They Were Counted (64 page)

‘Your Grace! The butler Szabo begs your Grace’s pardon and asks the favour of a short audience.’

‘Now?’ said Princess Agnes, surprised because such a request was unusual.

The household arrangements of the Kollonich Palais were
performed
so automatically and smoothly that something
exceptional
must have arisen if she had to be consulted at this hour.

‘Let him come in,’ she said, sitting down by her writing desk – for one must always be seated when interviewing servants.

Fräulein Schulze, whose corsetted figure had all the rigidity of a sergeant-major, went out as soon as Szabo entered the room. He stood respectfully near the door.

From head to toe the butler’s whole body seemed to epitomize that of an honourable man. The expression of his face was never less than stony; not a muscle of his handsome classical features moved to reveal the smallest emotion. He was scrupulously clean and always closely shaven. With his exceptional height and the bearing of a great English statesman, no one would have thought that he was born a simple peasant boy somewhere in the country of Feher.

The butler stood erect, his mouth closed, calm and without stiffness, waiting to be spoken to.

‘Well, Szabo, what is the matter?’ demanded the princess who, when speaking to any of her servants, used the family names only of the butler, the chef and Fräulein Schulze; the last because she came from a better family.

‘Your Grace,’ said the face of stone, ‘I beg pardon of your Grace for this inconvenience, but something has happened which affects the reputation and good name of this princely household.’ Szabo spoke ponderously, giving equal emphasis to each word.

‘What is it?’ asked the Princess, surprised.

‘There is a young maidservant, the Duchess Klara’s maid – her name is Ilona Varga, or something like that. She is not, I beg your Grace’s pardon, worthy to be employed in such a noble house.’

‘Really? Ilus?’

‘Yes, your Grace. I hesitated for some time before reporting the matter to your Grace, but now, because the good name of such a high ranking household is at stake I feel obliged to bring the matter to your Grace’s notice.’

‘What is it? Is she having some disreputable love-affair?’

Szabo paused. He seemed to be having difficulty in bringing himself to speak of such indecent matters. At last he got it out: ‘She is pregnant, your Grace!’ He bowed slightly, with downcast eyes, and then went on with even greater deference of manner: ‘I beg your Grace’s pardon, but I felt it my duty to dare to inform your Grace.’

‘Well! And … since when, may I ask? Who is responsible?’

The butler sighed sadly and made some uncertain gesture with his hands: ‘I have had my suspicions for some time, but how can one be sure of such things? However, today a street porter brought her a letter … to this house! That really is going too far, your Grace!’

He brought out the grey, wrinkled envelope and placed it on a table near where the princess was sitting.

‘Do you imagine that I wish to read a maidservant’s letters?’ said Princess Agnes coldly, but before saying any more she looked up at him and realized from his expression, sad but emphatic, knowing but respectful, that there was something here, something special, that must be revealed. She reached for the envelope, opened it, and a little visiting card fell out on to the table: Laszlo’s card, engraved on one side with his name and title and, on the other, in the hand-writing she knew so well, the message: ‘
Dear
Ilus,
Come
to
see
me
today
…’

Agnes was filled with a dreadful anger. This Laci! Now he was trifling with serving wenches! Dirty, disreputable, perverted lout, to give Klara’s maid a child! And, as these thoughts rushed through her head, she realized that she didn’t believe a word of it and this must only be a way of trying to get a message to her
stepdaughter
. But what a chance this offered! She
would
believe it, it was fuel to her anger against him, fuel that could fan the flames of her wrath at his presumption and justify her hatred of her nephew.

The butler waited without moving. Not a muscle of his face twitched. He did not look at his mistress but only at the carpet
beneath
his feet. There was nothing for him to do. It was not his place to influence the princess, any more than it was to show that he was aware of her emotion. That would never do. It was an
unwritten
law that servants were not permitted to notice their
employer
’s feelings. He was there merely to pass on information, nothing more. He must not utter another syllable. He had said enough to accomplish his duty and now his role was merely to await orders and then to carry them out. He would do what he was told, to the last letter. That was his role. Thus far and no further. Until the princess spoke he must remain silent and for that he would wait as long as necessary.

The princess rang the bell on her desk and, in an instant, her maid appeared.

‘
Liebe
Schulze
! Bring me the employment card of …’ She looked up enquiringly at Szabo.

‘Ilona Varga,’ he said.

‘
Also
von
dieser
Varga.
Sofort
– at once!’

The elderly German maid hurried away. She returned in a few moments.

The princess then issued her orders: Ilona Varga was to be paid a month’s wages and thrown out of the house immediately. In ten minutes she must be out in the street.

The two upper servants bowed their acknowledgement of their instructions and the princess rose and started to move towards her dressing-room. At the door she turned. ‘Make sure the girl speaks to nobody before she leaves the house. Absolutely no one, do you understand? This is an order, Szabo! No one!’

The butler made a low bow, showing that the command was perfectly clear and that he would ensure that it was faithfully
carried
out. He did not speak. What it is to employ someone one can trust, thought the princess … and the thought almost made her cheerful again.

When the door had closed behind her Szabo picked up Laszlo’s card, slipped it back in the envelope and replaced it in his pocket. If ever the girl demanded maintenance for her child no doubt it would come in handy! Then he followed the lady’s maid out of the room.

 

Together Szabo and Fräulein Schulze went to look for Ilus. First they went straight through the second courtyard to the door of the great kitchen where Fräulein Schulze looked in and asked the maids who were busy washing up if anyone had seen Ilus. ‘She’s gone to the drying room,’ said one of them as they crowded round the door eager to know why the ‘Miss’ and the great Mr Szabo were looking for a young maidservant. They had sensed at once that something was up, so they stayed in a group by the door to watch and listen.

Just at that moment the girl came back, carrying in her right hand two clothes-hangers on which were hung a couple of Klara’s delicate, frothy muslin summer dresses. She held them high and well away from her lest one of the ruffles should be creased or the hem pick up some dust from the tiled floor. She walked lightly,
almost
tripping as she came.

Szabo stood back as Fräulein Schulze advanced upon the girl.

‘You get out of this house at once! Do you hear me? Out! This very instant!’ shouted Schulze furiously in appalling Hungarian.

‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ cried Ilus, frightened by the woman’s angry tone.

‘Out of here? No buts and ifs! Here’s your card and your month’s wages. Off with you. At once, I say!’

‘What? Me? Just like that?’ Ilus paused when she saw that Szabo was standing in the background and then she cried out to him: ‘This is your doing. I know it. It’s you … you, Mr Szabo!’ and then, her voice growing every more strident: ‘You do this to me and now, now you … you …’ She could say no more, so strong was her shame and consternation. She staggered slightly and leant against the wall for support, still automatically holding Klara’s dresses away from her so that they should not spoil.

At the noise the cook and the kitchen-boy came to see what was going on in the passage and the chef appeared from the door of his room. Seeing that the eyes of so many people were on her Ilus got hold of herself so that they should not gloat over her
disgrace
. Her courageous, proud little peasant spirit rebelled and gave her strength. She straightened up, raised her head and said to the German Fräulein: ‘All right! Let’s go!’ and started to move away. Schulze too turned on her heel and left, the girl following behind her. As Ilus passed Szabo, who had not moved from his place in the background, she stopped for a moment.

‘God will punish you for this, Mr Szabo!’ she said, and then went on, still holding high Klara’s beautiful dresses, dresses of such lightness and elegance, featherlight garments seemingly
woven
of the stuff that dreams are made of, scented and glittering. So went the little maid along the dark dusty corridor holding dreams – someone else’s dreams – on her outstretched arm.

‘That was nicely done! You are a clever fellow,’ laughed the overweight chef, taking Szabo’s arm. ‘First you get her with child and then you have her thrown out! Very clever!’ He went back into his room from which his chuckles could be heard for some little time.

 

When the two women reached Ilus’s room, Fräulein Schulze took Klara’s dresses and putting down Ilus’s employment card and her money, said: ‘Pack! Straight away, mind you!’ and left the girl alone in her room.

Ilus packed hurriedly. It was quickly done for she had few
possessions
, and it would have been finished even sooner if the child in her womb had not moved inside her, that child conceived without joy and for which Mr Szabo was now having her thrown out.

When she was ready she stepped out into the corridor, her modest little wicker bag in her hand, thinking that at least she should go to the Lady Klara to say goodbye; but beyond the
service
stair, at a bend in the corridor, her way was barred by the hated Fräulein standing like the implacable guardian at the Gates of Paradise. Schulze hated all the other servants; Szabo, the chef, everyone, but most of all she hated all those pretty young maids – and most of them were pretty – that Szabo treated as his private harem. Joyless and sour herself, it was from the depths of her frustrated spinsterhood that she had conceived a loathing of those ‘depraved creatures’ with whom the butler took his
pleasure
. She well knew everything that happened in the house, but she was not powerful enough to quarrel with Szabo, whose
position
was impregnable, and so had to content herself with rejoicing when he arranged to have dismissed the ones he got into trouble.

‘I only wanted to kiss her Ladyship’s hand!’ said Ilus sadly.

‘She won’t see you. She won’t receive a little whore like you –
so
eine Hure!
Little bitch, out of here at once!’ Schulze’s long gaunt arm pointed back down the stairs.

Ilus turned back, descended the service stairway whose boards creaked under her little feet from the whitening powder used to clean them, passed through the two courtyards and found herself in the street. Until then she remained calm, but now alone in the bustle of the great city, the enormity of the blow that had come without warning was suddenly so dreadful that she could hardly stand.

She took a few aimless steps away from the house. Now she
realized
how tired she was and felt the weight of her motherhood. She would have to find somewhere to sit down, to rest and ponder what she should do.

Across the road was the garden of the Museum, so she crossed over and found a bench to sit on.

What could she do? Where could she go?

Some children were playing near to where she sat. Uniformed nannies and nursery-maids were pushing perambulators or
leading
well-dressed toddlers. The children were all fat and healthy and well fed and the sight of them filled little Ilus with a sense of her own grief – her own baby would most likely be swathed only in rags. Perhaps it would have been better to follow Mr Szabo’s cynical suggestion that she found out some backstreet ‘midwife’ who knew what to do in such cases. Then she wouldn’t have had any of this worry and trouble. But she hadn’t wanted to and couldn’t bring herself to do it …