Miklós Bánffy - They Were Counted

‘Well then,’ said Fanny, laughing and looking up into his face, ‘Let’s try!’ And her hand tightened on his shoulder.

Laszlo did not answer: all his attention was taken by Klara and Montorio.

Really, it was indecent how that man danced, he thought. And what an unhealthy colour his skin was; perhaps he had some disease. With hatred in his heart he saw the prince bending close to Klara’s ear, his pencil-slim moustache just brushing her skin as he whispered something to her. The girl laughed and turned her head away, and when her eyes found Laszlo’s she smiled fondly.

‘Tomorrow I’ll send over for my music!’ said Fanny.

‘I’d like that,’ replied Gyeroffy; but he was thinking how sweet and good Klara was, how beautiful, how kind …

They danced on, and it was well past midnight when the company dispersed.

Laszlo found his way alone to the servants’ wing. The long stone-flagged corridor was lit only by a few bare bulbs here and there.

As he passed the narrow back stair he saw Szabo the butler, who had changed out of his tailcoat into a light grey jacket, standing on one of the lower steps, leaning against the wall. He seemed to be waiting for someone.

Back in his room Laszlo undressed quickly and went to bed, but he soon discovered that the room was so hot that sleep would be impossible. He got up and went to the window, but search as he might he could find no way of opening the huge panes. Instead he went to the door and, leaving it ajar, returned to his bed and turned out the light.

He was almost asleep when the glass door from the courtyard to the corridor clanged shut. A woman’s quick steps could be heard on the stone slabs, and then some whispered words, low and urgent: a man and a woman were talking, but Laszlo could only catch a word or two.

‘No, no! Mr Szabo! No! Please? I am not …’

And a deep commanding baritone replied: ‘Don’t play the fool with me. You know damn well …’

Sleep overcame him and he heard no more.

AT NINE O’CLOCK the men of the shooting party gathered for breakfast in the dining-room.

They came in one by one, twelve of them, most of them sleepy and in a bad temper, and sat down at the large table.

Everyone was dressed in shooting clothes and though no one was dressed exactly alike it was clear that they followed two distinct fashions. The first was the traditional Austrian Waldmann style which with one exception was followed by all the older men, including the host, Kanizsay and Lubianszky: the exception was Szent-Gyorgyi. These all wore jackets of grey loden cloth with green lapels, deerhorn buttons, green waistcoats, all old and patched with leather. So ancient and worn were their clothes that they might have been taken for superior Jäger , or forest guards, which indeed would have pleased them immensely as it would have given the impression that they had spent all their lives in the woods, that being their only occupation. Among the young, Duke Peter belonged to this school, though he was by no means orthodox, being in shades of slate-grey and moss-green and everything he wore was new, in itself a heresy.

The other fashion was for everything imported from England — Scottish homespuns in a variety of design and cut, and an even greater variety of colour. Szent-Gyorgyi and all the younger men had adopted this fashion which gave infinite opportunity for individual taste and imagination. As a result even their characters were reflected by their clothes.

There was nothing ostentatious about Antal Szent-Gyorgyi. Everything he wore seemed simple, modest, unstudied. Yet a close look at the deep and perfect harmony shown by everything he wore revealed a high sophistication of taste. His clothes were so discreet, with no false notes, that without any attempt to draw attention to himself, his tall greyhound-slim figure dressed in exquisite harmony was clearly the most elegant of them all. In contrast, Fredi Wuelffenstein, in a confusion of multi-coloured checks, looked like a walking chessboard. Even his socks, for which he had searched London, were of Shetland with huge tassels of red, blue, green and orange. Perhaps Count Slawata belonged to the English faction, but his grey cloth suit buttoned to the chin was so unassuming that it was impossible to define. Walking behind him the irrepressible Wuelffenstein, conscious of his own glory, and making no attempt to lower his voice, said: ‘That bugger looks like a cheap chauffeur!’

‘… or a mechanic in his Sunday best!’ added the mischievous Niki, just as loudly as they followed after him, laughing together. After all what foreigner understood Hungarian?

On the well-swept sandy drive of the castle courtyard twelve carriages were drawn up ready for the guests. Ten of them were high old-fashioned yellow coaches, pulled by heavy-boned horses and driven by peasant coachmen with handlebar moustaches who seemed ill-at-ease in the Kollonich livery which, obviously, they only wore on grand occasions. Two other vehicles clearly came from the castle stables. Drawn by fine-bred horses with noble heads and driven by two assured clean-shaven coachmen, one was a long-slung open landau, provided for the field marshal so that he would not have too far to heave his heavy body, and the other was the host’s light wicker-work chaise which he also used in the summer for the deer shoots.

Two men stood by each carriage, one an estate worker to carry the heavy cartridge cases, the other either the guest’s own loader or one of the estate foresters provided by the host. These last carried the guns and, on their jackets, a number — the same number was borne on the carriage, attached to the lantern. These numbers would be used throughout the day to show the guest where he should take his place. Although the guests never changed their numbers, they were never placed in the same order, but varied from one stand to another according to the difficulty of the shoot and the guest’s skill and social position. It was a system introduced by the Archduke Josef and because it simplified the problem for all the guns to find their places without search or discussion, it had been adopted at most of the important shoots. Indeed the organization of a great shoot, with twelve guns, several teams of beaters, game carts, carriages for the guests, keepers, head keepers and uniformed heralds, needed almost as much planning as an imperial manoeuvre.

The carriages set out along a seemingly endless avenue of poplars that traversed the great estate. It rose over the slight eminence of the low hills, dipped into valleys where the road was covered by a thin film of sand, rose again over the next hillock, and in the distance was veiled by the mists that rose each morning from Lake Balaton far to the west. On each side were fields, each of several hundred acres bordered by well-trimmed thorn hedges, and here and there were farmhouses and barns and clusters of small farm-workers’ cottages surrounded by smaller fields, brown when fallow and green when in cultivation. Between every second or third field were stands of timber, L-shaped with a wide gap at their centre. At these places, already prepared, were the numbered stands for the guns, ten in the middle and one each at the outer edges.

The carriages stopped at the first stand, and the guests descended and placed themselves according to the numbers accorded them. As soon as they were in place one of the heralds sounded his horn to signal the first team of beaters to start their work. At once could be heard the sound of whistling, the beaters never shouted, and a strange sound of rattles, made by two wooden balls chained to a small plank of wood, which when shaken did not panic the pheasants so that they flew back over the line beaters but instead drove them forward towards the gaps between the trees and the line of guns already in place. The faint sound of rattles grew louder as the beaters approached.