They Were Counted (71 page)

 

Washing and changing his sodden clothes took longer than he had expected and by the time he had got ready and gone upstairs to his mother’s sitting-room he found her already seated at the breakfast table in the window.

Countess Roza was always served an ample Transylvanian breakfast. On the table were cold meats, smoked bacon, scones, sweet buns and other cakes, butter, honey in jars and honey in combs, whatever fruit was in season and, of course, coffee with buffalo milk. Though she tasted everything she ate only the strawberries and drank copious cups of coffee. Despite this it was a rule of the house that everything should be done in the way that it always had been and so Mrs Baczo saw to it that every day there was enough on the table to feed at least ten people.

After greeting his mother and kissing her hand, Balint sat down to eat. His long walk he was as hungry as a wolf and the sight of her son making a hearty breakfast rejoiced Countess Roza’s heart. From time to time she dipped a strawberry in the sugar on her plate, but it was only much later that she put it in her mouth.

This morning Countess Roza’s slightly protuberant grey eyes held a roguish gleam. Every day of her life, the countess’s first act before breakfast, was to go down to the stables when the horses came back from their early work-out. She would inspect each one carefully, examine its tendons, order treatment if she felt it were necessary and cross-question the stud-groom and the lads on the morning’s exercise. In their turn, to interest and amuse their
beloved
employer, they would recount what they had seen while out on the gallops, what deer, hares or gamebirds had come their way. This morning they had reported the interesting fact that they had met Count Abady at the Painted Bridge and that his Lordship had enquired if the ford over the Aranyos was still passable.

Countess Roza guessed at once what this meant, for she knew that when her son was still at the university he had always used the ford when going to visit Dinora. She knew that he used to go at night, steeling out furtively in the vain hope that these visits were a secret shared only by the two lovers themselves. She had never said a word on the subject to her son, but, privately, she had rejoiced. Since the death of Count Tamas, her own life had been arid and joyless and so it was a special pleasure to her to know that her son had become a man.

The knowledge did nothing to change Countess Abady’s deep-rooted conviction that women were divided into two classes: there were decent women such as herself who never looked at any man except their husbands; and then there were … others. These she always referred to as ‘Those’; and among ‘Those’ Countess Roza placed all women regardless of class, background, or degree of licentiousness, who were not as chaste as herself. Quite indiscriminately she would include not only ladies who gave way from time to time to a mild flirtatiousness of manner, but also those who loved to tease men without satisfying them, women who fell deeply in love with men to whom they were not married and remained faithful to them; women who were fickle and promiscuous and often changed their lovers; famous
courtesans
who were kept by a great nobleman, and streetwalkers who plied their trade in the unlit alleys of the slums. To Countess Roza, whose whole life had been spent protected and infinitely
remote
from reality, all such persons fell equally into the category of ‘Those’. Not that this bleak and uncomprehending judgement affected her manners or behaviour. She never allowed her
opinion
of such matters to affect in any way her comportment to those ladies whose way of life was anathema to her. She was never critical, cold or impolite. She said nothing to show her
disapproval
; and if they were in the same rank of society they would be received in her house and they would not be gossiped about
behind
their backs. For the countess it was a fact of life that some women were made born like that and so couldn’t help being what they were. They were not guilty or criminal, they were just, well, different; and, as such, she accepted their existence uncritically, with good humour, if without understanding. And what she heard she kept to herself, acting always as if she knew nothing of such matters.

When Balint had first taken up with Dinora, Roza’s attitude underwent a subtle change and, when such things were discussed, to her previous amused but unconcerned smile was added
another
expression, one of pride. She took joy and a certain
consolation
in the knowledge of her son’s conquests. It was in some mysterious way a compensation for the loss of her own sex-life, non-existent since the death of her adored husband. It was as if her son were now vicariously taking revenge on life for her; and as if, in him, metamorphosed into the shape of a young man, she had at last been reborn. And since, for Countess Roza, all such women belonged to a quite separate race of beings, she worried no more about her son being involved with such a person than she would have been had he taken up racing or played in
international
polo matches; in a way it was for her just another form of sport, and so completely harmless.

Dinora had been the first but, naturally, during his years as a diplomat, there had been others. When Balint came home on leave to Denestornya, letters had come, written in women’s
flowing
hands, firstly from Vienna and later from abroad. Countess Roza always knew when such letters were delivered, for the
morning’s
mail was first brought to her, and great was her pleasure when, just occasionally, she managed to catch a glimpse of the
addresses
on Balint’s outgoing letters. Alas, it did not happen often!

Countess Roza did not admit even to herself that she yearned for this information or that when, apparently quite casually, she would say to the footman: ‘If Count Balint has some letters for the post, I’ll have some too,’ it was only a ruse to find out to whom he was writing. Usually, however, the man came to ask for her letters first or else the whole manoeuvre would be for nothing, for on that day Balint had written only business letters or to some male friend. On the few occasions when she managed to find out a name, however, she would do all she could to turn the
conversation
so that that name should appear to come up naturally, and then she could ask in the ordinary course of conversation for
details
of the lady’s age, looks, situation in life – all very discreetly, of course.

When she felt that she had enough to go on she would try to fit it all together, just as if she were making a mosaic or tackling a jigsaw puzzle, until, in her own mind, all the pieces were in their right places. Then she would store away the information with
secret
glee as if she were making a catalogue of Balint’s successes. She was innocently convinced that no one, especially not Balint, had noticed her preoccupation and her stratagems. As far as Balint was concerned she was right. It had never occurred to him that such information was important to her, or indeed that it was any of her business. The housekeepers Baczo and Tothy, on the other hand, were by no means deceived, for in front of them Countess Roza never minced her words or tried to hide her thoughts. Though the countess had never asked a direct question on such matters, they knew how much she loved all information of that sort. They sat with her daily, watched her closely, and knew better than anyone what sort of news their mistress craved.

Since the beginning of the Carnival season they had become aware that Balint had taken to visiting Adrienne, that he went there every afternoon and often stayed a long time, even well into the evening, that the lamps were not lit in Adrienne’s
sitting-room
until late (that is when Balint was there), and that they
often
sat alone in the dark. All this information they gleaned in
various
ways through the upper-servant network. Since Adrienne’s maid was faithful to her and did not gossip about her mistress, they had managed to insinuate themselves into the confidence of Count Uzdy’s cook by means of offering recipes for preserves or sharing secrets about the ingredients of the famous Denestornya pies.

What they heard in this way they would let drop, piecemeal, as they sat drinking coffee with Countess Roza after dinner.
Having
once or twice mentioned Count Balint’s visits to Countess Uzdy they never again spoke his name but concentrated only on telling tales about Adrienne. Dissembling their malice they would tell only of the ‘shocking’ things they had heard about Countess Uzdy: how she would go skating in the evening but never at
midday
as respectable ladies did; how she would never dance a
respectable
csardas, liked to go for walks in the cemetery and, when she was at home – oh, horror! – she would sit on the floor like a gypsy, yes, really, like a gypsy, a nomad gypsy. Oh dear,
whatever
next? It was of such things that they would talk, lamenting with gusto these depraved habits. And they took care never to
involve
Countess Roza in their discussions but merely gossiped in front of her, shaking their heads at each other in sad disapproval and, when they really wanted to underline a point that seemed especially depraved, they would take their knitting needles and stab their skeins of wool for all the world as if they were doing a wicked woman to death.

The picture of Adrienne that Countess Roza received in this way was most disquieting. She seemed to be amongst the most
vicious
and dissolute of ‘Those’ in Kolozsvar, indeed in the whole province; and for this reason Balint’s attachment to her became a constant source of worry and distress. The instinct of a mother had already told her that of all Balint’s affairs this was likely to become the most serious, which is why she had been so pleased to hear that Balint wanted the ford leading to Maros-Szilvas to be repaired. This could only mean that he was once again thinking of Dinora and, if that were so, she would no longer have to worry about Adrienne.

Balint ate his breakfast with zest. He was obviously in a good humour, and his mother sat in pleased silence looking at him fondly. Then she said: ‘I’m glad you’ve such a hearty appetite. It’s good to see you make a good breakfast!’

‘Uhmmm…’ Balint could not reply properly because he had just taken a large mouthful of bread and butter and honey. So it was not until he had managed to get it down that he was able to say: ‘I’ve been for a long walk!’ And he took another bite.

‘Really?’ said his mother, still pretending to know nothing. ‘
Already
? Where did you go so early? When did you start?’

‘At dawn. I went as far as the Aranyos. I had only thought of going to the avenue but everything was so beautiful that I just went on until I reached the river.’

‘Where? At Fox Meadow, or where we find the mushrooms?’

‘Neither. First I went to visit the old poplar in the clearing, and from there I went on to the old ford.’

‘They tell me it’s been washed away in the spring floods. Such a pity, it used to be rather convenient if I had to send Azbej or somebody to Lelbanya,’ said Countess Roza. ‘You know, it’s much shorter than going all the way by the Hadrev bridge. For you, too, if you want to visit your constituency in summer – not by carriage, of course, but on horseback.’ she added shrewdly.

‘Of course. I suppose it wouldn’t be more than twenty or twenty-five kilometres that way,’ Balint agreed. But he didn’t mention Maros-Szilvas as his mother had hoped he would.

Countess Roza tried another tack.

‘I’ve had three new horses brought on for you,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, they’ve been well trained so you can go where you like with them. One of them is Fenyes, who you may remember from last year. The other two are Borostyan and Perdits. You won’t know them as they only came into training a few months ago, but they’ve all been well schooled and are ready for you.’

‘That’s wonderful! I’ll try them out tomorrow.’

‘All three could do with rather more work than the usual
morning
exercise. A few long rides in the country – they need
muscling
.’ She started to explain what sort of training she had in mind and what would be the effect of slow work at a walk and a trot and what would be gained by a sustained canter over
measured
distances, and how these two types of training should be employed alternatively. This was a subject she always liked to discuss, and today it gave her a double pleasure, firstly because she really knew what she was talking about, and secondly because she felt that if she went into such detail her son would not notice what she was in fact urging him to do.

She was still discussing her ideas about the breeding and schooling of horses when they walked together to the paddocks which were now bathed in warm resplendent sunshine.

A
FEW DAYS WENT BY
, quiet days during which Balint would go out riding at dawn, breakfast with his mother
before
accompanying her on her morning walk, take a short nap before lunch, sit with her chatting after the midday meal and,
later
, either go to look at distant parts of the Denestornya park and estate, or drive to visit the stud farm’s summer pastures or inspect the cattle sheds. Countess Roza wanted to discuss her ideas for
improving
the gardens: flower beds here, shrubs or red-flowering chestnuts there, perhaps something yellow just there against that dark green and, if the gardeners could have enough of them ready in the spring, there were those new canna lilies. They were all
little
things they talked about but, small though they were, they were important to her; and so Balint listened, gave his ideas, and gradually became more interested himself. Yet, though these days were quiet and devoted to such simple matters as where to plant next year’s annuals, Balint was not at peace with himself.

His caution and his desire for Adrienne continued to wage a
civil
war inside him; and for the moment it was the caution which had the upper hand. No! He would not go to Almasko. Yes! He would go to Maros-Szilvas; he would spend the night there and go on to Lelbanya and, on the way back, he would again stop at Dinora’s place. On the outward journey they would come to an understanding; and on his return they would consummate it! It was all so simple. The matter was settled and that would bring an end to this endless agitation.

When he told his mother of his plans – though not everything they involved – she was overjoyed and agreed to all his
suggestions
, especially that he should take her dear horses with him to Lelbanya. The only stipulation she made was that they were not be stalled at some dirty inn, but rather that Balint should put them up at some friend’s stables, or even his cowsheds, which were sure to be clean and free of infection.

After an ample mid-morning snack he rode off with one of the stable-lads in attendance. He went over the bridge, across the Big Wood, crossed the river by the newly repaired ford, rode slowly across the great meadow on the other side of the Aranyos which was part of the Denestornya estate and which was so often flooded in spring, and along the acacia avenue towards the railway
embankment
. The going was good, for the ground had dried out, but it was still soft and elastic and had not yet hardened as it would in the course of the summer.

From the Aranyos they cantered gently across the fields until they reached the railroad. Riding on the sandy verge of the main road, they reached Maros-Szilvas in just over an hour.

A few hundred yards across cornfields still brightly green with the unripe harvest Balint could see the hedge that marked the
limits
of the Abonyi gardens. There on the right at the corner of the field was the old lime tree to which Balint had so often tethered his horse when he rode over stealthily in the late evenings. From there he had crept through the garden to find the way to Dinora’s bedroom window, that window which had been unusually high off the ground that he had had to leap up, catch hold of the sill, and pull himself up against the limewashed wall of the building. Only then was it possible to crawl through the window and each time, he remembered with a smile, his clothes had been smeared with white powder. Despite the intensity of his young love, the memory today evoked only a faint smile of self-mockery.

The closer he found himself to their house the less he felt like
visiting
the Abonyis. It was far too early, he told himself. They had made good time and the horses were still so fresh – why, it was barely past midday! It would be far better to press on. If they stopped now there would be lunch, and then coffee, and then they’d ask him to stay on and chat and it would be dark before he got to Lelbanya, too late to accomplish anything of what he was going there for! Then he would have to find stabling for the horses and make sure of good fodder and clean bedding, and all this would take time. Far better do the journey in one go and, later, on the way home perhaps, well, then he could stay as long as he liked.

Spurring his horse to a trot he reached the village in a few
moments
. On the left were the peasants’ houses and on the right the long high wall that surrounded the Abonyi manor-house. On the top, just where the wall took such a bend there was a
vine-covered
summer-house. How many times he had sat there with Dinora, covering her face with his kisses!

He was not sure, but looking up it seemed as if maybe there was the white gleam of a woman’s dress to be seen through the
arbour’s
thick veil of foliage. Perhaps Dinora was sitting there now? Quickening the pace of his horse Balint trotted swiftly through the village, looking neither to right nor left and hoping that he had not been spotted. He slowed down only when the
village
had been left far behind.

 

After passing through Maros-Ludas they had to climb a long steep ridge, from the summit of which several small paths led down to the little mining town. When travelling on the high
plateau
one always went along the tops of the ridges, whether on foot or on horseback, for the winding valley roads took much longer. Half way up Balint and the groom dismounted and led their horses by hand.

As they moved slowly up the hill a man came towards them from one of the paths from the ridge. He was on foot and his short spare figure could be seen from afar silhouetted against the sky. He was dressed in town clothes and he too walked slowly, but as if tired from having come a long way.

When Balint arrived at the top of the ridge he paused for a
moment
to admire the view, which to him was poignantly beautiful. Down below could be seen the meandering course of the Maros river. From where Balint stood it was as clear as if drawn on a map. Across the valley the rolling hillsides were covered with
forest
trees while on this side of the river the bare cliffs of yellow clay were cleft by innumerable steep ravines washed out by rain and wind.

The foot-traveller reached the main road just as Balint was about to remount his horse. ‘Hey! Hey! Stop!’ he called to Abady, who already had one foot in the stirrup. Balint turned round in surprise.

‘Don’t you recognize me?’ cried the stranger. ‘Andras Jopal! But perhaps you don’t want to know me anymore?’

It was not easy to recognize the former tutor to the Laczok boys in this travel-worn stranger. Jopal, formerly so spruce and dapper, was unshaven, with several days’ growth of beard on his face. His clothes were torn and filthy, the soles of his boots were flapping against the uppers and his bare toes could be seen through the slits on both sides. But his face was so unusual, with its wide cheekbones, square jaw and the staring eyes of a fanatic, that Balint would have recognized him without any introduction. His first impulse was to shake hands with the man, but then he
remembered
the insults which had been shouted after him when he had left old Minya’s house the previous September, which had been all the thanks he had received for his well-intentioned offer to aid Jopal to develop his ideas for a flying machine.

Rather coldly he said: ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I was on my way to find you at Denestornya. I’m in luck to run across you here.’

‘To find me?’ asked Balint, astonished.

‘Yes, indeed. I owe you something, and I wished to repay my debts, as I have all the others, all of them!’

‘What debt? You don’t owe me anything.’

‘Indeed I do! I offended your Lordship, stupidly. I only
realized
it afterwards and I wouldn’t like you to remember me only by that. What I owe you is an apology. So now I must ask your Lordship’s forgiveness.’

‘With all my heart, please say nothing more about it!’ said Balint and offered Jopal his hand. To prove that he bore the man no grudge he called to his groom to bring him food from the saddle-bags.

‘Take something too,’ he said to the lad, and to Jopal: ‘Let’s go and sit down over there.’ They sat down together on the grassy slope that bordered the road.

‘Won’t you join me!’ said Abady, unwrapping the parcel of
bacon
, bread and salami.

‘With pleasure. Thank you!’ said Jopal, and for a few moments they ate in silence.

‘How is your great-uncle, old Gal?’

‘Poor man, he died three weeks ago.’

‘I’m sorry. If I’d known I’d have come to the funeral. That’ll be a great loss for you, surely?’ said Balint, looking sadly at Jopal’s torn clothes and ruined shoes.

‘That’s of no account. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m finished anyway!’ Abady looked at him enquiringly, trying to fathom what the man meant. With a sudden burst of anger, Jopal went on: ‘Didn’t you hear? It’s all so meaningless! This April,
Santos-Dumont
flew in Paris, from the lawns of the Château de
Bagatelle
. And he did it with my machine, with my machine, I tell you; with my machine exactly. It was the same, or almost the same. So my work’s finished. It’s the end of everything I’ve ever worked for. I built my life on it. And could have done it, if I’d had the money for the proper equipment. I was ready in the autumn; I could have flown then, before everyone else, but I didn’t have the money! If I had, then all the glory and fame and wealth would have been mine, mine! Everything for which Santos and the Wright Brothers are now suing each other! Mine!’

Balint suddenly remembered having seen a copy of the French review
L’
Illustration
with photographs of Santos-Dumont when he succeeded in taking up his machine for two or three hundred yards a few feet from the ground. So the problem of flying had at last been solved. He was sorry now that he had forgotten the Transylvanian inventor and the theories he had expounded in the yard of old Minya Gal’s house. He felt deeply sorry for the man beside him.

‘If only I hadn’t been so pig-headed and stupid! If I’d accepted your offer…’ Jopal’s face was contorted with misery. His lips curved back from his prominent teeth and his eyes narrowed with pain. For a moment he seemed close to tears, but then he
straightened
up and said: ‘If my uncle had died a few months ago and I’d had his little legacy in the autumn, perhaps I could have done it!’ He tightened his hand into a fist and banged it down on his knee: ‘But what for, I ask you, what for?’ Then he laughed
bitterly
and went on: ‘So what did I do? I paid my debts, all of them, every penny that I’d begged and borrowed for my invention. I paid them all back. Only your Lordship remained and now I’ve done that too and so I can be on my way!’

He laughed again, folded his knife and replaced it in his pocket, and got up.

Balint remained where he was.

‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘With your abilities you shouldn’t despair. I’m sure there are other problems to be solved with which you could prove yourself. There’s so much to be done.’

Jopal struck the air with his closed fist. ‘I don’t want anything to do with it!’ he said. ‘Goodbye!’ and, turning swiftly on his heel, he went off down the hill. When he had gone about twenty paces he turned back and called: ‘The violin! My uncle left it to your Lordship. You can collect it from the house. It’s there with the girl Julis. She’ll give it to you!’

Then he hurried away and soon left the road and took a little goat-path which seemed to lead down towards the river Maros. In a few moments he had disappeared below the cliffs.

 

Balint and his groom were soon mounted and on their way. After a while they found themselves on a soft grassy lane which led them, still on a high ridge, deeper into the rolling grassland country where it was rare for any small hills to rise above the general level of the prairie. All around them was a sea of rolling grassland whose faint ridges were like the swell of a petrified ocean on the crest of which they were no more than tiny Lilliputian figures. The air was dry and clean. In the far distance to the north could be seen, like a distant shore across the ocean, cloud-grey in colour, the peaks of the snow-covered Besztercey mountains. There, slightly to the left were the Cibles, three peaks shining white and sparkling from the fresh snow with which they had been covered since the last rains.