They Were Found Wanting (29 page)

‘I will write to him again,’ she said when Balint had finished his tale. ‘That business of guardianship … I don’t know anything about such things, but perhaps that’s just as well. I’ll recommend it anyhow. I’ll write at once and you’ll take it to him yourself, won’t you?’

‘I can’t take it until after Christmas, Aunt Elise, because I have to stay in Budapest until then.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Perhaps things aren’t too urgent, but I still want you to deliver it personally.’ And she got up and went over to her little desk where there was hardly room for the
morocco-leather
letter-case, so covered was the tiny sécrétaire with little
objets
d
’
art
and photographs of the countess’s father and mother, husband and children. Once at the desk she sat down and switched on the table lamp.

Fanny and Balint left the room.

They walked in silence through the vast library which, in
contrast
to the cosy luxury of Countess Elise’s friendly little
sitting-room
, was furnished only with great ecclesiastical oak manuscript chests on which the gilded baroque carving was cold and impartial.

They had almost reached the doors of the drawing-room when Fanny suddenly stopped. She turned towards Abady, her lips slightly parted and her eyes closed shut. They stood like this for just a moment, but it was a moment of eternity, for Balint, like everyone else, was quite unaware that Fanny and Laszlo had been lovers. So he stood there surprised, expecting at every moment that she would say something; but nothing came, not a sound emerged from her lips. At last two huge tears forced their way through her closed lashes and rolled slowly down her face to her bosom where they joined their sisters petrified into ropes of pearls.

Slowly Fanny walked into the drawing-room and over to the piano. She opened it and sat down, running her fingers over the notes in soft
roulades
. Then her host came over and stood near her, suggesting that maybe Countess Beredy would honour them with a few songs, as she had often done on previous evenings.

‘Do sing us something! It would be so nice of you,’ he said.

But she only shook her head, turning her face away, and once more her hands just wandered four or five times over the notes before she jumped up saying, ‘Oh, no! It’s far too late! I for one will now go to bed!’ and as Szent-Gyorgyi bent to kiss her hand, she murmured, with a sad and somewhat ironical smile, ‘You were quite right … what you said about this house. Oh, yes, quite right!’

L
ATER
, when already dressed for bed, Magda and Lili came to see their cousin Klara. This was quite easy as her room was next to theirs, ‘right side of the chapel’, in the family
apartments
, the same room she had always had as a child. Her aunt had wanted her here, rather than on the other side in the guest rooms next to her husband. Aunt Elise was anxious to have her near her so that she would be able to go to her room and look after her without having to pass along those freezing corridors.

The two girls slipped out of their adjoining rooms just down from Klara’s. They wore light dressing gowns, and both wanted to have the intimate girls’ gossip for which they had had no opportunity during the day.

Magda wanted a chance to give rein to her annoyance. For a long time she had kept up a flirtation with Klara’s older brother, Peter; and then this dreadful thing had happened – her father had invited one of her younger half-brothers, Louis, but not Peter.

Lili came too, partly because she was no longer a child and shouldn’t be treated as if she were, and so, though she was already in bed and half asleep when Magda came in to suggest they visit Klara’s room, she jumped up at once – for wasn’t she grown up and able to stay up if she wished? – and anyhow she felt like a good talk. What about? Well, that didn’t matter; just to talk would be enough, talk a bit, listen a bit. She might learn
something
… about that Abady, for example. Who was he, always so serious and somehow different – well, different from the others – and how strange he was!’

So they sat by Klara, Magda on the edge of the bed where Klara sat up supported by a mountain of lacy pillows because she found it easier to breathe that way, and Lili in an armchair at the foot of the bed.

An alabaster night light spread a filtered glow throughout the room so that the silken wraps of the girls melted into the pink satin which covered the walls, the bed and all the upholstered furniture.

Magda was pouring out her sorrows without drawing breath.

‘It’s really too bad of Papa. He could easily have asked Peter, but he said that it was Louis’s turn since he hadn’t been for years as he had been at Oxford with Tony. I told him that was no
reason
since Peter was the eldest and anyhow was a far better shot. All Papa said was, all the better then, Louis needs a chance to improve and get in some practice. Then I said, why not make an exception and invite a ninth guest, and all he said to that was that there wasn’t room for nine, only eight! Not room! Here! To which I said, what about that bespectacled booby who doesn’t know
anything
about anything and Peter would do far better in the corner where a good shot was needed and all Papa replied was that a guest couldn’t be put in a less honourable position! So I said that Peter wasn’t like a guest, he was a near relation and wouldn’t mind anyhow. Isn’t that so, he wouldn’t have minded, would he?’

She turned, twisting this way and that with little birdlike movements, first to Klara, then to Lili, and then back again to Klara. Of course she only expected a reply from Klara as Lili was too young to know Peter at all well. Klara’s voice was tired and lazy as if she had dragged her thoughts back from somewhere far away.

‘Why? I suppose not. It’s all much the same anyhow …’

‘You see!’ cried Magda triumphantly. ‘I knew it! Of course he wouldn’t have minded and he was dying to come, I know it, and for my sake, too, of course, but don’t either of you tell that to a soul!’ and she turned to Lili, saying, ‘It’s a secret, you know!’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it! Never! Not to a soul!’ the young girl promised fervently in her deep rather slurred manner of speaking. She was very flattered to be let into something so private and important. Imagine, a family secret!

‘And there was no reason to ask Balint. He could easily have been left out as he isn’t even a good shot, not like … like …’ but she faltered, not being able to bring herself to mention Laszlo’s name.

Klara opened wide her sea-grey eyes and looked angrily at Magda, and it was, perhaps, lucky that Lili interrupted excitedly, ‘Oh, but why leave out Abady? That
would
have been a pity!’

‘And what do you know about such matters, you little brat?’ laughed Szent-Gyorgyi’s daughter. ‘Has he caught your fancy then?’

The still chubby teenager blushed deeply.

‘Oh, no! I only meant …’ but Magda was not listening, she was far too full of her own thoughts.

‘And you know I’ve just realized something quite different. Father didn’t ask Peter on purpose. I’d make a bet on it! He didn’t ask Peter because he’s found out there’s something between us. That’s why! And what’s wrong with that? Plenty of people marry their own cousins,’ and she started to count on her fingers some of those she knew who had done just that. She started off with her Viennese friends, because that is where she had come out, ‘Why, there’s Mitz and Trudl, Titi and Momo … and in Budapest there’s Marcsa and Ili, and Marietta – though she
married
her second cousin. Anyhow it doesn’t matter, the whole thing’s too absurd and Peter’s not a blood relation anyway, we’re only
angeheiratet
– connected by marriage – after all’s said and done!’ And now she really went too far, not noticing how ravaged with pain Klara’s expression had become as she plunged into a discussion on love between cousins, gabbling on more and more on the same subject, until suddenly out the words came: ‘And surely you too, Klara, weren’t you in love with …?’ when she
realized
what she was saying and fell silent.

In her embarrassment she turned to Lili. ‘And why don’t you say something, instead of just sitting there like a stuffed dummy?’

‘What should I say?’ stammered the young girl and blushed again. She blushed, not at what had been said to her but at her own thoughts. She had been thinking about Abady. When they had been together at the shoot, each time that the drive had stopped he had always talked to her; and he had talked as if she were grown-up. She was remembering how his dark-grey eyes turned up slightly at the corners and how he had looked at her in such a natural, friendly and encouraging manner. And how his moustache was lighter than his hair, yes, much lighter. And that afternoon, when they went to see the brood mares, he had talked to her again, saying, ‘I can see that you too love and understand horses! I can see it from the way you stroke their noses.’

Yes, that’s what he had said – ‘I can see it from the way you stroke their noses!’. Then he had told her that in Transylvania he too owned a stud farm. That had given her extra pleasure because he wanted to talk to her even when he wasn’t obliged to by
common
manners. Out there in the paddocks it hadn’t been a social duty – and this new acquaintance was a grown man, and she was still almost a child!

Influenced by this train of thought, and since they were talking of relationships and genealogy and Magda was almost insulting her, Lili felt bold enough to ask, ‘What relation is he to you, this Abady?’

‘
Cousin
issu
des germains
–
second cousin,’ said Magda.

‘Then he must be my cousin too?’

‘Not at all! It’s not on the Szent-Gyorgyi side, but the Gyeroffy. My mother’s mother was Kate Abady, sister of Count Peter, Balint’s grandfather. She married my grandfather on my mother’s side, Laszlo Gyeroffy …’

Now they were interrupted by an angry voice. From deep among her pillows Klara said, ‘Please go away, both of you. I’m getting a headache from all this chatter.’ And when Magda tried to kiss her goodnight she merely pushed her away and buried her head in the pillows, saying, ‘Go away! Please, just go away!’

After saying goodnight to the others in the drawing-room Balint and Slawata had walked together along the corridor to their rooms.

‘May I come in and talk to you for a while?’ asked the diplomat when they arrived at Abady’s door.

As soon as they were inside Slawata started to pace up and down, for which there was plenty of room, for Abady’s was one of the larger apartments made out of two of the original monks’ cells. Then he took off his thick glasses and polished them
carefully
. He had the air of somebody who liked to tidy his thoughts before speaking.

Abady sat down and waited.

At last Slawata spoke. He started off with a few compliments saying: ‘
wir
– we’ (meaning the Belvedere party that supported the Heir rather than the Ballplatz where he was officially employed) ‘have been watching you. We have observed the path you have been following. We observe and we remember. We find it admirable that you have not entered party politics, not taken sides!’ and two or three somewhat flattering remarks followed about Abady’s obvious abilities. Finally, after all this preamble, Slawata started to come to the point, almost, if not quite, making a definite statement. ‘What I tell you now, and what I will ask of you, you must understand is said only by me, Jan Slawata. I have not been instructed to do so, and I must make it absolutely clear that anything I say comes only from me and that I say it because I have faith in the soundness of your judgement and in your discretion. Any answer you may make is for my benefit alone and for no one else!
Also ganz
unter
uns
– just between us!’

He stopped, readjusted his glasses upon his nose and then began again. ‘Now give me your opinion. If the monarchy should become embroiled in a war with one of its neighbours, what
attitude
would the Hungarians take?’

Abady was startled. At that time no one believed in the
possibility
of war in Europe. Everyone accepted that the race for
armaments
was just a device of the great powers which was nothing more than a safety-valve used to save everyone’s face. The
compliments
just lavished on him by this former ‘colleague’ at the Foreign Office made Balint suddenly cautious. Therefore, before giving a direct answer, he felt he needed more information.

‘A war?’ he said. ‘But I thought you were saying after dinner that the Macedonian question had now been settled by Izvolsky?’

‘That is so. And in any case Russia is in no state to make war today. All her supplies have been used up in the Far East and the revolutionary movements are keeping her busy at home. That is why the question is becoming a real threat.’

‘What threat? There is general peace. If Russia can be counted out for some years to come then surely the Serbs too will keep quiet? Romania and Italy are our allies. Which neighbour could possibly attack us?’

Slawata had quickly grasped that he would get no answer from Balint unless he gave him some more information. He paused. Then he pulled up a chair and sat down.

‘This is the situation. Father Czibulka interpreted the problem quite correctly when he analysed the consequences of the
Anglo-Russian
Agreement. Undoubtedly Italy is already lost to us – and in my opinion Romania too, their sympathies are far too close to St Petersburg. And so we have to think of what will happen in a few years’ time when Russia has been re-armed with French gold. Then the Dual Monarchy will have to face a coalition
compounded
of Russia, Serbia and Montenegro that will, of course, be backed by Italy and probably Romania, since they all hanker after different parts of our territory. There’ll always be some
reason
for a war in the Balkans. All this means that the monarchy’s 47 million citizens will have to face quarrel with 182 millions all around them. It is obvious that we could never survive unless someone came to our aid. And if Germany comes galloping along to the rescue they’ll find themselves attacked at once by France and England – France because it would offer a marvellous chance of
revanche
for 1870 and England because it would be in their
commercial
interest to destroy the German fleet. It would be a
terrible
risk for the German
Reich
to take, especially because of the great resources and remarkable toughness of the English. There is only one solution, and it would have to be put into effect
immediately
without any hesitation. This is the opinion of Conrad, the Chief of Staff. Germany’s enemies – and our own – would have to be put out of action one by one, starting with Italy who has no fortifications and whose military equipment is far too antiquated to be any use. Ours is too, for that matter,’ added Slawata with a wicked smile, ‘largely owing to Hungarian obstruction, of course; but the Italians are even further behind than we are, so it’s certain we would have an easy task. Therefore my question is this: Where would Hungary stand in these circumstances?’

‘Certainly I assume that Hungary would stand by her
obligation
, her duty if you will, to contribute to the defence of the
monarchy
. However it may appear, loyalty to the King is strongly rooted. Of course sympathy with Italy exists too, in no small
measure
– but as long as our people understood that they were merely fighting a defensive war …’