Miklós Bánffy - They Were Found Wanting

By the time the pastor had finished his address, which was extremely long, it was almost dark. Although it was late in the year the weather was still so mild that all the guests were quite happy to stay out of doors in the grassy courtyard where some light wine was served and the gypsy band from Ludas was playing. Stable lamps were brought out, and a supper was to be served later in the evening.

Sitting round a long table were Borcsey, Count Akos‚ Abady‚ the chemist and his bridegroom son, and the father of the bride, the Miloths’ overseer‚ who sat a little back from the others as a mark of respect in the presence of his employer.

Borcsey had seated himself in the place of honour at the head of the table, and so forceful was the old man’s sense of his own importance that no one thought to dispute his right to do so. Wine was brought to them as soon as they sat down and, as the wine flowed so did the talk. Their subject, naturally, was politics.

Just as if he were chairing a meeting the old revolutionary lost no time in asking Abady to take the floor‚ questioning him about the latest problem facing the government.

‘Tell us, honourable member for Lelbanya, what is the news about the Quota?’ This was the annual contribution made by Hungary to the Austro-Hungarian army budget. ‘Is it true that our government has come to an agreement with Vienna?’ And he pointed a long finger at Abady and then, folding his hands over the knob of the long stick he always carried, he leant back in his chair as if waiting for a young subordinate’s report.

Balint at once felt that he was being called upon to account for himself and the actions of the government. He explained that there had been lengthy discussions in Vienna and that, as Budapest had thrown over the existing agreement, all the negotiations about the Quota and the formation of a national bank had to start again from scratch. It was rumoured, however, that agreement had been reached though‚ as far as the bank question was concerned, there was only‚ for the present, to be some form of ‘declaration of intent’ which would leave the details to be settled later. As to the Quota, the government had agreed to increase Hungary’s contribution by two per cent over the next ten years. This was the price they had had to pay to obtain recognition for their independent customs proposals and for the future acceptance of the bank reforms.

‘Do you mean to say that the Independence Party will accept this?’ asked Borcsey in surprise.

‘In all probability, yes. Though it is possible that we shall see a few resignations — Barra, perhaps, and Apponyi. But the majority will certainly vote with Ferenc Kossuth who has already given his ministerial approval.’

‘To think that Lajos Kossuth’s son should sink so low! So this is all we’ve got after two years of nothing but talk, talk!’ cried the old firebrand and he turned to Rattle and said, ‘It’s just as I’ve always said: cut the cackle and march on Vienna. That’s what we did in my day!’

Count Akos, himself the most peaceable of men, made suitably belligerent noises and, out of sheer politeness, the others murmured their agreement.

Abady went on to tell how Andrassy had presented new proposals to strengthen the independence of county districts, and this at once led to a discussion of what they were pleased to call ‘cleaning up the civil service’ — by which was meant getting rid of anyone who had too faithfully served under Tisza or‚ more recently‚ given their allegiance to the government of General Fejervary. Already there had been witch-hunts in the counties of Fejer and Maros-Torda — as a result of which many former government officials had been dismissed — and everywhere people were dividing into opposing party groups. The tranquillity of country life had been shattered, duels were being fought, women joined in the fight with their own weapons of evil gossip and slander, and in some country towns things had gone so far that members of one party would use one side of the street so as not to encounter their political opponents who used the other.

Then they began to discuss what would happen to Peter Beno Balogh‚ the official notary of Maros-Torda‚ whose behaviour at the inauguration of the Prefect appointed by the Bodyguard government had been, to say the least, equivocal.

‘Oh‚ they’ll kick him out, for sure. At least that’s what I’ve heard‚’ said the chemist. No more could be said for at this point the overseer’s wife called from the house that supper was on the table.

So the stormy waves of politics were stilled and forgotten as everyone went indoors for the feast.

No one was disappointed. The meal was sumptuous. The table was laden with a multitude of dishes, fattened geese and capons, enormous ducks and, what was exceptional at that time of year, sucking pigs roasted crisp and golden. Then there were French breads, stuffed cabbage, brioches, coffee with whipped cream, sugared doughnuts and strudl . With all this were served several different kinds of heady local wines and, of course, toast followed toast. As the heavy food and copious draughts of wine began to take effect, there followed ever coarser allusions to the wedding night and heavy jokes floated in the air, itself now thick with the aroma of food and wine and cigars and the presence of so many people in a none-too-large room.

Finally everyone got up and went into other rooms or out under the portico while the table was removed to make space for dancing.

Old Rattle had not eaten so much rich food for years. During her lifetime his ever-ailing wife had allowed no fat at the Miloth family meals and their cook had become so accustomed to this that even though the countess was no longer there the meagre food remained unchanged. Nor, for some time, had he had so much excellent wine, which, as he roundly declared in ringing tones, he fancied was the fruit of his own vineyards picked up ‘by that rascally overseer’ from the manor-house cellars. He said this to the chemist’s wife in what he firmly believed to have been a whisper, but it was overheard by everyone, including his other neighbour at the table who was the overseer’s wife. No one minded because he said it with such a good-humoured chuckle. After dinner Rattle remained in a good humour because old Borcsey showed much interest in his tales of Garibaldi, tales for which Count Akos could now find few listeners.

He had just got to the battle of Palermo, which he was describing with outflung arms, when Adrienne came up to him and reminded him that the dancing would soon start and that as they were still in deep mourning it was now time to leave. At once old Rattle assumed an expression of the profoundest grief, his white bushy eyebrows and giant moustaches drooping with sadness.

‘Ah, my dearest daughter, of course you are right!’ he said mournfully. ‘This is not the place for a broken-hearted widower. My days of merry-making are over‚’ And he started at once for the door, followed by his son and daughters and by the other guests who had come down from the manor-house.

They were all outside when Rattle stopped in his tracks.

‘Go on ahead, all of you! Old fool that I am, alas, I have to stay on just a little while. I’ve just remembered I promised the first dance to the bride. It would be too churlish to break my word. Painful though it’ll be I’ll just tread a few steps and come on after you … after all I’m almost a sort of best man, aren’t I? Go on, you lot! Go on!’ and he turned and vanished into the bustling crowd indoors.

It was a long time before Count Akos came home. After he had danced a slow csardas with the bride he whirled her mother round the floor in a swift one. Then he danced a polka with the agility of a billy-goat and, in between dances, he would lean against the door-post mopping the sweat from his face, his eyes brimming with tears‚ and murmur‚ ‘My poor Judith, my poor dear wife!’ to whoever happened to be near him at the time. Then he would leap up again and bound away with some girl, hopping about and leaping in the air with all the energy of a twenty-year-old, before once again stopping for breath and his little moment of misery.