Miklós Bánffy - They Were Counted

Countess Laczok, however, did not remain for long among her guests. As soon as she had greeted the new arrivals she left the room to supervise the preparation of the buffet which was to be served later. Her departure was the signal for Aunt Lizinka to start talking about the Laczoks, for her a subject of perennial interest.

‘My dears!’ she began: ‘I do feel so much for darling Ida and my dear nephew Jeno …’ And she embarked with great relish on the subject of the family black sheep, Jeno’s elder brother, Tamas, the ‘ne’er-do-well’ who, after several years’ absence, had recently returned to Transylvania as, of all things, a railway engineer! This had surprised everybody since, for the first forty-odd years of his life, Tamas had lived entirely for pleasure, never giving a thought to anything more serious than drinking and making love. When he was young he was continually getting into debt, for which his family was always expected to pay up, and he had lived openly with a succession of gypsy girls. Largely as a result of this last offence he had been disowned by the family and one day he had disappeared, apparently abroad. For six or seven years nothing had been heard of him, until quite recently he had suddenly returned, qualified as an engineer. And now here he was, building the new railroad not far from Var-Siklod.

‘But don’t think he’s changed, my dears. Oh, no! It’s the same story all over again. He’s got a little gypsy with him. She can’t be more than fourteen! Oh, yes, I know it for sure! Isn’t it dreadful? My poor niece. Why, he could even go to prison … debauching a minor. There’s a law against it — what a shame for the family! Who would have thought it when he was little?’ and added, pointing at a portrait on the wall depicting a lady in a crinoline with two small boys, ‘What a beautiful child he was! The one on the right is Jeno, and the other is that monster Tamas!’ And so she went on, her little piping voice spreading poison nonstop.

While Aunt Lizinka was at her usual mischief-making upstairs, the smoking-room was ringing with the laughter and loud talk of the men. Count Jeno sat on a green velvet sofa smoking a pipe while most of the others lit cigars. Though the main subject of conversation was politics, it was not the bitter, passionate politics of the discussions under the lime tree. Those discussions had concerned serious matters, Hungarian matters and Hungarian politics. Now they talked about happenings in the great outside world, happenings that were for them only a comedy, subject for fun and mockery, for entertainment and ribaldry, not to be taken seriously nor talked about with passion or real fury. The Russo-Japanese War had just reached a crucial point. So, discussing it, the men split into two groups, dividing those who thought the Russians would win and those who were convinced it would be the Japanese. No one took it too seriously; they would even retract and change sides if there was an opportunity for a good pun or a joke.

To start with, the very names of the admirals and generals sounded funny and so they would twist them, purposely mispronouncing the unfamiliar sounds to give ribald or coarse interpretations: the pro-Russians trying to ridicule the Japanese and the pro-Japanese doing the same with the Russian names.

Anything went if it sounded rude enough. This light-hearted chaff continued for some time until Tihamer Abonyi, Dinora’s husband who always took himself seriously, tried to raise the level of the conversation. Coming from Hungary he felt he was in a position to show these provincial Transylvanians that he had superior knowledge of world politics. Also he had had far too much champagne and several tumblers of brandy, with the result that this normally retiring and modestly-spoken man became unusually bold and talkative.

‘One moment, please! If you don’t mind?’ And everyone fell silent because they all realized they would soon have an opportunity to tease somebody — and teasing was the Transylvanians’ greatest pleasure.

And so the poor man started. Clichés fell, one after another, from his lips: ‘Well-informed circles’, ‘in regard to this’, ‘in regard to that’, ‘all serious students of world affairs know that if the Russians, etc., etc., etc., then the English and the Americans will be obliged’, ‘all this must be reckoned with’, ‘and as for us, the Tripartite Agreement’. The pompous voice droned on and on …

But not for long. As soon as one hackneyed phrase was uttered it would be taken up by someone else, distorted, laughed at, thrown to another, who would take the joke further with a new twist. A third would then turn the meaning inside out and offer it back to the speaker, who, still completely serious, would try to explain what he meant. And while he did so, another of his sayings would be taken up and teased and dissected in the same way until it sounded a ridiculous confirmation that these provincial Transylvanians understood nothing.

Everyone took part in the game. Old Crookface interjected only short obscenities; Jeno Laczok, with a straight face and dry humour, would pose seemingly irrelevant questions; while Uncle Ambrus kept to the subject, but, in his deep rumbling voice, gave every phrase a grossly sexual meaning. Abonyi, his eyes bulging in astonishment as he found himself mocked by the country bumpkins, could not conceive why his superiority was not universally respected. He battled on, and finally tried to explain that the war would never end because neither side had the necessary weapons …

‘Because then comes the great big Kaiser with his great big tool …’ roared Uncle Ambrus.

Abonyi jumped up, furious: ‘And as for you, Ambrus, you know nothing of — politics. All you care about is sex …’ Offended, he ran to the door, fumbled with the handle, and rushed out. He was followed by roars of mocking laughter.

On the wide balcony above the porch the young were also enjoying themselves. Some sat on the rococo stone balustrade and some on chairs that the footmen had brought out from the hall.

Gazsi Kadacsay was making a good story of his ride to Var-Siklod, and it seemed even funnier because his slanting eyebrows, raised high, gave his face the expression of someone begging for mercy.

It had started on the rrrace-course, he said, rolling his r’s. Just as he was about to start, Joska Kendy had come up to him and said, cigar-holder in mouth:

‘What can you do with that nag of yours? I’ll get my lumbering old wagon to Siklod before you’ve even got that hay-bellied hack into a canter!’ and he imitated Joska’s grating voice so well that everyone laughed. ‘Well, you know me! I’m such a sucker I bet on it — ten bottles of bubbly. How could I be such a moron? We’d start late, Joska said, shrewd old beast that he is, and the road’d be clear. What happened? I got among all those cursed Szekler carts — they were all over the road — nearly fell into one, nearly snagged my poor beast’s legs on the axle-pins, was blinded with dust; and Joska, crafty old thing, just drove them all off the road! He got through easily, driving like Jehu, and I only caught up with him once … once, I tell you. It was just as we turned off the main road — and when I tried to get past that team-of five of his, he nearly ran me down. After that I had no chance in the narrow drive!’

‘You certainly fooled me that time, you dreadful man,’ went on Gazsi plaintively but grinning at Joska as he spoke. Kendy just looked at him ironically and said, dryly: