Miklós Bánffy - They Were Counted

Var-Siklod had not changed until the middle of the eighteenth century when the then head of the Laczok family, Count Adam — Vice-Chancellor of Transylvania and Governor of the province — decided that he must have a residence more worthy of his great position. It was just when the massive elegance of baroque was being transformed in Vienna, Munich and Brandenburg, into the fantasies of rococo; and it was this last that appealed to the taste of Count Adam.

First he removed the battlements from the fortified keep and replaced them with a soaring roof of shingle, made in three sections like a pagoda, the first ascending steeple, and the second and third mounting in an elaborate S-bend to form a mushroom-shaped roof that was taller even than the building beneath. He did not enlarge the windows but surrounded them with carved stone cornices decorated with garlands of flowers and fruit. Stone pilasters with elaborate capitals were grafted on to each corner of the building and, over the main entrance, he built out a new doorway, surmounted by vaulting, which in turn supported a balcony whose parapet of carved stone reflected the wildest and most fantastic intricacies of rococo taste. Above the balcony, supported on thin iron poles, was another roof made of copper, separate from that of the main house but also mushroom-shaped in two elaborate and unexpected curves. As the supporting poles were barely visible it seemed as if the heavy shining roof hung in the air unsupported from below. In Count Adam’s time rich curtains had been hung between the iron poles, thus giving him the appearance he wanted, the fashionable Chinese style that had inspired the Pagodenburg at Munich. That this was the effect intended was clear from the upturned edges of the different sections of the roof above, and from the oriental detail of the drainpipes which, in times of rain, shot spouts of water in arcs of ten metres out of their dragon-shaped mouths.

The eastern fancies of Count Adam, however, did not long remain unchallenged. As the nineteenth century brought added riches to the family so the Laczok of those later days, inspired by the same building mania as his predecessor, decided to enlarge and as he thought, improve the castle. As a modern and up-to-date magnate, his contribution was in the then fashionable Empire style that had come in at the end of the eighteenth century and spread throughout Europe at the time of Napoleon. The wide courtyard behind the house was quickly transformed into new kitchens and stable-yards. Then, leaving the entire rococo mansion untouched, two classical wings were added and embellished with a wide colonnade, which reached out each side of the house to the old outer walls. These two wings were then brought forward at right angles to form a symmetrical U-shape. And as defensive walls were no longer needed to keep out marauding tartars, that part of the battlements that lay in front of the house was demolished and replaced by a broad terrace which overlooked the spreading Laczok lands.

This was the aspect that the old fortress of Siklod presented to the arriving guests as their carriages passed from the long poplar avenue and through the great entrance gates which were bordered by the ancient spreading oaks that marked the boundaries of the park. The drive swept past the main façade of the house and climbed gently to the huge iron-studded doors under the eastern tower of the precinct. Beyond these doors the carriages passed through the stable court and, turning left again under an arch formed in the eastern wing, found themselves beneath the columned portico that gave onto the great terrace in front of the house.

When Balint arrived he found that the portico steps were lined with waiting servants. On the lowest rung was the butler, Janos Kadar, grey and stooping, dressed in the long braided coat of the Laczok livery. It seemed as if he were so frail that he could barely support the work and worry that would be his lot that day. Behind him stood the hired footmen, and with them the odd-job boy, Ferko, who rushed forward to take Balint’s coat and bag.

As he walked up the steps Balint told the old butler that before greeting the family he would like to wash off the dust in which he had been covered during the drive from Vasarhely.

‘Of course, my lord!’ he replied, and turning to the boy, ‘Ferko, show Count Balint to the corner room. And see that there is water … and clean towels!’ But thinking the boy too inexperienced he went on impatiently, ‘No! No! I’ll go myself’ and, taking Balint’s things from him, he hurried ahead, showing the latest visitor the way through the vast entrance hall to a door at the back. The room set aside for visitors had clearly already been used. A few soiled towels were scattered here and there, some on the floor, some on the washstand. The tin bucket was full of dirty water and the jug was empty.

‘I beg the Count’s pardon,’ said the old man, hurrying out through a door at the far end of the room. From the court behind the house his voice could be heard querulously chiding, ‘Aniko! Mali! Where are you … Hurry now … clean towels and water to the guest-room … quickly now! Must I do everything myself?’ And a door was slammed somewhere.

In a few moments a young servant girl bustled in, curtsyed to Balint and sighing deeply replaced the sodden towels with fresh ones, changed the water jug and hurried out with the tin bucket, her bare feet slapping softly on the scrubbed pine floorboards.

In a small drawing-room on the first floor the older ladies were gathering in a group round their hostess. Aunt Lizinka was already there, sitting as she always did with her knees drawn up in a large armchair, with the widowed Countess Gyalakuthy, the rich Adelma, and two or three other mothers who had brought their daughters to the dance. With them were some other ladies, among them Countess Bartokfay, who lived nearby, and the wife of the family lawyer, Beno Balogh-Peter, had come in merely to greet Countess Laczok on her name-day. Their husbands had already made a brief appearance upstairs, kissed their hostess’ hand, and then gone down to the garden where Count Laczok received the male guests. Only the ladies remained. They had been offered tea and coffee, plumcake, cold ham, sugared biscuits and lemonade, and the room was still littered with empty cups and crumb-filled plates, for the servants had more important things to do than clear away.

The little room soon filled up, the guests sitting on small chairs in a semi-circle round their hostess who, as she always did, had placed herself on a small sofa with its back to the wall near the door. Countess Ida chose this narrow boudoir to receive her guests because from there she could remain in close contact with the running of the house. Every so often the door beside her would be slightly opened and one of the maids or other servants would put their head in, whisper something in the countess’s ear and disappear discreetly as soon as they had received her equally discreet and softly-spoken order. The ladies’ conversation would then go on as if there had been no interruption.

Countess Ida always received on her saint’s day and for her it was always the most difficult day in the entire year. Invited or not there were masses of callers in the afternoon, and in the evening there was always a large dinner followed by a dance. Rooms had to be chosen and prepared for the guests who stayed overnight, the great reception rooms prepared and polished, the reputation of the famous Siklod cooking had to be maintained and every detail, including the baking, needed her personal attention. Something always went wrong if she didn’t see to it herself. On her last saint’s day she had nearly died of shame when it was discovered that salt had found its way into the iced puddings; and the year before, at the very last moment, a most peculiar smell had been identified as coming from the potted veal tongues, and a carriage had had to be sent post-haste to Vasarhely to find some more, Alice Laczok, her sister-in-law who should have helped her, was so vague that she needed more supervision than the servants. In recent years her daughters had begun to be useful, running errands, checking the larder and the cold store, but today they had gone to those idiotic races, disappearing at midday and not returning until it was almost dark. They had left their mother to see to everything herself. And so she had, until the guests started arriving and she found herself nailed to the sofa and making polite conversation while her whole mind was on the thousand details of the preparations for the evening. She could hardly wait to get rid of all those who had dropped in, knowing that there was little time left before she would have to go and dress.