Miklós Bánffy - They Were Counted

Lost in these thoughts he did not notice that the dawn was breaking. The candles and lamps began to lose their brilliance and the library, which had been like a huge cavern lit only by pools of light, was now revealed in its true size. The carved pillars between the bookshelves and the golden-green columns of light cherry-wood, began to define themselves, and between them one could again make out the thousands of beautifully bound books that were arranged in no order but placed on the shelves regardless of size. They all had ribbed and gold-embossed spines. Some had been collected by the Vice-Chancellor Laczok when he had first transformed the medieval castle into a nobleman’s mansion. His were the thick volumes of Compilatums and Tripartitums , law-books bound in ivory-coloured vellum, and the volumes of the French Encyclopédie and the works of Voltaire. Most, however, had been collected by his grandson who had added the wings and the library. When Balint looked up at the shelves he saw there many rare architectural works of the late eighteenth century, huge volumes which included the whole of Palladio, whose reissue had so influenced the neo-classical movement, the Ornamentisme of Percier and Fontaine, and a complete collection of the Ecole de Rome competitions dating from the first decade of the nineteenth century.

How cultivated Transylvania had been in those days, reflected Balint, as he saw what had been collected on those shelves. He was just passing the next pair of columns when he found his way was blocked. Old Daniel Kendy was swaying from side to side, clutching at one of the pillars for support. He had an unfamiliar look in his watery old eyes, a look of nostalgic sorrow quite different from his usual air of cynical mockery.

‘ Mon p-p-prince! Though he stuttered his pronunciation was excellent: ‘… diese sind w-wunderbare w-Werke! ’ and going on in English, ‘Quite w-wonderful!’ He stroked the backs of those magnificent books, shining with golden blazons and embossed lettering. Perhaps he was reminded of his own golden youth when everyone thought him to be a young man who would go far, before he began to drink and had run through all his money, when he had travelled all over Europe and moved always in the highest circles. He reached out again to caress these magic symbols, as if reminded, by this treasure-house of learning, of lost memories and the great career he had himself destroyed. It was his last gesture, for as he put out his hand he collapsed and slid to the ground like a puppet without strings and half-sat, half-lay on the floor, with his legs stretched out in front of him, and immediately started to be sick. Wine and vomit poured from him without effort or retching, in jets, as from a water pistol, and spread in a pool over the parquet in front of him.

Everyone jumped up from the card-tables, and gathered round him, everyone except old Crookface, who said ‘Filthy old swine!’ several times before throwing down down his cards and stalking out of the room.

The poker players looked at the old man on the floor and just laughed. This was nothing unusual. Pityu and Gazsi edged behind him — as no one could go near in front — put their arms under his shoulders and dragged him like some huge wooden doll on to one of the sofas; and there they left him. No one could have remained in that dreadful sour-smelling room.

In the growing light of day many carriages had gathered in front of the castle entrance. Cocks were crowing in the village and the ball was drawing to a close. Already some of the mothers, tired and thankful, were coming down the steps with their dancing daughters in tow, huddled into silken wraps to hide their sweating faces from the daylight. Quickly they mounted the folding steps and disappeared into the dark interiors of the carriages. A few young men had come out to wave to the girls they had flirted with, and perhaps even to snatch a hasty hand-kiss.

Kadar the butler, alone this time, bustled about calling for one carriage after another and opening the doors with his left hand. His right hand was held in such a way that tips he seemed to find their way there as if by chance.

Balint found Laszlo Gyeroffy waiting in the hall. They arranged to go back to their hotel in Vasarhely together and so went into the guests’ cloakroom to find their bags and coats. The hall was filled with departing guests, but Balint could not see Adrienne among them. For a moment he thought of going back upstairs to say goodbye, but then thought better of it. What was the use of a few commonplace words in the sober light of day? He and Laszlo followed the stream of guests out into the courtyard, where several ladies stood shivering in the cold air, and started to search for their hired fiacre. Passed a waiting group they sensed that something unusual was happening. A wave of excitement flowed through the crowd and a booming stammer could be heard:

‘ M-m-mesdames, m-m-messieurs! Il v-v-vostro umilissimo s-s-servitore! g-g-gehorsamsterD-D-Diener! ’

Old Dani had somehow roused himself and stumbled out on to the terrace. He stood there, embracing one of the pillars, his shirt hanging out and covered in vomit-stains, his beard matted with wine. He bowed right and left, waving his free arm in a sort of semaphore. Some of the younger men jumped up and dragged him away; and the waiting ladies, pretending that they had noticed nothing, piled into their carriages.

Once old Kadar had shut a carriage’s doors, the coachman would whip the horses up into a brisk canter. They turned towards the inner door and swept through the outer courtyard which was lined with the stable-boys and peasant girls and other servants who had danced all night under the balcony. Now they stood in line to speed the parting guests and every now and again, without any apparent reason, a small girl or two would dash out and run screaming across the court in front of the cantering horses, and then burst into fits of laughter because they hadn’t been run over.

As the long line of carriages bowled down the drive the sun was already shining brightly. It was morning.

BACK IN THE HOTEL BALINT and Laszlo were only able to catch a couple of hours of sleep. The sun was shining through the slits in the torn curtains when they woke at eleven. They rang for the maid, but when she realized that all they wanted from her was hot water she went away sulking and kept them waiting so long that it was nearly midday before they were ready.

Balint was anxious to find out if his grandfather’s friend, the old actor Minya Gal, was still alive, so Laszlo and he went to look for him and discovered that although he was known to be still living in his old home no one seemed to know exactly where that was. Then they saw a notice on an old and dilapidated peasant’s dwelling. It read ‘IZAK SCHWARTZ: Fine Tailoring for Ladies and Gentlemen’ in big lettering. Underneath, in small letters, were the words, ‘Mending Done’.

‘Let’s ask here,’ said Laszlo, ‘these little Jewish shopkeepers know everyone.’

The man who did fine tailoring for ladies and gentlemen came to the door. He was a tiny dwarf of a fellow with a long grey beard and trousers so worn and tattered that they were no advertisement for his skills.

‘Yes, masters, if it is Mr Gal you vant, I know him vell. Ze third house it is, if it pleases my masters, down zere …’ and he came out and showed them the way. They thanked him and entered the little garden by the gate that he had pointed out.

The house was in the old Transylvanian style, broad and whitewashed, with a shingle roof and a portico in front. Three windows overlooked the street across a small flower garden. On the left were a cowshed and pigsties. Behind the house beyond a heap of manure were apple trees laden with ripening fruit. In the yard a barefoot young girl was cutting up vegetables for the pig swill.