Miklós Bánffy - They Were Counted

Balint listened, petrified in growing horror. He barely spoke, but occasionally put in some slight query, or offered a mild disagreement as Slawata talked on in the confidential manner of one to whom service in the Ballplatz must be an everlasting bond, like Freemasonry, as if, even after leaving the service, the fact of having been initiated into the secrets of Foreign Office coding meant an eternal and confidential link. He drew an enthusiastic picture of a shining future in which they could share, in which the Austria-Hungary of today would no longer be the second Sick Man of Europe but the Master of the Balkans, a real power, with the dynasty’s second sons placed in the positions of importance and the rule of Vienna extended to the Sea of Marmora!

Their carriage neared its first stop.

‘Think over what I’ve said, Abady! There can be a great role for you if you play your cards properly!’ As they got down from the carriage, Slawata clapped Balint on the shoulder and said: ‘ Unter uns, naturlich! — just between us, of course.’ With these ritual words, he winked behind his thick glasses and moved over to join a newly arrived group of ladies.

The loaders and cartridge carriers had taken up their places at the numbered stands and were waiting for the signal that the beaters had started. In the meantime the guns chatted in pairs until it was time to take up their new places.

Wuelffenstein, who loved explaining, especially to those younger than he, was busy laying down the law on everything to do with codes of honour, fashion, and shooting — even politics, though that was of secondary importance to him. His judgements, which he thought infallible, were based on only two criteria: it was done or it was not done — by gentlemen of course.

He was busy putting Niki to rights when the ladies arrived.

‘Oh, what darling little yellow cartridges!’ cried Mici Lubianszky, pointing to Wuelffenstein’s elegant fitted case.

‘English, of course!’ said Wuelffenstein carelessly. ‘You can’t use anything else. Impossible! These German and Austrian makes are just rubbish!’ He stamped his English brogues until the tassels on his socks bounced. ‘All they can do is ruffle the birds’ feathers!’

If he had noticed that Antal Szent-Gyorgyi was standing behind him it is possible that he would not have risked such a remark.

‘Really? How interesting!’ said Szent-Gyorgyi. ‘Would you mind lending me some? I’ve only been using Austrian ones today and yours might improve my aim!’ He spoke quietly and seriously, with no sign of mockery in his voice and a completely straight face. Nevertheless the mockery was there for all to hear, for Szent-Gyorgyi was well known to be the most skilful among them all. He shot calmly, with style and elegance and all his birds — he never missed — were shot cleanly through the head. No matter how high they flew, no bird that came within reach of Szent-Gyorgyi’s gun was ever wounded or fluttered writhing and broken to earth, but rather fell, wings folded, head bowed, diving to oblivion in a graceful arch; and when picked up there was only occasionally to be seen a small drop or two of blood on its beak.

‘Of course. Help yourself!’ said Wuelffenstein, a trifle restrainedly. Niki turned away to hide his laughter and quickly moved over to join his Uncle Szent-Gyorgyi who took up his station quietly holding two of the English cartridges in front of him with as much reverence as if they were blessed saints’ relics.

When the ladies arrived Laszlo was already in his place at the end of the row on Montorio’s right. He watched as they got down from their carriages and gradually made their way towards him. The two Lubianszky girls and Magda joined some of the guns farther along the line but Klara and Fanny Beredy continued on their way, passing Antal Szent-Gyorgyi, Wuelffenstein and Duke Peter. I’ll bet Klara stops beside Montorio, thought Laszlo bitterly; but both girls came right along the line until they stopped beside him.

‘Is it a good day?’ asked Klara.

Almost simultaneously Fanny said, ‘I’ve sent for my music; it’ll probably be here by tonight.’

Klara said ‘You might even get partridges at this end!’ just as Fanny was saying: ‘Will you accompany me as you promised?’

This antiphonal conversation continued for a few minutes as both girls gave the impression that they were expecting the other to move away. However the beaters’ horn sounded and the soft rattling began to be heard in the distance.

Klara closed the lid of the wooden cartridge case and sat on it. Laszlo offered her his shooting stick.

‘No!’ said the girl, ‘I won’t take it away from you. This,’ she went on with unconcealed emphasis, ‘is my place!’

Fanny Beredy turned away with a faint smile and moved slowly, her hips swaying gently, towards Montorio. Laszlo, watching her involuntarily, thought how beautifully she was dressed, in softly draped tweeds that clung to her supple body showing off the curves of her figure as if she were wearing only a light wrap over her naked flesh.

The beaters were still far off. In the distance a hare or two dashed out from the cover of the trees and fled into a field of clover. Once or twice one would stop, sit up and look round before moving off at a light comfortable trot, the white spot on its tail bobbing rhythmically up above the green leaves. Occasionally a gun would go off. Otherwise there was silence but for the faint distant sounds of the approaching beaters.

‘It wasn’t very nice of you to be in Budapest so long without letting us know,’ started Klara, smiling at him.

The young man, seated on his shooting stick, tried to explain that as he had begun his course at the Academy so long after the others he had to work extra hard to catch up, and that this would not have been possible if he’d allowed anything to distract him from his work. He talked too much, over-justified himself, always conscious that that mischievous Niki had spread the rumour that he had only hidden himself for the sake of some woman. Several times, uneasy about Niki’s lies, he repeated that he had seen no one, not a soul, since he had returned to the capital. Why hadn’t he written? No! That would have been impossible. If he’d written they would have answered and invited him, and if he’d been invited he couldn’t have resisted the temptation to accept. And he needed to study, study, study.

Klara listened, the same secretive smile on her face, and he could not tell if she believed him or if she smiled because she did not. But she was sweet and kind and seemed to understand, even to share, his hopes, enthusiasms and ambitions. What she really thought he was not then to discover because just as Laszlo started to ask if she thought he was doing the right thing they were startled to hear Peter’s stentorious voice calling out: ‘Laszlo! What are you up to? Tiro! Tiro! You’ve already let by three cocks!’ And he had to jump up, reach for his gun and get to work to ‘help’ Montorio. He was only able to speak to Klara again when the second band of beaters began their work.

‘Do stay on a few days when the others go,’ said Klara, speaking generally, but showing by her glance that she was referring to Montorio.

‘I can’t! It’ll be difficult enough to catch up these three days. I promised myself to be back by Wednesday night.’

‘One day more? Just one! There’s such a mob here now. and besides,’ she went on flirtatiously, ‘you must play to me. Wasn’t I your first audience?’

Laszlo remained silent, torn but inflexible.

‘You must remember. It was your Valse Macabre? I was the first to hear it, and I was still at school.’