Miklós Bánffy - They Were Counted

He was silent. Laszlo had listened politely, untouched by the rambling tale, but Balint had been deeply moved. Mysterious though it all was, a memory had been stirred by the incoherent story. Once, sitting beside his grandfather’s writing desk, he had seen a tiny ancient pair of lady’s dancing slippers inside an open drawer. They were old-fashioned party shoes of white satin and, though old, they looked almost new; even the little satin ribbons which tied like the strings on Greek sandals, were smooth and fresh. The tiny heel-less slippers were shaped like ladies-finger biscuits and were thin as paper. When Balint asked his grandfather about them the old Count had taken them out of the drawer and shown him how worn the soles were. ‘Look,’ he had said, smiling, ‘see how much that little charmer danced!’ and he had tied the ribbons together again and dropped the slippers back into the drawer where he had kept them for so many years.

Only now, as the memory of old Count Peter came back to him, did Balint understand the regret and nostalgia that lay behind his grandfather’s always kind and welcoming smile. Was the heroine of old Minya’s story the owner of the little dancing shoes?

‘What happened then?’ asked Balint, with a catch in his throat.

‘Count Peter went abroad. He didn’t come back for a long time, not for years. He travelled to countries few people visited then; perhaps few go today. He once wrote to me from Spain just a brief word, and later from Portugal. Once he went on a walking tour in Scotland, just as I did as an itinerant actor. He wrote to me then that there were many lakes and the country was wild and bare, just like the hills of Mezöses …’

Balint had known nothing about all this. Old Abady had never mentioned his travels. Looking back, Balint realized, though he had never given it a thought at the time, that no matter what part of Europe was mentioned, his grandfather had known it well. Had he been impelled to travel by sorrow, or had there been some other reason, some irrepressible wanderlust? Now, hearing the old story that revealed so much and yet kept its essential secret, Balint looked once more at the old violin on the table. How beautiful if was, lying there on the bare planks. What melodies still slept behind the myriad golden lights reflected in the dark patina of its varnish? What enchanting melodies and ancient passions? And would those melodies, poured forth by two young people alive only to their love and to their music, ever be heard again, or would the old violin be forever silent, the tomb of their secret love?

Young Julis brought in the grapes and, as she put them down, a cart, drawn by an old horse with harness tinkling with bells, drew up in front of the house. The girl looked out of the window.

‘Look! Uncle Minya, Andras has arrived!’ She ran out, beaming with pleasure.

Steps were heard outside and in a moment the door was opened and Andras Jopal came in. He seemed disconcerted to see who the old man’s visitors were, but made them a stiff formal bow. Then he turned to Minya and started whispering to him. The old man looked up at Jopal’s face, murmured something, shook his head and then slowly took a ten-crown note from his wallet and handed it to the newcomer. Jopal went out, and they could hear the cart drive into the yard.

‘You must excuse me, gentlemen,’ said Minya. ‘That was Andras Jopal, my nephew. He’s a very clever, learned fellow!’ But there was a note of annoyance in his voice, despite the words of praise. ‘He could have been a professor by now, but he wouldn’t take his finals. He’s got a crazy idea he can build a flying machine. He’s so stubborn. Now he’s out of a job again.’

‘We saw him yesterday, at the Laczoks’.’

‘That’s where he’s just come from. It seems they’ve just thrown him out. He didn’t even have any money for his fare and he pretends left on his own accord. Bah! He’s crazy!’ The old man got up and looked angrily out of the window.

On the little cart was a jumble of fine wooden laths, rolls of paper, tangled wire and great sheets of stretched canvas like the wings of a gigantic dead moth.

‘Well, there it is, the precious model! He spends every penny of the little money I give him on it!’ Old Minya strode across the room, and then turned back to them, ‘And even if he succeeds, what’s the use, I ask you? What purpose would it have? People would still kill each other, even from the air!’

Balint wanted to say it wasn’t true, but the old man went on: ‘If human beings invent something new, they always use it first for killing. Iron was made into clubs and swords, bronze into cannon. And what did they do with gunpowder? Split rocks and build something? No! They destroyed each other more than ever!’ He waved his arms about and stumbled to a chair where he sat down heavily, tired, exhausted and disillusioned, and the weight of his many years seemed to overcome him.

‘It’s time I left this world,’ he murmured, oblivious of his visitors. ‘High time!’ The two young men stole away, but the old actor hardly noticed.

Balint and Laszlo walked together back up the hill. Then Balint decided he must go back to Minya’s house and talk to Jopal. He wanted to help the unhappy young mathematician, as was always his impulse when he found someone in trouble. While still in school at the Theresianum he had helped half the class with their examination papers and sometimes this had got him into trouble. He might have been inherited this from his grandfather, who always did his best to help and protect others, or it might have been an unconscious reversion to the noblesse oblige habits of his more distant ancestors who had voluntarily served their people, their church or their country. Back at Minya’s little house, Balint found that Jopal had taken the broken model off the cart. The ex-tutor was annoyed with himself because, however much he told himself that he was right to have acted as he did, an inner voice constantly reminded him that, if he hadn’t let his temper run away with him, things would not have ended as they had, up in the tower room at Var-Siklod.

This is what had happened.

Count Jeno Laczok had gone to bed at five, but by nine o’clock he was wide awake and unable to go back to sleep. Tired and cross, he had got up. No one was about. After much shouting he had roused a cook to get him some breakfast; but when it arrived the coffee was cold and his egg almost raw. Although normally good-tempered, a bad breakfast always irritated him and put him in a bad temper. He went to the stables, but found all the lads and the coachmen were asleep, lying like corpses in the straw. In the kitchens even the cook had gone back to bed: in the gardens, not a gardener, not a sweeper, not a handyman.

Count Jeno could find no one on whom to vent his ill-humour until it occurred to him that, as his sons had not stayed up all night, they would be up and about. So he walked over to the corner tower where the boys’ work room was on the ground floor, with Andras Jopal’s lodging above it.

When he entered the room the boys were already dressed. Dezso was lying on a couch reading an adventure story while Erno was sharpening a pencil. Their tutor was nowhere to be seen.

‘Is this how you work, you rascals?’ shouted Count Jeno. ‘Where is your teacher?’

‘He’s just gone up to his room.’ The boys lied to protect Jopal who, always busy with his invention, never made them work hard. One of them jumped up to go and find him, but their father barred the way with his walking stick. ‘You stay here! I’ll go myself!’ he shouted, and made for the steep wooden stairs.