Miklós Bánffy - They Were Found Wanting

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?’