Miklós Bánffy - They Were Counted

The first two jumped off their horses and ran to the carriage shouting ‘Hand over your money! Your jewellery!’ as they menaced Balint with a broomstick and a squash racket. In an instant their ferocity was overcome by merriment as Balint knelt on the carriage floor and with clasped hands begged for mercy, no resistance being possible in the face of such power.

Laughing, the bandits took off their masks. The turbanned leader was Adrienne, her brother Zoltan the warrior with the squash racket cudgel and two of the others were Adrienne’s sisters, Judith and Margit, who almost fell off their horses they were laughing so much. Everyone started to talk at once:

‘We heard you were coming …’

‘The man from the stables told us …’

‘Did we frighten you?’

‘… and when he came out from Lelbanya this morning, he said you’d asked him the way.’

‘Why are you so late?’

‘How long can you stay?’

‘It’s marvellous you’re here!’

With all the talk no one noticed that Adrienne’s mount, which was only a draught-horse usually employed drawing a plough, had turned away and begun to amble homewards. He was fifty paces away before they noticed and then all was excitement as they realized that here was another chance for a chase.

Wickwitz, the rider with the horn who had remained behind the others, immediately rushed after the riderless charger. The others followed, while Adrienne jumped into the carriage beside Balint and urged the coachman to give chase: ‘After him! After him! Faster! Faster!’ and she leant forward passionately beating the front seat with her fists. Her turban unwound and her wavy hair streamed in the wind. It was not long but very thick like a rich dark mane. With her laughing mouth, her eyes wide with excitement, her chin jutting forward and the short windswept hair, she looked almost boyish. Adrienne’s whole being was filled with the excitement of the pursuit. She seemed unaware of her tousled hair, of the bodice slipping from her shoulders or the skirt that pulled up over her knees as she jumped into the carriage. Nothing mattered but the excitement of the moment.

Balint looked at her. How beautiful she was, how different and how passionately alive compared with the Addy of two days before, with whom he had stood on the dark terrace of the Castle of Siklod; the Addy with whom, in whispers, he had discussed the problems of the world at such length, the Addy who had spoken only in short broken phrases broken by long eloquent silences. Today she was a young huntress, an Amazon, her whole being alive with energy and passion. She cared for nothing but the exhilaration of the chase; nothing in the world was important but the need to catch the runaway.

The farm-horse, normally so quiet and calm, was disturbed to find himself alone and free and soon became frightened. And his fright was increased by the shouts of his pursuers and the thunder of the hoofs on the road. He broke into a canter and then a gallop, and the loose reins slipped until they flapped against his forelegs like the touch of a whip. He raised his head and went off at a speed no one would have believed possible from such an old big-bellied animal.

Down the road to the village they went, the old farm-horse in front, neighing fiercely, the four riders in hot pursuit and the carriage team from Denestornya bringing up the rear in a swift racing trot. They sped through the village and up the steep slope to the Miloths’ house, cantering straight into the farm yard where the old horse made directly towards the stables just managing to enter without skinning himself against the yard gates. He was lucky not to have been hurt. Everyone thronged after him, relieved to find that he had got back unharmed into his own stall. He was already calmer by the time they reached him and, after snorting a couple of times in their direction, turned calmly to munch the hay in its rack at the back of the loose-box.

The little group walked up through the farm buildings to the garden of the manor house whose white walls could be glimpsed through a thick grove of ancient elms. As they approached they could hear the noise of someone shouting in apparent rage. Balint stopped, but the others went on quite unconcerned. Young Zoltan turned to Balint.

‘Don’t worry! It’s nothing! It’s only Papa!’ he said, not in the least worried.

As they reached the long vine-covered veranda they could see Count Akos Miloth standing at the top of the steps. He was a stocky, elderly man with a wide moustache and a large mouth. He was shouting furiously:

‘How dare they! Galloping off with the farm horses! They could all be crippled! Who did it? And my fur cap, my raincoat, my dressing-gown? I’ll teach them all a lesson and a half, stealing my things!’ and he went on in the same vein, repeating himself and working himself up into a rage.

Neither his daughters nor young Zoltan seemed to take the smallest notice but walked quietly up to the veranda. Their father, old Rattle, went on shouting, his voice as loud as any bull bison’s, each new oath emphasized by wild gestures.

As he paused for breath, Adrienne said quickly: ‘Dear Papa. Look! AB is here!’

‘My dear friend, welcome!’ bellowed Count Akos in the same loud tones but the expression on his large mouth had changed in an instant from one of deadly wrath to a wide smile. He hurried down the steps to Balint and took his arm.

‘Welcome! Welcome!’ He shook Balint’s hand warmly and, as he did so, noticed young Zoltan at his side. His face darkening, he struck out to give him a cuff on the head. The boy dodged the blow but stood where he was as if nothing had happened.

‘You see!’ the count said to Balint, ‘look how cheeky they are!’ By now he was smiling again. ‘They steal all my clothes just for a bit of fun! But from tomorrow things will change. Just you look out!’ he went on to his children. Turning again to Balint, he said:

‘Did they offer you tea, my boy? I thought not. Really, these people!’ Then turning, he shouted over his shoulder, ‘Miska, Jozsi! Where the devil are you? Idiots!’ and, back to Balint again, he said warmly, ‘Tea or coffee?’

A tall footman appeared at the door.

‘Where have you been hiding, you ass? You should be here when guests arrive. Bring tea at once!’

The footman did not move.

‘Where does the Count want it served?’ he asked.

‘Here, on the veranda, you dolt! Can’t you see? That’s where we are!’

‘Soon it will be dark, sir. Perhaps it would be better in the drawing-room. The lamps have already been lit.’

‘Very well then. Take it there, you idiot. But hurry! Run! I want it at once.’

The man turned away with dignity and went unhurriedly back into the house.

During all this Egon Wickwitz, who had been seeing that the horses were stabled, rejoined the others. He came to take his leave as he had to return to Maros-Szilvas whence he had come that afternoon to play tennis with the Miloths. As Maros-Szilvas — which was the property Dinora Abonyi had inherited from the Malhuysens — was more than twenty kilometres away in the valley of the Maros, Wickwitz explained that he would have to start at once or he would be late for dinner.

‘Dine with us, my boy,’ said Count Miloth. ‘The moon rises about eleven.’

But Wickwitz did not accept. He told them that Count Abonyi had gone to Budapest and left him in charge of the racehorses. He would have to be up at dawn to exercise them.

‘Are you on your own then, at Szilvas?’

‘No, Countess Dinora is at home. She’ll expect me for dinner and I couldn’t leave her alone. It’s almost seven already.’

Old Rattle laughed deeply. ‘Ah ha!’ he said, ‘what an idiot that Abonyi must be to leave you alone with the little Countess, eh?’ And he dug Wickwitz sharply in the ribs.