Miklós Bánffy - They Were Counted

‘That piebald isn’t a horse, it’s just a louse with four legs!’

Gazsi cringed in mock horror at the insult, holding his head as if recovering from a blow.

‘Vulgar abuse, on top of it all! I’ll kill this man, you’ll see! One of these days I’ll get him!’

But it was all good-humoured fun. The anger was mock-anger, and the despair mock-despair. To Gazsi, Joska was a hero and he knew he could never get the better of him, let alone surpass him, either riding or driving. He did not mind losing the bet, in fact he was rather pleased because if Joska had not won Gazsi’s whole world would have collapsed. So he rejoiced and was glad, and all his clowning was really just an expression of his happiness.

As with the older men in the library the conversation ended in general laughter interrupted by the music starting again in the great hall. Laji had begun with an old Transylvanian waltz that everyone knew. Everyone went inside.

The band looked happy and relaxed, and Laji’s face shone. Obviously they had been given a good supper and no doubt a good few bottles of champagne had come their way.

Farkas Alvinczy grabbed young Ida Laczok and swept her off to start the others dancing. Down the long hall they went, turning and gliding to the beat of the music. Other couples soon joined them.

In a few moments the room was filled with dancers; the girls, in many-coloured gowns that swept the ground, holding their heads high and gazing at their partners as they skimmed swiftly over the polished floor.

Dances … Dances … Dances …

Two French quadrilles, two typical exciting csardases lasting an hour, many waltzes slow and fast and even a polka, though not many cared for this.

At about half-past-one the big double doors of the hall were opened and Countess Laczok, round and smiling, made her appearance just as they were finishing the last figure of ‘The Lancers’, which was still popular in Transylvania though in Vienna it had disappeared at the end of the Biedermeier period half a century before. The countess stood in the doorway until the dance was over and then made a sign to Farkas Alvinczy, who had been leading the dance. He signalled to the band leader, and the music stopped.

The young people flowed out into the great drawing-room of the castle where the supper was laid. The gypsy musicians vanished to their by now third meal of the evening, and Janos Kadar, helped by a maid, started changing the candles in the Venetian chandeliers. As he did so, young Ferko and the footmen rushed to remove spots of candle-grease from the floor and polish the parquet.

In the drawing-room the long dinner-table had been re-erected to form a buffet and on it was displayed a capercaillie, haunches of venison, all from the Laczoks’ mountain estates in Czik; and home-cured hams, hare and guinea-fowl pâtés and other specialities of Var-Siklod, the recipes of which remained Countess Ida’s closely guarded secret (all that she would ever admit, and then only to a few intimate friends, was: ‘My dear, it’s quite impossible without sweet Tokay!’).

At one end of the table were grouped all the desserts — mountainous cakes with intricate sugar decorations, compotes of fruit, fresh fruit arranged elaborately on silver dishes, and tarts of all descriptions served with bowls of snowy whipped cream. As well as champagne there were other wines, both red and white. An innovation, following the recent fashion for imitating English ways, was a large copper samovar from which the Laczok girls served tea.

As the guests were finishing their supper and beginning to leave the table replete with delicious food and many glasses of wine, the gypsy musicians filed into the room and took up their places to play the traditional interval music. On these occasions Laji Pongracz would play, in turn, all the young girls’ special tunes. At the winter serenades he had made sure that he knew exactly who had chosen which melody as their own and now, each time he started a new tune, he would look directly at the girl whose song it was and smile at her with a discreet but still knowing air.

The guests had all seated themselves on the chairs and sofas pushed back against the wall and Balint, looking round the room for a place, found nearly every seat taken. At the far end of the room, near the door, he saw a free chair beside Dodo Gyalakuthy, who was the only girl present not to be escorted by a partner.

‘Aren’t you afraid to sit with me, Abady?’ she said quietly as Balint took his place beside her.

‘Is it so dangerous then?’

‘Oh, very! No one dares sit with me. All the young men are afraid they’ll get a bad name if they’re seen paying me any attention!’ She laughed, her long eyes and round face smiling. ‘Yes! Yes! It’s true. I’m too good a parti , and they don’t want to be thought fortune hunters! I promise you it’s true. You’ve been away so long you don’t know, but I’ve known it for two years now, ever since I first came out. Even for square dances and cotillions I’d never get a partner if the organizers didn’t take pity on me. I’m a wallflower. And as for waltzes and csardas I’m only asked by boys too young to be accused of looking for a wife!’

Dodo said all this humorously, smiling sweetly as if she did not care; and Balint realized that he had hardly ever seen her on the dance floor; she was always sitting apart, by the wall. He looked at her more closely. She was very pretty, with a small rather pert nose. She was intelligent and her kind smiling mouth was full and naturally red. Her round, white neck and smooth full shoulders seemed infinitely desirable, like ripe fruit. She had beautiful hands and small shapely feet, and was in every way a most attractive girl.

‘I’ve thought about it a lot, and there can’t be any other reason why no one asks me. And I certainly don’t dance any worse than the other girls. Hasn’t anyone warned you?’ she asked, in playful reproach. She went on: ‘Nobody even talks to me. You wouldn’t know, of course. The girls don’t because they’re jealous that I’m so rich, and the boys are frightened people will gossip about them. You’re the only one that’s safe. The Heir to Denestornya is above suspicion.’ She laughed with light irony. Then she continued, more seriously: ‘Only that Nitwit talks to me. He doesn’t seem to care, but then he’s Austrian, not Transylvanian!’

‘I saw you had supper with him.’

‘Of course! He’s the only one who dares come near me. Perhaps I’ll decide to marry him, but I don’t like him much. You know something?’ and she leant confidentially towards Balint, as if taking him into a great secret, and went on: ‘I don’t like stupid men! Nitwit’s quite nice, and very good-looking, but he can’t string two words together!’

Balint looked round, searching for Egon Wickwitz. He was standing in the embrasure of a window, talking to a woman half-hidden by the curtains. For a moment Balint thought that it was Adrienne, but only for a moment for, as the woman leaned forward, he saw that it was Dinora Abonyi. The couple in the window seemed to be arguing, Dinora’s face looked unusually serious, her fine eyebrows drawn together almost into a scowl, while her normally smiling mouth was set in anger.

Balint looked away as the musicians were suddenly silent. Laszlo Gyeroffy had crossed over to the band-leader and asked for his violin and, by way of prelude, plucked a few pizzicato notes. Then he raised his bow. Everyone waited, excited and pleased. What would he play? Those who had heard him in Kolozsvar, playing at the late-night gypsy revels, started calling out: ‘It’s Laszlo! How marvellous! Listen everybody!’