Miklós Bánffy - They Were Found Wanting

There were also newer memories, souvenirs of this last season when Laszlo occasionally was to be seen in Kolozsvar. When Dodo had heard that he was in town she had got her mother to ask him to tea and to dinner, always of course when other young people were present. She had thus been able to see a little more of him, even though Laszlo never stayed in town for more than a few days at a time.

Always they had talked of music and, with the instinct of a woman in love, she had found just that form of expression and manner that echoed the young man’s artistic yearnings.

During their talks she had also come to learn many other things about him. From a word dropped here and there — which she carefully pieced together afterwards — she had gradually learned all about Laszlo’s financial problems. She discovered that he had leased his property to Azbej, who acted as agent for Countess Abady’s estates, and that ten years’ rent had been paid in advance. ‘It was really very good of Azbej,’ Laszlo had said. ‘I owe him a great debt of gratitude’, and Dodo realized that this meant that he had to live on what his gardener could raise from the sale of apples or vegetables from the garden. Of course he no longer had any credit, only debts, and for this he was grateful to that trusted steward! Naturally Laszlo did not tell her these things all at once. He did not even notice that he had told her anything. Dodo knew because she had listened assiduously to what he would say — a fact here, a fact there, some little hint — and later she would carefully put it all together until these little fragments of information, as in a jigsaw puzzle, formed a complete picture. Already she had thought that somehow she must come to his aid and now, as he stood under her window and serenaded her, now that at last he showed some signs of being interested in her, what had only been a vague intention crystallized into a firm resolve.

Looking down from the other window, through a discreet gap between the curtain and the window-frame, Dodo had a clear view of the group on the pavement below. Ambrus, Pityu, Kadacsay and the two Alvinczys sat sleepily around the table while a waiter who could hardly suppress his yawns continued to fill their glasses with champagne. The cymbal-player leaned dozily against a rubbish bin. It was now full daylight, an hour when all carousers are overcome by sleepiness. The two policemen were still making passers-by cross to the other side of the road. These were mostly peasants from the village at Monostor bringing their produce to the market — a few chickens, onion-chains or other vegetables. Some of them stopped for a moment to listen to the music and then went on their way.

But Laszlo played on. A little while before he had taken over Laji’s violin and started to play himself. From his bow flowed a rich stream of impassioned melody. He seemed to have forgotten everything, time, place and occasion, and was conscious only of the music he created. He stood very tall and straight, his hat tilted on the back of his head. His eyes were shut even when, as now, he turned to the musicians and started a new song — ‘They put new tiles on the soldiers ’ barracks …’

Dodo could not take her eyes off him.

In the middle of the song everyone round the table suddenly jumped up. Uncle Ambrus shouted something, the music stopped, and everybody, even the passers-by on the other side of the road, stared up at the window where Dodo had placed her candle just inside the outer glass and in front of the fine linen curtains. The material had caught alight and long flames were curling up to the eaves. Smoke was already filling the room. There was a sharp crack as one of the window-panes split in two and fragments of glass fell tinkling to the street below.

Dodo swiftly pulled the bell-cord and then, regardless of herself, grabbed both sides of the burning curtains and tore them down. Then she ran to the washstand and seized the water jug.

By the time the frightened maidservant rushed into the room, Dodo was already pouring water over the smoking remains of the curtains on the floor and in her light slippers was stamping out the little flames that still occasionally burst forth.

It was lucky that she had acted so swiftly for if the fire had reached the voluminous lace curtains that hung inside the room it might have been much more serious. As it was the only signs of the near-disaster were some black marks on the parquet floor. That was all; and the soles of her slippers were almost burned through. There was no other material damage.

While her maid, and two others who had run to help, were swabbing up the water from the floor and removing the charred remains of the curtains, Dodo took another look at what was happening outside.

Only the two policemen were still there and she called down to them that the damage was only slight and that they could go home. For a while she stood silently by the broken window.

Now Dodo felt sad and heavy-hearted, feeling it to be an evil omen that, just when she was feeling so happy, the serenade should end in disaster. Then she shook her head vigorously as if thereby to dispel such foolish thoughts and turned back to the room.

You silly! she said to herself. There are no such things as evil omens. Sheer foolishness!

And she jumped back into bed, noticing only now how cold the room had suddenly become.

IT WAS COUNTESS Roza Abady’s birthday, a day she liked to celebrate and when nothing pleased her more than for a succession of callers to visit her little palais in Farkas Street.

Only one thing was forbidden — nobody was supposed to mention which birthday it was.

No one ever did, of course, although they all knew that she had been born on April 12th, 1854. One there was who was bold enough to break the rule, and he had lately taken to annoying the countess by sending her a card on which he wrote ‘My congratulations to the Gracious Countess on her fiftieth birthday’ (or whichever it happened to be).

This bold fellow was Boldizsar Kozma, the son of her father’s former estate manager.

The elder Kozma had five sons; Dezso and Aron were the oldest, Geza and Jeno came last and the middle son, Boldizsar, was the same age as Countess Roza. When she was a little girl all five boys had been her playmates until they left Denestornya when old Kozma decided to set up on his own as a farmer, left Count Abady’s service, and rented a substantial property near Teke. Since then the Kozma family had prospered and become rich. They had bought up estate after estate until today they were the owners of the entire districts of Ormenyes and Teke in the Kolozs county. These they had acquired from the former landowners who could not compete with five such hard-working, knowledgeable and unpretentious young farmers.

Countess Roza had not seen any of them since her thirteenth birthday. She would hear, for example, that one of them had been to Denestornya to buy the yearling colts, or the lambs or fatted pigs; but though it was always one of the sons who made their purchases and never the father, not one of her former playmates ever came up to the castle but remained instead below in the farm buildings with the estate manager. Only Boldizsar used to write to her every year on her birthday from somewhere in the meadow country. Since she had celebrated her fiftieth anniversary he had sent cards never failing to mention which birthday it was.

Why he did this Countess Roza never discovered. She was sure that it was done to tease her, perhaps as a belated revenge for some forgotten offence, and it caused her great annoyance. This was now the third birthday on which the arrival of Kozma’s card had put her in a bad mood.

In the morning her son Balint had arrived from Budapest and until after lunch she was happy and gay. In the afternoon, however, the fateful card arrived and for Countess Roza the brightness faded from the day. As a result she, who was usually too good-natured to permit malicious gossip in her presence, said nothing when her two housekeepers, Mrs Tothy and Mrs Baczo, who always took their lunch with her, started to spice the coffee with ill-natured tales about the Abadys’ friends and neighbours.