Miklós Bánffy - They Were Counted

‘Strauss,’ said the girl.

‘Strauss? Johann Strauss? Grossartiger Kerl! — What a clever fellow!’ and putting an arm round Klara’s waist he pressed her to him and started humming one of the waltzes of his youth, one of those tunes to which he, a young, dashing and handsome lieutenant of Hussars, had danced and carried all before him in the ballrooms of Lombardy.

In the drawing-room everyone was beginning to say goodbye as most of the guests were leaving early in the morning. Gaily they made plans for meeting again in other country houses or at the next shooting party.

Fanny, who was also leaving early by car with her brother, found Laszlo standing alone:

‘Shall I see you again soon? Thank you again, you played marvellously! When we know each other well it will go even better.’ She told him that she would probably be in Budapest for Christmas or, at the latest, in the New Year, and that he must come and see her. ‘You will come, won’t you? And we’ll make more music together!’

But Laszlo could only answer with automatic politeness, with a bow and a few words of thanks. He hardly noticed the beautiful woman who was paying him such compliments for every nerve in his body, all his senses, were concentrated on the far end of the room where Klara was sitting with Montorio. He could not see her face, as she was sitting in an armchair with her back to him, but he could clearly see the prince, opposite her, leaning forward in his chair and talking earnestly, his expression deeply serious. He’s asking her to marry him, thought Laszlo with agony in his soul, he’s doing it now, now!

What if she were accepting him? What could he do about it? The inexorable laws of politeness ensured that he must stay where he was while a cruel Fate decided Klara’s happiness … and his own. And even if he did walk over towards them he could never get near, for Niki and Magda Szent-Gyorgyi had seated themselves close by as sentinels, guards to make sure that Montorio would not be disturbed.

It seemed like an eternity until Klara and Montorio rose and joined the others who were making their farewells, and though he tried to get a word with Klara he was prevented by her leaving the room with a group of other girls to go upstairs to bed.

Laszlo found himself alone. All the others had gone. He waited, though he hardly knew why, without reason, without purpose, without hope.

The footmen started to collect the teacups and glasses and to carry out the trays. They switched out the lights in the salon, in the hall and on the staircase and one of them stood about waiting to finish until Laszlo had left. He could stay no longer and moved slowly to go back to his room at the end of that long dark service passage.

Once again, as he passed the service stair he saw Szabo, the butler, on the first landing. This time he was not alone but held a girl in his arms, one of the maids, very young and very pretty, who was struggling to get free and pleading: ‘No! No, Mr Szabo! Please let me go, I beg you! … Please, Mr Szabo … please!’

Nauseated, Laszlo moved on quickly but not before, in a shaft of light coming from above, he had recognized the girl’s face: it was Klara’s personal maid, a country girl who had been with her since she had been in the schoolroom. The little scene accentuated his worry over Klara. It seemed symbolic, as if the butler’s treatment of the maid foretold the rape of Klara by Montorio.

Back in his room Laszlo sat down still dressed, distraught and staring at nothing. He was tormented by doubts and unanswered questions. Had that fellow Montorio proposed in the salon? Was that why he seemed so serious? Had he dared? And what had Klara replied? Had she refused him, or what? This ‘or what’ seemed to place an icy hand round his throat, suffocating him, pushing all the blood to his burning head. Feeling he would die from not knowing, he walked up and down, bumping into anything in his way. It was like pacing a prison cell, airless and confined. The very room seemed filled with terrible thoughts from which he must somehow escape. He opened the door and stepped into the cool spacious corridor where he could breathe and move about, and maybe escape the phantoms that pursued him. Up and down the long corridor he paced …

The movement and the coldness of the air calmed him so that, eventually he could once again think rationally and begin to weigh up the situation, analyse the probabilities, the circumstances. He tried to recall every word, smile, movement and glance that Klara had given him, how she sat with him at the shoot, how she had picked up and caressed the dead partridge, blowing into its feathers and looking all the time at him, how they would exchange almost secret glances over the mass of silver on the great dining table.

Even though she had been seated beside that man at every meal, their eyes had met. If she loved Montorio it was impossible that her eyes should have sought out those of Laszlo and smiled at him in mutual understanding. Even the idea was repulsive! How could he have imagined that she was in love with that loathsome man, had even perhaps accepted him, when it was to Laszlo that she directed her secret glances?

More calmly, and now more slowly, he continued to walk up and down the corridor until, getting tired he returned to his room and went to bed. But although he turned out the light he could not sleep.

From a room above he heard some muffled sounds, then silence, and then some footsteps. He fancied he could hear someone crying. Much later a door slammed which, in the silence of the night or maybe only in Laszlo’s keyed-up imagination, sounded like the blast of a cannon.

And again it seemed as if someone were crying …

Most of the guests left early in the morning. Only four remained, the field marshal and his wife who were going over to Fehervar in the evening to catch the night express to Fiume as they were going to spend some weeks in Abbazzia; Magda Szent-Gyorgyi, who was staying on while her father and brother went for a few days’ shooting elsewhere; and Laszlo, who, when Balint was already waiting in the carriage, sent word to say he wasn’t ready but would follow him to Budapest that afternoon.

Louis Kollonich and Niki would be leaving that evening as they were invited to shoot hares and pheasants on one of the archduke’s estates. They planned to leave just as the sun set and in the meantime they had decided to have a little informal shoot in those parts of the Kollonich property where the old cocks had not been properly cleared. The prince loved these quiet days when he could go out with just a few keepers and the dogs, and he was even more pleased when old Kanizsay sent to excuse himself, saying that he had a touch of rheumatism. So much the better, there would be no waiting about for other people and they would all have a relaxed day with just his two sons and his nephew Laszlo. Impatient to set off, the Prince hurried them through breakfast and they had hardly had time to eat before they were hustled out to the waiting carriages.

In the castle courtyard were just two vehicles: the host’s low-slung wicker chaise, into which he jumped quickly and drove off alone; and a long tarantas , a Russian-style cart with a bench in front and cushioned planks running lengthwise between the front and rear wheels. The young people climbed into this, the men on the front bench and, behind them, Klara and Magda sitting sideways. They did not take a coachman as Peter would drive. Just as they were setting off a little maid ran out and handed Klara her gloves: ‘You left them on the table, my lady!’ she said.