They Were Found Wanting (28 page)

Behind his thick glasses Slawata glared.

‘
Dann
müsste
man
eben
Prevenire
spielen
– then we must play our cards so as to prevent it!’ he said mysteriously.

The fat little priest turned towards him, his face as always calm and enigmatic, and all he did was to raise his bushy black eyebrows. He was about to speak when Countess Illesvary sighed deeply and said, quite quietly, ‘Perhaps, after all, it was a mistake not to listen to King Edward?’

Her brother interrupted her before she could say any more. ‘Surely his Majesty knows best what is right for us all?’ he said in a hard decisive tone that brooked no argument.

Slawata quickly grasped this heaven-sent opportunity to agree with his host. He said at once that the situation of the Dual Monarchy itself would be impossible if ever it were to turn against Germany. They would then be the first victims of any war for whatever might happen elsewhere in Europe the far-flung
boundaries
of Austria-Hungary were untenable, even indefensible. Bohemia, where the Skoda Works, their only ordnance factories, were situated, would be in German hands in a matter of days and then their only defence would be the Moravian hills! All Bohemia would at once be a battlefield. Up until this moment Slawata had spoken with professional restraint, objectively, as became a diplomat. Now his voice rang with personal conviction, deeply moved by the thought of the possible fate of his own homeland. As he said himself, he was, first and foremost, a Czech.

Only two people had not taken part in this discussion. One was Warday, who smoked his cigar in silence and smiled quietly to himself, thinking of the sweet experience that awaited him later that night. The other was Abady. Everything that he had just heard was new to him. Of course he had read the newspapers, and, as he had formerly been a diplomat himself, he had not been able to avoid such thoughts as everyone had so openly been discussing that evening. But he had been so wrapped up in
domestic
Hungarian politics, in his co-operative projects – and above all in his love for Adrienne – that he had paid little heed to what was going on in the world.

How different life was here, he thought, from that in
Transylvania
, where everything was on such a tiny scale. All that
mattered
there were only little quarrels, minor disagreements. There it was important to know what would happen to Beno Balogh-Peter, the former chief notary of Monostor who had
collaborated
with the Bodyguard government and tried to install the nominated prefect. This was the sort of issue for which his native Transylvanian brothers started blood-feuds and hates that endured for generations, while all the time, in the real world
outside
, the threads were being spun of some giant tragedy to be enacted in the unpredictable future. On the other hand, here at Jablanka, in North Nyitra, these people were living in the centre of world happenings, aware of what was going on around them, so familiar with it all that they need discuss only the consequences, not the facts that led to them. And all this lightly, even politely.

While thinking about this Balint was watching Antal
Szent-Gyorgyi
, who stood, upright and slender, in front of the stuccoed fireplace. Far above him, set in the plaster-work, was a life-sized portrait of his great-grandfather, he who had been palatine to Queen Maria-Theresia. He had been painted with the insignia of the Order of the Golden Fleece hanging from a heavy gold chain and was wearing a heavily embroidered cloak of purple
velvet
and on his head was a powdered wig. And suddenly Balint saw that it was the same man who stood there today, in front of the marble and stucco fireplace, dressed in a velvet smoking-
jacket
, just like any of the other men in the room, but, unlike the others, with the tiny emblem of the Golden Fleece on his
watch-chain
and that worn not out of pride or vanity but because it was the rule of the Order that it was always to be worn no matter what the dress or occasion. There, below the painted portrait, was the same narrow face, the same proud self-sufficient glance. Even the living man’s greying hair made the similarity the more pronounced. Antal Szent-Gyorgyi was the very archetype of those men of family who had lived for generations close to the throne, who in Hungary had controlled the country’s destiny since the end of the Turkish wars, who had looked empirically at their country’s needs with all the knowledge of what else was
happening
in Europe, and who yet still remained essentially Hungarian, like Ferenc Szechenyi, Gyorgy Festetics or the Eszterhazys.

In the meantime Slawata had begun to sound more cheerful.

‘Izvolsky‚ of course, came on to Vienna when he left Marienbad, and so we were able to settle the Macedonian
question
. That little nest of thorns won’t give us any trouble for years to come, I’m glad to say.’

He was still explaining this reassuring news, while from time to time bowing from his seat towards his host as if he was laying all this confidential information as homage to Count Antal’s patent-leather pumps, when the butler came in, went over to Abady and spoke softly to him.

‘Her Ladyship would like to see you in the small
drawing-room
, my Lord.’

Countess Elise sat in her usual place between the windows,
protected
by two silk-covered screens. She lay in an armchair, her feet on a footstool, for there it was a great deal warmer than close to the little onyx-inlaid fireplace. The secret was that close to her chair were two little latticed openings from which a stove
outside
the room blew gusts of hot air.

On her left sat Fanny, and near the fireplace was Klara. Balint was shown to a place near his aunt, a strange little low upholstered chair which seemed almost to embrace him as he sank into its cushioned softness. He was facing Klara.

‘That’s right, just beside me, my dear Balint! Now tell me about Transylvania and all the dear people there,’ said Countess Elise, taking the young man’s hand and keeping it imprisoned affectionately in her own. A series of questions followed.

‘First of all how is your mother? I haven’t seen her for more than a year and a half, since she last passed through Budapest. I suppose she’s now at your beautiful Denestornya? I often went there to visit my uncle Peter, your grandfather. And how is Aunt Lizinka? Is she still rushing about all the time? And dear Countess Gyalakuthy‚ that good-natured Adelma? They tell me her daughter has turned out to be very pretty. And how is Countess Jeno Laczok and her husband? And Ambrus Kendy‚ who used to dance with me? And Sandor Kendy?’

It was incredible, thought Balint. She knows everybody and still remembers exactly what relation they all are to each other. When Balint recounted the latest news, she would turn to Fanny and Klara and tell little anecdotes of them all, girlhood memories and funny little half-forgotten things so that they too might know something of this –
to them – unknown world, of which she was obviously still very fond. And, of course, she often spoke of Szamos-Kozard, the former home of the Gyeroffy girls.

While he was answering her questions, or listening to her
reminiscences
, Balint’s eyes would wander to Klara Kollonich. As she sat there near the fireplace in a richly frilled house-gown
covered
in lace which showed her shoulders like a ball-gown with a deep décolleté, ruffles and ribbons tumbling all around her, her advanced state of pregnancy could hardly be seen. With her beautiful bare white shoulders that sloped ever so slightly, those eyes the colour of the sea, and her fair wavy hair, she was still as enchanting as she had been as an unmarried girl. Only a faint weariness, which one felt rather than saw, gave an indication of her condition. There might, he thought, be just the hint of a tiny wrinkle at the corner of her full lips which spoke of tiredness, or, perhaps, disappointment. And this, thought Balint, is the girl for whom Laszlo threw away everything he had! For whom he gave up music and his studies at the Academy even though his masters had predicted a great future for him; for whom he had plunged into the great social whirl of the capital, which in turn had lured him to the gaming tables and then coldly thrown him out of the world he had wanted to conquer for her sake and left him ruined both morally and materially. As Balint gazed at Klara now his mind went back to the day, three years before at Simonsvasar, the Kollonichs’ great country place, when he had discovered Laszlo’s fatal love and realized, oh so clearly, that his cousin was rushing inevitably to his own destruction. Like a vision he saw Laszlo’s face before him, that face so passionate and impetuous …

Perhaps it was because of the road down which his reflections had led him that Balint now began to answer his aunt’s questions in a somewhat distracted manner. Whatever the reason, the
conversation
died and there was a sudden silence as if everybody’s thoughts had suddenly turned to a subject which must not be
discussed
and a name which could not be mentioned.

Countess Elise grasped her nephew’s hand more strongly than before as she turned again to him and asked, ‘How is Laci?’ and her voice held a deeper note than was usual for her. There was a catch in it for she was deeply moved.

Balint was not taken entirely by surprise for he had already sensed that the memory of Laszlo was floating in the air around them, waiting only for the right moment to be expressed in words, challenging the silence and the dying questions, ready to blaze out in open rebellion. At last his name had been spoken, but Balint still answered, slowly and with hesitation, ‘Poor Laszlo, I’m so worried about him. I see him so seldom, almost never, in fact.’

‘Tell me, please tell me!’ cried Countess Elise. ‘I know
absolutely
nothing, and I’ve heard nothing since, since … since it all happened. I’ve written to him twice, once just after – you know … and again last year; but he didn’t answer. And Antal, well, Antal’s so severe about these things. But I love him so much, just the same as always, and I would like to help him if I could.’

At the first mention of Laszlo’s name Klara had got slowly to her feet. She rose with difficulty and at Countess Elise’s last words she went silently out of the room.

Fanny Beredy, however, stayed where she was, and this
bothered
Balint who would have preferred her to leave too. He looked over towards her. The beautiful woman’s long catlike eyes were almost closed but he could just make out between her lashes a
little
gleam of moisture. She sat quite still, but for one hand that moved up to her throat and touched the string of giant pearls that encircled her bare shoulders, dipped down between her breasts and fell into a pool in her lap, a pool of frozen tears, a fabulous jewel that somehow had a life of its own – and a past. Apart from this faint movement as Fanny caressed her pearls she was as motionless as a puma in a cage, oblivious of her present
surroundings
as she dreamed of life in a long-lost wilderness.

Balint had to answer, so he told all he knew about everything that had happened to Laszlo. He told it, perhaps, in a slightly toned-down version, for how could he speak frankly in front of a stranger? Still, he did tell everything and behind the bland phrases it was not difficult to sense the distress, the spiritual hurt. One felt, he said, that Laszlo believed himself to be a pariah and somehow this obsession never got better, only worse. He told them of the financial situation at Szamos-Kozard, which would probably soon have to be put up for auction and then Laszlo would own nothing, not even the roof over his head. Then Balint remembered his talk with Sandor Kendy who had said that the only solution would be to make Laszlo a ward of court, and so he told them about this too, hoping that maybe Countess Elise would be able to do something on those lines.

Balint talked for a long time, and when he came to the saddest parts, like the ruin and impending loss of the Szamos-Kozard estate, which of course had been her childhood home, the old lady pressed his hand with a force he would never have believed her to possess. It was clear that she was very much hurt and moved even though she had not been back for more than thirty years.