They Were Counted by Miklós Bánffy Page A

where they were served with more liqueurs – the family’s pride as they were made at Var-Siklod – the hostess and the matrons to her small sitting- room – while the young people went out onto the large copper-roofed balcony. This was necessary so that the servants could dismantle the great table and prepare the hall for dancing.
     
    In Countess Laczok’s little sitting-room the conversation was sluggish. Everyone had eaten well and occasionally some lady would congratulate the hostess on the excellence of the feast. The room was lit only by one small lamp, for, although there were hundreds of lamps in the castle, they had all been needed to light the many rooms that had had to be brought into use that evening. After the brilliance of the great hall the semi-darkness of the small room brought on a sleepy mood that was occasionally interrupted by the arrival of the guests from the neighbourhood who had been asked to come to the ball after dinner. And, for not a few of the older ladies, the prospect of having to stay awake until dawn was infinitely oppressive.
    Only Aunt Lizinka seemed as lively as ever, titillating the ladies, as always, with poisonous stories and gossip which was as often as not left half-told as the wife, husband or daughter of the person about whom she was talking entered the room. Whenever this happened Lizinka, in the sweetest, most sympathetic voice, and as if she were deeply concerned, would ask the latest arrival some simple question relating to the subject of the gossip. And she could not conceal her glee if the answers seemed to confirm what she had just been recounting.
    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