They Were Found Wanting (68 page)

He had talked a lot to Lili when they had both been at Jablanka for the previous December’s shooting party. Later,
during
the carnival season, he had seen her at the few grand balls he had attended and it had turned out – by chance, of course – that they had often found themselves next to each other in the ballroom or buffet. Occasionally they had danced a waltz together and once he had found himself, during the spring season, asking her for a cotillion for she admitted, as if it were a shameful secret only to be whispered about, that she didn’t have a partner. All this had happened so naturally that it had appeared to Balint, who had been so taken up by the thoughts of his love for Adrienne that he had hardly noticed the existence of any other woman, that if he had spent more time with Lili than with any other girl, it had all been purely by chance. Of course he had enjoyed being with her for she talked well and her conversation had been both piquant and soothing like a draught of fresh orangeade.

It was the same now. Apart from some of those whose life was spent with horses and whom Balint barely knew, there were few women at the races, and so he passed the whole afternoon with Magda and Lili.

On their way back they asked him to dine with them that evening and one of them – it might have been Lili – said that they would be going to the Park Club.

When he arrived there were only a few people on the long
terrace
, just some young men staying at the club and the Lubiansky girls with their father; and, at a table some way off, Laszlo Lukacs and his beautiful wife. Sitting with them was another man whom Balint recognized even though his back was turned to them. It was Count Slawata, the confidential adviser to the Heir. Balint wondered if it was Slawata’s presence that had made Lukacs choose a table so far off and well away from the bright lights of the chandeliers. Was there perhaps some
connection
between Lukacs and those plotters in the Belvedere Palace? Could it be that the
Homo
Regius
–
the King’s Man – was now also in direct touch with the next ruler?

Balint did not want to have to meet Slawata at this time; and furthermore he was in no mood for prolonged political
discussions
; and so, when they had finished dinner and the girls had first talked of dancing to the gramophone and then decided that it was too hot and that they would rather play some parlour game, Balint at once agreed to join in. It was still partly that he did not really care what he did, but also he now felt quite unable to listen to any more of old Lubiansky’s endless complaints about the way the country was being governed, and also wanted to get as far away from Slawata as possible.

They went indoors and settled in one of the cool
drawing-rooms
. Lili suggested they play the old parlour-game of ‘Up Jenkins’ which meant that they had to separate into two equal groups who sat on opposite sides of a table with the leaders of each group facing each other in the centre. One of them selected some small object, such as a coin or a ring, to be the ‘Jenkins’ and, on the command ‘Up Jenkins!’, he showed it to the opposing team. When the command came, ‘Down Jenkins!’, he put his hands under the table and, concealed by the cloth, passed it to another member of his team. Now came ‘Jenkins on the table!’ and all the team who were hiding Jenkins had to put their hands on the table.

Who had Jenkins? This was the game and there was much laughter and mockery as they all made guesses. In the end the leader had to decide and could point to only one of the hands on the table. If he was wrong there was much triumph on the side with Jenkins and gloom on that of the seekers, and the game went on until Jenkins had been found. Then Jenkins crossed the table and it all started again.

Magda offered a ring to be Jenkins, and the two leaders were Lili and Balint.

They were sitting facing each other across the table. Lili was wearing a light summer dress with rather short but wide sleeves of
broderie
anglaise
and through the many little embroidered holes in the material could be caught glimpses of the pink skin of her arms and shoulders. The dress was suitable only for a young girl and was almost childish in its virginal whiteness – but was far more arousing than any sophisticated
décolletée.

At first Balint hardly noticed. Slowly, however, indeed every time that Lili lifted her hands in some gesture to show everyone the ring and the wide sleeves slid back on her bare arms, he found himself flooded by a strange magic. It was as if she sat there before him clad only in a wedding shift, her flesh barely covered by fine gossamer, smiling expectantly and looking at him with some unspoken question in her eyes. Even Balint knew that this was no game, no meaningless attempt at flirtation but was rather the eternal urge of the female to attract and to lure. Everything about her told him the same story. Her petal-like skin with its elusive scent, the slightly parted lips, the dress falling in soft folds around the infinitely desirable curves of her firm breasts: this was no trivial, shallow game but rather the
subconscious
display of the finest weapons in a woman’s armoury of attraction.

Balint felt a twinge of guilt at having sensed it, and guilty too at finding himself aroused by desire and yet being unable, in spite of the laughter and simplicity of the childish nursery game, to free himself of it.

This was the only time when, for a brief moment, he was made to forget the agony of waiting which otherwise totally engrossed him. He could think of nothing but when he would get news from home and discover what had happened at Almasko.

Balint heard with indifference what was happening in the great world around him. Whereas a month or two before, during the long winter months, worry about the possibility of war and the fate of his beloved country could make him forget his private worries, this was no longer true. The deepening political crisis at home – Wekerle’s resignation, Lukacs’s embarrassed handing-in of the royal commission, the King’s insistence on a new coalition, new rifts between Kossuth and Justh – and alarming news from abroad with Sir Edward Grey’s depressing analysis of the
international
dissensions, the menacing build-up of the British Fleet, the Eulenburg scandal and the sudden resignation of the Chancellor Bülow, now all seemed so trivial to Balint that he barely took any of it in. 

On the other hand not a day passed without him becoming more and more anxious about Adrienne.

In her last letter she had said that soon the doctor from Regen would turn up with old Absolon and so at any moment the great decision should be made. Balint now felt he must return so as to be within reach, when their fate was decided. In this way he would get the news more quickly and would be on the spot if she needed help. He could get over to Almasko in no time in his new car, and could whisk her away to safety if she felt in any danger from her husband. Balint felt he must be ready for anything, and for that he had to be at home.

On July 9th he made up his mind to go as soon as possible. It was late afternoon and too late to send a telegram to Denestornya, because it could hardly get delivered before he would be there himself. It did not really matter, for he was sure to find some little horse-drawn gig or fiacre at the station at Aranyos-Gyeres. At eight in the morning he got down from his sleeper and was
surprised
to notice that the express did not leave again at once but remained stationary at a side platform. In front of the booking office the station-master was standing, white gloved and in full formal uniform. With him was his assistant, similarly dressed, and both looked nervous and unhappy. Uniformed railway staff were running about in all directions, checking the points, and two constables were marching officiously up and down and
ordering
everyone to keep off the platform.

‘What’s going on?’ Balint asked as he shook hands with the old station-master. As he did so one of the constables was
unceremoniously
pushing Balint’s porter out of the way. ‘What’s all this about then?

‘The Heir’s private train is due to pass through in a few
minutes
. It has already signalled and we have strict orders to clear the station of everyone but the railway staff. Please forgive me …’ and he trailed off clearly embarrassed at having to treat Count Abady in this fashion, for he had known the family all his life as it was the station for Denestornya. Then he accompanied Balint to the exit; even for the noble Count himself he could not disobey orders from so high a source.

A few moments later Balint had got into a small one-horse cart, and was nearly clear of the village, when from the bridge over the river came the rumbling sound of an approaching train. From the engine came a discreet whistle, then there was the scream of brakes and the train started to slow down. At the
platform
it stopped, but only for an instant, and then, quickly
gathering
speed, trundled off in the direction of the mountains.

Balint did not pause to wonder why Franz-Ferdinand’s train had stopped, if only for an instant, at such an obscure wayside
station
. Neither did any of the other passengers who had been herded like cattle into the waiting-room. But if someone had noticed and had thought fit to alert one of the more chauvinist of the Budapest papers, there would have been screaming headlines and a big political row. The reason was that the person for whom the train had been halted, and who had hurried discreetly out of the station-master’s office and through the already opened door of one of the saloon-cars, was none other than Aurel Timisan, the champion of the rights of the large Romanian
minority
in Hungarian Transylvania.

The
Werkstadt
–
the Archduke’s private office in the Belvedere Palace – had been in secret contact with Timisan, as it was with many of the other minority leaders, for many months. It was someone from there that had given Timisan orders to join the train at Aranyos-Gyeres, sent him his travel papers and ensured that the station should be cleared so that no one should see him climb aboard. A few stations later the process was reversed and he left the train still unnoticed. He had just had time to hand over the lists of names that the Heir’s principal private secretary had demanded.

The next day, in the Romanian town of Sinaia, the Archduke Franz-Ferdinand received a group of political exiles. They were the leaders of most of the ethnic minorities of the far-flung Habsburg empire, that empire over which he expected soon to rule. While he was assuring these good men of his goodwill and future patronage, a band of students tore through the elaborately decorated streets of the little spa, tore down all the Hungarian flags, those symbols of the independence of the Monarchy’s sister country, and trampled them in the mud.

B
ALINT READ ABOUT THE RIOT
at Sinaia at tea-time at Denestornya, when the Budapest morning papers arrived. At the same time the midday edition of the Kolozsvar paper arrived carrying an official denial on its front page. This declared that absolutely nothing had happened; the Archduke had received no one and no insults had been offered to the Hungarian flag. The previous day’s report was based on a most regrettable mistake – or so announced the official spokesman of the Palace.

Whether anyone believed this was another question; Balint
certainly
did not. Everything he knew about the personality and views of the Heir to the throne, and everything that Slawata had told him in confidence several years before, affirmed the truth of the reports. Nevertheless he tried hard not to think about the matter and meekly to accept the official denial, for in this way he was able to turn aside from what in other times would have filled him with alarm because of its dire implications for the country’s future. To have worried now about the Heir’s complicated plots would have torn him away from that one personal problem that needed his whole attention.

The time had come when he would have to tell his mother that he would soon be married. The problem was how and when to do it.

That it would be painful for them both was certain. He need not do anything until the news came from Almasko, but then he would have to act at once, for afterwards he knew that he would not be able to remain more than an hour in the same house with his mother. He knew her so well; and what she once said with such firmness she never went back on. When she heard that the marriage with Adrienne was not only certain but imminent she would act as if her son had died and this she would maintain, if not forever, certainly for a very, very long time. Only if the longed-for grandchild was born, and then, if it were a boy, an heir to her name and to Denestornya – only then, might she begin to relent and possibly forgive.

Balint realized that it was now, during these few days at home, that he had to make all his preparations.

First of all it was clear that he could not be with Adrienne either here or at Kolozsvar, for they could not live together in the same town as Countess Roza. The only answer was Budapest, where things would not be so obvious and the irregularity of their situation, even if only temporary, would not be so painful for either of them. He would therefore have to take a flat there.

Next it was clear that he would no longer receive the allowance that his mother had made him since he first joined the diplomatic service. It was only too probable that Countess Roza would stop it at once. His salary as a Member of Parliament was negligible, not that he was really in need of it for he was entitled to receive that part of the Abady inheritance that came from his
grandfather
, Count Peter, his father’s father. Until now this had never been administered separately, for the entire estate income had been paid directly to his mother and Balint had had no reason to want anything different. The twin properties of Denestornya had been thought of as one ever since they had been reunited by his parents’ marriage, while the forestlands in the mountains, of which Balint had inherited a quarter share from his father, had never been divided either.

Even if it did not amount to a great deal, he still had an income on which he would be able to live. Since Balint had reorganized the husbandry of the forests some years before, at which time he had made some profitable contracts with an Austrian timber merchant from Vienna, they had begun to bring in more money, and Balint knew that he could count on some 20,000 crowns annually.

It was possible that there might be something else too, for he remembered that his grandfather had also possessed some
property
in the lower Jara valley. This was now let, but as it belonged legally only to him he would be able to claim the annual rental, whatever it was.

Then there was the question of his grandfather’s furniture, which had all been stored in some unused rooms at Denestornya, ever since Countess Roza had allowed Azbej to move into the old manor-house where his grandfather had lived. He remembered well the huge desk made of root-wood, but of the rest he only had the haziest memories. Of course lists had been made before the house had been emptied for Azbej, and his mother had often referred to an inventory having been taken; but where was it?

Balint searched the library and when he did not find it he
realized
that it must be in Azbej’s office in the old manor-house below the church. He would have to go there and ask him for it.

These thoughts were occupying Balint’s mind as he sat on the covered veranda drinking tea with his mother. He tried hard to give her the impression that he was absorbed only by the
newspapers
, from which he kept reading aloud passages he thought might interest her; but in reality he was thinking only of his own problems.

Countess Roza, too, nodded approval or surprise at whatever her son read out, but she wasn’t paying any attention either. All she noticed was the remote, closed expression on her son’s face; and the more she saw how worried he looked, the more she was convinced that the day of that accursed wedding was
approaching
and that soon she would lose the only and the last person she loved.

Balint unhooked the key of the cemetery from the nail on which it hung at the bottom of the staircase, and hurried down the path on the west side of the hill on which the castle had been built. He passed swiftly the now sizeable fir-trees that grew beside the worn stone steps on the path until he arrived at the gate below. As he went he recalled that day a year before when he had gone with his mother to Communion on the Day of the New Bread. Then he had been buoyed up with hope and confident that he would be able to arrange amicably the matter of his marriage.

It was then that he had vowed to bring order into his life.

The disappointment when he discovered his mother’s
determined
opposition now overwhelmed him again and almost
dispelled
the distaste with which he revisited the house where his beloved grandfather had lived.

He had not been there since the old man’s death. By the time that Balint, then a fifteen-year-old schoolboy at the Theresianum, had got home from Vienna, Count Peter was already lying on his bier in the main aisle of the little family church. After that his rooms had been locked and when, years later, Countess Roza had emptied them to make room for Azbej, Balint had always
managed
to avoid going to see the garden, the wide porticoed veranda and the rooms where, in his imagination, the old man lived still.

Today, however, he had to go there; he had no choice.

The door out of the cemetery opened with difficulty and the rusted lock screeched. Inside the manor-house garden the once immaculate path was almost submerged with weeds. This was the way he had come with his mother, every Sunday after church, to lunch with Count Peter. The lilac bushes on each side were now so neglected and overgrown that there was hardly room to pass between them. Balint began to hate it all; and it was worse when he reached the garden itself. All his grandfather’s once
lovingly
-tended roses had disappeared and only here and there was to be seen a fallen stem surrounded by suckers. On the house itself only one undernourished climbing rose was still there, the rest obviously having died.

Balint’s worst disappointment was the sight of the house itself. The four Greek columns of the portico, which had once been bright with clean whitewash, had been gaudily covered in shiny green paint to resemble marble. On the ceiling had been daubed some crude butterflies, birds and clouds, and on both sides of the main door were coarse murals, one of Fiume and the other of Naples with Vesuvius belching smoke.

In front of this motley background, lying on a straw bed
covered
with fireman’s-red coloured cushions, was a fat slatternly
little
woman wearing a half-open dressing-gown covered in velvet peonies. With her were two children asleep, one at the breast and the other lying on her knees, while a third was sitting on the floor trying to eat a pear from a basket that had been left there.

For a moment all was peaceful. Then a storm broke out. The child with the pear let out a fearful scream when it saw Abady, the woman woke up and struggled to her feet, dropping the other two; and then they all ran howling indoors, the heels of the woman’s slippers going slap-slap on the wooden floor, and the children howling as if they had seen a Bogey-man. And then, just as suddenly, there was silence again as they vanished into the house.

Despite his distaste, Balint could not help noticing how absurd the scene was, particularly as the woman and the children had been so exactly like Azbej himself, brown and hairy and so round that they seemed to roll rather than run. Alone with the spilt
basket
of pears, Balint realized that it must be Azbej’s wife and that now, no doubt, she was calling her husband.

He turned back towards the garden, all appreciation of the comicality of the scene having vanished as he looked in growing horror at the sight of that once so elegant snow-white veranda
disfigured
and desecrated; for it was here that he had best
remembered
his grandfather sitting in a tall wicker chair, meerschaum pipe in mouth, with wavy silver hair and a smile of infinite kindness and wisdom. Balint preferred to look at the garden, for though it was neglected and allowed to run riot, at least the deterioration was the work of nature and not inflicted by the barbaric taste of man.

He did not have to wait long. In a few moments the fat little lawyer came out at a run, bowing as he did so. ‘What an honour! I am indeed fortunate,’ said Azbej, and he repeated the words several times, always bowing again as he did so. ‘I am always at your Lordship’s command … your Lordship should have sent for me … I am always at your Lordship’s command,’

‘I need some information,’ replied Abady. ‘Perhaps we should go up to the office in the castle.’ And when Azbej enquired what he needed, he explained that he wanted to look at the inventory of his grandfather’s furniture and belongings.

‘But that is here in my study, if your Lordship pleases. I keep all the old documents here. I beg your Lordship to come in.’

And so, though he was loath to do it, Balint found himself obliged to enter the house.

The first room they went through was the former
dining-room
, once painted pale green and hung with family portraits. Now it was used as a sitting-room and was furnished with
red-plush
sofas and a lot of little occasional tables in some sort of oriental style, hung with tassels made of tiny little wooden balls stuck together. The walls also were red, painted to resemble
brocade
up to the height of the doors, and from then up the frieze and ceiling had been done in imitation wood-panelling.

Next they went into Count Peter’s study. This had not suffered the same transformation. Where the Empire bookcases had stood there were now open wooden shelves in the American
manner
, and Azbej’s modern desk stood in just the same place as had Count Peter’s. But at least there were no such horrors as Balint had seen elsewhere; probably, he thought, because Azbej perhaps only perpetrated his ‘improvements’ to please his wife.

However it was clear that the estate papers were kept in good order and that Azbej knew where everything was to be found. In a few moments he was able to hand the inventory to the younger man.

Balint looked at it carefully, and as he did so Countess Roza’s trusted agent stood beside him, a questioning glint in his
prune-shaped
eyes.

Balint read through the papers and said, ‘I am finding it rather expensive staying in a hotel whenever I’m in Budapest; so I’m thinking of taking a flat. Also it is tiresome always having to lug my files and other papers about with me; and I really don’t know what to do with all my books. So I think I’ll start making use of some of these pieces again. Please be so good as to have the
inventory
copied. I don’t yet know what I want but when I do I’ll mark it and let you have it back.’

Azbej’s cherry-red little mouth, which seemed so gentle and small in that forest of bristly black beard, now formed itself into a deferential smile.

‘This is the file concerning all the properties of his late Excellency Count Peter,’ he said, as if he knew exactly what Balint had in mind in coming to see him. ‘Perhaps your Lordship might like to look over that too since I am so honoured to have your Lordship here today,’ and he handed him the papers. ‘I have waited a long time to have an opportunity to account for my stewardship.’

Balint leafed through the papers, among which he soon found the title-deeds to the Jara valley property. ‘Is this let? How much does it bring in?’ he asked, as if it were a casual enquiry made by chance.