him it was only necessary to give way while from the new arrivals one had to get clear without delay. Even so there were some mares who seemed rather too interested, while the stallions could not abide the geldings.

  The newcomers did their best to jump about in every direction but their riders remained unperturbed. The band of young officers stayed close together making a perfect circle round the meadow; and, no matter how restive their mounts, carried themselves as uniformly upright as Army Regulations required. The dust had hardly settled and peace been restored after their arrival when the hounds arrived.

  They were led in by the Master, old Bela Wesselenyi, who himself had founded the Hunt and who after so many years remained its guiding spirit. He was riding a magnificent thoroughbred, tall, glossy and well-groomed, and his short stirrup leathers made him seem even shorter than he was in reality. His forty-year-old red coat, cut in the short style of the sixties, had faded from scarlet to pink and his face too shone red under the black velvet hunting cap. His snow-white moustaches and square-cut Franz-Josef beard gleamed white in the sunshine. All around the Master milled the hounds. Long-eared and spotted, they kept closely together, pressing up against his horse’s legs and sometimes looking up as if to make sure their master was still there. A hound on its own so often seems lost since for countless generations they had been accustomed to live always in a pack and always under human guidance. Hounds are never therefore alone and should one lose its way it can be for ever, so frightened and forlorn do they become when bereft of their master and companions. It is only when actually in full cry in the hunting field that such dogs lose their timidity and dependence.

  Close behind the hounds rode Istvan Tisza, the second Master, dressed in a dark green, almost black coat which suited his swarthy complexion.

  He had bred his own horse which, though it was over sixteen hands, seemed smaller, for Tisza, unlike the Master, rode with long stirrups in the old style of the Spanish Riding School. And his seat never altered, whether on the flat or clearing the highest fences. Always he sat completely upright and never lost his calm.

  A little further back rode the two Whips, Gazsi Kadacsay and the younger Aron Kozma, a grandson of the Kozma who had once been agent to the Abadys at Denestornya. Later he had made a fortune on his own account and this had been increased by his sons who were as intelligent and industrious as himself. They worked in perfect harmony and followed a policy of acquiring land from the former aristocratic owners who, through their own fecklessness, arrogance and disdain for the sources of their worldly position, had fallen on bad times. The Kozma brothers then re-divided the land, rationalized its use and brought it back into useful and profitable production. The third generation were equally industrious and sensible and because they, unlike their fathers, had been brought up with money under their belts, felt themselves free to indulge their inclinations by being active in local affairs and taking part in those sports hitherto only open to the gentry. This younger Aron had been recruited by Balint to help in his co-operative schemes and was now his right-hand man in the Mezoseg district. He planned now to hunt the first of the four days at Zsuk, return to his place some eighty kilometres away to look after urgent business, and drive back on the evening of the third day so as to be in the saddle again for the last meet of the season. He was a slim young man with the Tartar features more common in the Crimea.

  Baron Gazsi was riding a thoroughbred mare of impeccable breeding, still in racing condition without an ounce of fat on her. He had bought her two months before straight from the racecourse; and he had bought her cheap as she by no means deserved the gentle name of ‘Honeydew’. The mare was so nervous and bad-tempered that in spite of her good points and marvellous turn of speed the trainers had found it impossible to get the best out of her. There were times when she would suddenly stop and throw her rider, or when she would start bucking as in a Wild West show, keeping it up until she had succeeded in getting rid of her jockey. She would even throw herself backwards and had already killed one and crippled two others.

  Gazsi had been fascinated with the challenge she presented and was now applying all the psychological horse-sense he knew in an attempt to break her in properly. Today he sat in the saddle as gently as if it were a basket of eggs.

  Gazsi’s own contact with her mouth was so light that one might almost say that he was not using the bit at all but guiding her by balance alone. The effect was immediate: after throwing her new master twice, she had settled down and slowly allowed herself to be tamed. Kadacsay was extremely pleased with himself and it was not long before he went so far as to take her out with the hounds. Somehow Honeydew had been made to understand that the whip was for the hounds, not her, and though she still sometimes gave a little buck in protest Gazsi merely stood up in his stirrups, as if in courteous salutation, thereby making it even easier for her to buck as much as she wished. And very soon she gave it up altogether, no doubt thinking it hardly worthwhile if her rider did not resist. Nevertheless she never lost the habit of folding her ears back close to her head and woe betide any other mount who came within kicking distance – for then she struck out like lightning.

  Even this did not disconcert Gazsi. He just tied a white board on his back with the words ‘I KICK!’ so that anyone who came up behind him should be warned.

  The Master rode a wide circle round the meadow to see who out that morning, and then stopped to greet the ladies. Without even glancing in Uncle Ambrus’s direction he gave the sign to move off and led the way over the road and across the railway tracks. Behind the hounds rode the whips and behind them the stallions with their soldier riders. A little further back rode the two young Laczok boys in the charge of their father’s head groom. Countess Laczok, who had made the Master responsible for their safety, stood up in her carriage and waved to them to pass by her; but the two youngsters already had their hands full keeping their mounts from crowding the riders ahead of them and could not have left the field even if they had wanted to. It was enough to keep behind Baron Gazsi and Aron Kozma and nothing could take that joy from them.

  Once over the track the field split into two, half the riders going to the left of the pack along the banks of the river, the rest beside the railway line. In front of them the flat meadows of the Szamos valley stretched northwards, and across these meadows rode
the hunt, hoping to put up a hare either from the meadows themselves or from the ploughed fields on either side – or even from among the corn stalks in those fields not yet ploughed. And as soon as the riders had gone past, the carriages too moved off, following the hunt from the road which skirted the meadows.

  Margit said goodbye to Dodo and got down from the car. She looked around to see where Adam had driven their beautiful carriage.

  The carriage was there, a little way off; but where was Adam? There was no sign of him. She looked around again and soon saw that he had joined the group at Uncle Ambrus’s. She ran towards him and was about to call out when she saw that her fiancé, who was standing with his back to her, was noisily toasting the others with a beaker of champagne and brandy, while Ambrus, Akos Alvinczy and Joska Kendy cheered him on.

  Margit was filled with rage. How could he break his word to her like that! There he was, drinking again as soon as her back was turned! In a flash she decided to punish him. She would show him! And, as all the adventure-loving blood of the Miloths rose in her, she ran across to where Joska’s famous four-in-hand was standing nearby, jumped up into the driving seat and called over to that dashing gentleman-driver, ‘Joska! Take me after the hunt! Across the fields. I dare you!’

  ‘Of course I dare!’ cried Joska, as he ran over, and jumped up beside her. An almighty crack of the whip and away they dashed.

  Only then did Adam grasp what was happening. Dimly coming to his senses he stammered, ‘M-M-Margit! I only … Oh, Margit! Margit!’

  But Joska’s dappled greys were already far away. They did not remain on the road for long, but bumped across the railway tracks and into the meadows behind the hunt. No other carriage could have been driven like that, but then Joska’s wagon was no elegant gentleman’s carriage but a strongly-built farm cart, low on the ground and slung on iron chains rather than delicate springs. It could be driven across bumps and ditches without coming to harm.

  Hardly had they crossed the rail tracks when from far below by the river bank came the cry ‘Tally-ho!’

  By the time Adam had recovered his senses, dashed across to his own carriage and galloped some way up the road, the hunt was well away below him and the field streaming off into the distance.

  As was only to be expected, the hare did not run straight along the valley to amuse the carriage trade above but soon cut off in a sharp turn up the hillside. The pack of harriers were in full cry behind him and after them the Master, the Whips, the soldiers, the Laczok boys and the rest of the field. The hare ran quickly across the railway line and, about two miles from the meadow where the meet had been held, crossed the road in front of the following carriages and disappeared up the bare hills to the left.

  And behind them all came Joska and Margit in the four-in-hand at full tilt. Adam was in a terrible state. For a moment he had a wild hope that they would stop when they reached the road, but that was not the way of Joska. As if he were the Devil himself he set the horse diagonally at the uneven hillside and raced away after the last of the riders. All Adam could do was watch them helplessly as the low-slung wagon careered wildly as it followed old cart-tracks and cattle-crossings, and slithered its way across the dried-out yellow clay hillside. In a few moments they too were at the top where the hunt had just disappeared and then, after galloping briefly along the crest of the hill, they also disappeared from view.

  In his distress Adam for one moment even thought of chasing after them, but he quickly reflected that his delicate American chariot would be broken to pieces before he had gone fifty yards up that terrible rough hillside. He looked around for a horse he could borrow but there was none there not harnessed to some carriage or other. And what’s more there was no one there capable of holding his high-spirited pair of horses if they decided to bolt, for the little stable-lad clinging precariously to the jump-seat could barely hold their heads when he left the carriage. And so he was chained to that elegant carriage, which was as showy as Dodo’s new motor and as useless except on the tarred road, forced to sit up there for all to see, unable to lift a finger to help his bride and made to watch whatever might happen with his heart beating hard and his head full of fear and anger and shame.

  It might perhaps have been less cruel if after they had disappeared over the crest of the hill he could have imagined a halt in the chase and Joska’s horrible juggernaut being peacefully trotted along some country lane. But this was not to be. The hare, as they are apt to do, cut a circle and now reappeared running fast horizontally along the precipitous sides of the hill, with the pack in close pursuit and behind it the Master, the Whips and the entire field – with the soldiers still riding formally in a close-knit row. And there, barely a hundred yards in the rear, raced those four dapple-greys, firstly downhill with Joska’s wagon skidding after them, then horizontally over gorse and hawthorn bushes, lurching over stream-beds and goat-paths, tilting first in one direction and then in the other and all the time, with pipe clenched in his mouth, that dreadful Joska, reckless of everything except the chase and the reins in his hands, in full sight of Adam, and beside him young Margit with her hat on her shoulders, her hair loose and flying in the wind, holding hard to the seat with her hands but laughing and happy, happy, happy …

  But Adam had never been so unhappy in his whole life.

  As the hunt streamed across the railway tracks and crossed the road before climbing up the steep hillside on the other side, they passed in front of a half-covered open carriage which was being driven towards Apahida. In it sat Laszlo Gyeroffy who, after a day spent at his home at Kozard, was now returning to Mrs Lazar’s house at Dezmer.

  Now, seeing riders in their full hunting panoply of pink and dark green, he remembered that it was St Hubert’s day and that, round the next bend in the road, he would surely meet everybody from his own world, that light-hearted, pleasure-seeking, hard-drinking world that he had shunned ever since the day of the Spring bazaar. The succeeding months had at first been a time of increasing deprivation and degradation. Then he had met Mrs Lazar, started leading a normal orderly life again, begun to work by helping her to run her substantial estates, and by now was feeling almost happy and at ease. He certainly had no desire to encounter any of those former friends who all knew his story.

  Praying that he might pass without being seen he had the little carriage stopped and its rain-hood put fully up. He was just in time, for the ladies’ carriages were just around the next bend, hidden only by a few cottages beside the road.

  ‘Drive on,’ he called to the driver. ‘Quickly, now!’ and sat back on the seat pulling up his legs beside him so that anyone looking at the vehicle from the side would think there was no one in it.

  This was quite unnecessary as everyone was so busy watching the hunt that Laszlo’s carriage passed unnoticed. Laszlo laughed softly to himself at the success of his ruse and sat up in a normal position. He did not stop to have the hood pulled down again as he was in a hurry to get to Apahida in time to meet Sara who had been loading some ewes onto a goods train.

  In a few moments he was passing the meadow at Tarcsa.

  Ambrus had had the music stopped as soon as the Master led the field out and the ladies’ carriages moved off. ‘Pack up!’ he called out, ‘and let’s get the hell out of here!’ He was in a bad temper because he had had to admit, even to himself, that all the trouble and expense, the gypsy band, the champagne and the flowers, had hardly been a success. Despite all his efforts to be the centre of attention, despite the loud-mouthed talk, the laughter and the chaff, no man with his feet on the ground could compete with the gallant riders in the elegance of their beautifully tailored red and green coats, their sparkling white breeches and, above all, the advantage they had perched up on those gleaming polished steeds! What he would not admit, even to himself, was that, surrounded by all those handsome, athletic young men, he felt old and unwanted; and it was this unacknowledged feeling lurking within him that made him even crosser than he had been before.

  �
��What the hell are you all dawdling about for?’ he shouted. ‘Get on with it, you louts!’

  Shouted at in this angry fashion the musicians and the waiter completely lost their heads, and in their attempt to scramble back into their two carriages the chairs, the double bass and the cymbals somehow got strewn all over the road.

  Meanwhile Uncle Ambrus and Akos Alvinczy walked off to find their own vehicles which had been left a little way off down the road.

  At this point Mrs Lazar’s carriage drove up at a swift trot. The driver called out a warning and though young Akos jumped out of the way, not Ambrus. He had always been somewhat heavy-limbed and slow of movement – which he justified by saying ‘no gentleman ever hurries!’ – and so now he stood his ground and with an obscene curse waved his stick in front of the shaft-horse’s nose. The driver reined in at once.

  ‘What the Devil do you think you’re doing?’ shouted Kendy in a rage. ‘Are you trying to run me down, you peasant? Who are you? What sort of a dumb fellow are you?’

  As he spoke he came nearer to the driver’s seat and in so doing saw Gyeroffy inside. He stepped back in amazement.

  ‘So it’s you, Laci? Are you trying to knock me over or what?’

  Laszlo got down.

  ‘Forgive me, sir,’ he said politely. ‘My driver doesn’t know you …’ and, to soothe him, he added with a smile, ‘and anyway no one would ever expect to see you standing in the middle of the road!’

  ‘Nor is it my habit, but it’s St Hubert’s Day and the meet was here. I brought along some gypsies and a little wine. It was a fine sight, my boy! I’d offer you a drink but everything’s been packed up by now.’