They Were Counted (7 page)

The first time they had supper together, at Adrienne’s coming-out party, they had talked about books and ideas, and so they did again, each time that Balint would visit the Miloths, which he now started to do regularly. At this time Balint was
reading
Spencer’s
Principles
of
Sociology
and it had made a deep
impression
on him, especially the first volume which discussed the basic ideas about God and the origins of spiritual belief in primitive man. Carried away by his own enthusiasm he spoke impulsively on these subjects to Adrienne and found himself taken by surprise by the depth of her response and by her thirst for knowledge. This is how they began; but of course they did not stop at one subject but touched on numerous others, words flowing in an ever-guessing, probing search for the truth as is the way with the young. Balint told Adrienne about his grandfather, of his wise appreciation and understanding, of his unerring judgement and how it was only now after so many years that he realized how clearly and cogently the old man had explained life to a twelve-year-old boy. As he talked to Adrienne, ever more fluently and enthusiastically, it seemed to him that he could express himself better and more
vividly
to this girl who always listened with such intensity and whose answers were always so interesting. It seemed that her
presence
, with those amber eyes fixed on his, increased his power and his eloquence. They had spent many such hours together, and even when the days grew longer it was often dark before he left. Sometimes a late visitor interrupted them, but usually their talks were brought to an end in a different way. From beyond the double-doors which connected the two drawing-rooms would come the sour voice of Countess Miloth, stern and disapproving: ‘Why are you sitting there in the dark, Addy? You know I don’t like it. Have the lamps lit at once!’, and Adrienne would get up in silence, pausing to get control of herself, forcing herself not to
answer
back. She would stand for a moment, defiant, her head held high, gazing straight in front of her into the darkness. And then, still silent, she would cross the room with her long strides to the high standard lamp and light it. Before she returned to Balint she would remain there, motionless, gazing into the light with
narrowing
pupils.

 

All these memories crowded into Balint’s mind, not in order, not in words or sentences, but in pictures vivid with every detail, time and place rediscovered, recaptured without the need for
connected
thought or conscious recall, the images of an instant, and as fleeting.

Another carriage passed Balint’s: more acquaintances. As he waved to them the previous vision vanished, like the reflections on the smooth surface of a lake wiped off by the slightest breath of wind over the surface. Other carriages passed, more and more, hastening to Var-Siklod to bring guests after the races and, after each, billows of dust coating the verges and the meadow beyond them. Two large greys, drawing a grand open landau drew alongside. The Prefect sat alone in the rear seat. He called out a friendly greeting to Balint and then his carriage too disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Soon Balint’s old fiacre, moving slowly, was overtaken by all sorts of other vehicles, some driving so fast that he could only
occasionally
recognize a face or two before they too were swallowed up in the dust. He caught a glimpse of Zoltan Alvinczy alone in a one-horse gig. Then two elegant carriages, in one of which he saw the widowed Countess Gyalakuthy with her daughter, Dodo. An American racing four-wheeler hurtled by with a fearsome
rattle
of harness and pounding of hoofs and quickly vanished. It was Tihamer Abonyi, driving his finely-matched pair of black Russian trotters. He drove with style and elegance, his elbows out and his hands pressed to his chest, and next to him was his wife, the fascinating Dinora, who turned and waved and smiled back at him with her open, white-toothed, sensual mouth.

The dust had hardly settled when another carriage appeared beside him, a carriage drawn by four heavy strong bays, trotting unhurriedly in steady unison together. Clearly, like all the horses of the plains, they were used to long distances. They were the
opposite
of Abonyi’s Russians, who would make ten kilometres in as many minutes but then could do no more. These bays could travel a hundred kilometres a day but, though in high spirits, they never altered their even steady trot. Abady loved these
old-fashioned
Transylvanian carriage horses and gazed at them with the eye of a connoisseur. So intent was he on admiring the team that it was only when the carriage was almost past that he saw who the passengers were. At first Balint only saw a man unknown to him, then beside him with her back to the coachman he
recognized
Margit, the youngest Miloth girl. In the rear seat there were two ladies. Though he couldn’t see the face of the one on the left he assumed that it must be Judith, because on her right sat Adrienne, her profile turned towards her neighbour. A moment passed before he was sure, because her distinctive flaring hair, her most recognizable characteristic, was concealed in a turban, which in turn was swathed in a voluminous dust-wrap which
covered
her neck and shoulders in thick coils, and a fine veil caught under the chin. It had to be her, with her fine slightly aquiline nose and chiselled lips. So Adrienne would also be at the ball.

Balint realized that, as a married woman, she had come to
escort
her younger sisters, replacing their sour-faced mama who had made such heavy weather of Addy’s coming-out. He
wondered
how old the younger girls were now. When he had last seen them they were still in the schoolroom. Even so they must still be rather young to come out. Perhaps Judith was already
seventeen
but Margit could hardly be more than sixteen at the most. But then he remembered how closely related they were to the Laczoks – Countess Miloth and Countess Laczok were sisters, Kendys from Bozsva – and young girls could always attend family parties.

Though Balint realized that he would see Adrienne that
evening
the thought had little effect on him. It caused neither joy nor that slight irritation he had felt previously when he had thought of her marriage. He felt only indifference and soon his mind was occupied with other things. Other carriages passed, some with single carriage-horses, some with teams of two and occasionally a four-in-hand. One-horse farm wagons started to appear, filled with farmers and their wives, and those who had had a drink at the races would be yodelling and singing in high good humour as they raced each other home. These were the Szeklers, who loved their little grey and bay horses with the same passion as the young aristocrats loved their thoroughbred teams. The Szekler farmers would let no one pass; they drove to the right, to the left, or
weaving
in the middle of the road so as not to be overtaken, jangling their bridles and shouting encouragements to the horses.

Some middle-class townsfolk, each trim little carriage driven by their single servant, were also on the road. They were the parish clerk, the vicar, the orthodox priest, but however loud they shouted the Szeklers would not give way.

The dust became so thick one could not see five yards ahead.

A single rider, unimpeded by the carriages, rode briskly up. It was Gaspar Kadacsay, known to everyone as Crazy Baron Gazsi. He was still wearing his white racing breeches and brown-cuffed boots. On his head was a soldier’s red field cap and over his shoulders the light blue cape of an officer of the 2nd Hussars. He had ridden four hurdle races that afternoon and now, as if that were not enough, he was riding to Siklod on a fresh young
piebald
. He galloped in silence, weaving between the trundling
one-horse
farm carts, pulling up when a lumbering wagon appeared out of the dust clouds, spurring on, reining in, zig-zagging through the carts and carriages as if they were obstacles in a slalom race. No sooner had Gazsi disappeared than the sound of cracking whips was hear from behind, whips cracking like
gunfire
coming ever closer, a tremendous clatter of hoofs, bells and harness coming up like thunder. A high, shrill commanding voice could be heard, ‘God damn it! Out of the way! Make way there!’ The Szeklers, who had paid no attention before, pulled their
wagons
off the road in great speed, only with seconds to spare before a team of five horses drew level with Balint’s fiacre. First the three leaders, their nostrils flaring, their mouths foaming and their harness covered with ribbons and rosettes, and then the two
shaft-horses
, all so close to Balint they almost brushed against the old carriage. Behind the rushing team of five dappled greys was a long, low wagon, skidding to and fro as the speed brought the hind wheels off the ground.

In the deep leather driving seat, swinging on its straps like a spring, sat Joska Kendy, proudly erect, his legs spread wide, his body rigid and a pipe between his teeth. In his left hand, tied in a wreath, he held the reins of the five horses tight as cables, while in his right he wielded the fourheaded driving whip, cracking incessantly and rhythmically and making figures of eight in the air.

In front of him the road cleared as if by magic, for everyone knew that delay would be fatal when Joska Kendy had the whip in his hand and cried out for room on the road. With his strong wagon he could tear a wheel off any cart and send everyone into the ditch. It was wiser to let that one go by! And so they gave way, letting the racing team of five vanish swiftly into the distance.

At last, through the dust, Balint began to make out the long avenue of Lombardy poplars which led to the Laczoks’ place. The old fiacre turned in on to the straight pebble-paved drive and the clatter of wagons which had become so deafening during the last half hour, began to die away behind him, leaving only the slight tinkling of the harness bells and the soft hiss of the wheels on the ground.

T
HE CASTLE OF SIKLOD
, the home of the Laczoks for many hundreds of years, was a typically Transylvanian fortress erected on a slight rectangular platform that jutted out from the side of the hill behind. Hardly more than ten metres above the surrounding country it had been built during the Middle Ages on the site of an old Roman fort, open on three sides and backed on the fourth by the rolling hills of the Maros valley, now covered in vineyards. The first Laczok to make his home on the edge of this smiling valley, which now lay between the main road and the
village
where the peasants lived, seems to have chosen the site as a strategic point between the counties of Maros and Torda, where he could best protect his lands and serfs from marauding bands of Szekler huns.

Even in those early days Var-Siklod can never have inspired the same awe as those great frowning fortresses of stone that we know from drawings in medieval French and German monastic manuscripts. The four square walls, following the lines of the Roman camp, were joined at each corner by stout little towers. Over the entrance gates was another small castellated tower and in the centre of the wide courtyard stood the keep, where the lord and his family lived, and which, in those days was merely a
two-storey
building standing by itself, with massive walls and tiny windows set in deep stone embrasures. Useless against cannon and sophisticated siege machinery, the little fort had been all that was needed to hold the land against the fierce raids of Tartars, armed only with their courage and primitive weapons, and, later, against the bands of brigands and free Szeklers. If the raiding party was large, and enough warning had been given, the
livestock
for miles around could be herded into the great courtyard around the keep.

Var-Siklod had not changed until the middle of the eighteenth century when the then head of the Laczok family, Count Adam – Vice-Chancellor of Transylvania and Governor of the province – decided that he must have a residence more worthy of his great position. It was just when the massive elegance of baroque was being transformed in Vienna, Munich and Brandenburg, into the fantasies of rococo; and it was this last that appealed to the taste of Count Adam.

First he removed the battlements from the fortified keep and replaced them with a soaring roof of shingle, made in three
sections
like a pagoda, the first ascending steeple, and the second and third mounting in an elaborate S-bend to form a
mushroom-shaped
roof that was taller even than the building beneath. He did not enlarge the windows but surrounded them with carved stone cornices decorated with garlands of flowers and fruit. Stone pilasters with elaborate capitals were grafted on to each corner of the building and, over the main entrance, he built out a new doorway, surmounted by vaulting, which in turn supported a
balcony
whose parapet of carved stone reflected the wildest and most fantastic intricacies of rococo taste. Above the balcony, supported on thin iron poles, was another roof made of copper, separate from that of the main house but also mushroom-shaped in two elaborate and unexpected curves. As the supporting poles were barely visible it seemed as if the heavy shining roof hung in the air unsupported from below. In Count Adam’s time rich curtains had been hung between the iron poles, thus giving him the
appearance
he wanted, the fashionable Chinese style that had
inspired
the Pagodenburg at Munich. That this was the effect intended was clear from the upturned edges of the different
sections
of the roof above, and from the oriental detail of the
drainpipes
which, in times of rain, shot spouts of water in arcs of ten metres out of their dragon-shaped mouths.

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!