They Were Counted (The Writing on the Wall: the Transylvanian Trilogy)

by Bánffy, Miklós

  ‘Are you interested in all this?’ asked his neighbour, the beautiful Countess Beredy, her voice tinged with contempt for the nonsense that men seemed to think important. Slawata turned towards her and gazed short-sightedly into her deep décolletage which was made all the more provocative because her dress only appeared to touch her arms, shoulders and body here and there, thus affording most tempting glimpses of her body.

  ‘For me,’ answered the diplomat, ‘they might as well be talking Chinese!’

  Fanny laughed, a deep-throated sensual sound that suggested she was recalling some voluptuous memory. At such moments she resembled a languorous cat, her long eyes narrowed to slits, her well-shaped, fine-drawn mouth curved in a feline smile of satisfaction, as if she had just feasted off several canaries.

  The host, who tended to lose his temper in all arguments unless everyone agreed with him, was becoming flushed and cross even though his views were almost identical to those of Lubianszky. Both of them hoped for the fall of Tisza, but Kollonich thought it should come later, after he had had an opportunity of clearing up the present mess, while Lubianszky was for his immediate dismissal. At this moment, thought the prince, everyone should back him up in his role of ‘chucker-out’.

  ‘Of course we should support him,’ he shouted. ‘What does it matter if he’s a Protestant! It’s a dirty job and he’s just the man for it!’

  The princess glanced swiftly at Balint, who was the only Protestant among them, and then, perhaps to cover up her husband’s tactlessness, she started to get up. Everyone immediately followed suit and the hostess led them out of the great dining hall. Now there was no ceremony and no order of precedence, and so the guests left the room talking animatedly and noisily. Only the servants maintained their stony calm.

  Coffee, whisky and soda and liqueurs were served in the drawing-room and in the library.

  Talk! Talk! Talk! Later, the young people drifted into the music-room where they danced to the music of a gramophone just brought from England.

  Fanny Beredy whirled in Laszlo’s arms.

  ‘You dance well,’ she said ‘You have a marvellous sense of rhythm.’

  ‘I am a musician.’

  ‘How interesting! The piano?’

  ‘Yes! And the violin.’

  Laszlo was only replying mechanically. He was watching Montorio waltzing with Klara, leaning closely towards her. It was too much, he thought. It shouldn’t be allowed! It was almost indecent.

  ‘And I am a singer, a mezzo,’ said Fanny. ‘Could you accompany me?’

  ‘Perhaps. I’ve never tried!’

  ‘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.

  Chapter Three

  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 wa
s 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.

  And so it continued the whole morning. The only change was in the order of the guns, and this had been cunningly arranged so that the old field marshal, Szent-Gyorgyi, Prince Montorio and the host were always placed where the birds were most abundant. Why one place should be better than another was a mystery to the uninitiated, for the wooded plantations all seemed the same.

  And yet it was so. For every place where the important guests had been placed there were clouds of pheasants, whereas beside them the gun had only the choice of those birds his neighbour failed to kill. The secret was that in front of the main line of beaters three or four more specialized men, like advance scouts of an advancing column, would herd the running birds in the right direction while in the wooded thickets, low hedges of broom had been planted which, like funnels, directed the pheasants to rise in front of the most honoured guests.

  This was justified by the necessity to make the guests of honour feel gratified by the quantity of game provided for them to shoot. However, the most honoured guests were not always the best shots, as was the case with Montorio, and even more so with old Kanizsay, whose natural clumsiness was not helped by his pair of old-fashioned smoking shotguns to which he had remained faithful for more than thirty years.

  Consequently, if the most important guests failed to kill many of the birds that came their way, the bag would suffer and the honour of the host would suffer too. To correct this the best young shots would be placed on either side and young Duke Peter would whisper instructions: ‘You’ll have to help ’em, especially the old one!’. Laszlo Gyeroffy, Stefi Szent-Gyorgyi and Niki, as the best of the young shots, took turns in standing beside the field marshal.

  Laszlo and Stefi followed their cousin’s instructions discreetly. They stood slightly back and only shot the birds he had missed or let pass. Niki, on the other hand, had no such scruples – he shot swiftly and accurately before the old man had had a chance even to lift his gun to his shoulder, and when he did, he not infrequently saw the bird at which he was aiming already falling to the ground at his feet … and he was the guest of honour!

  The old soldier began to get angry, and the angrier he became so the thick smoke from his guns curled round him like a symbol of his wrath. During the first beats he merely grumbled, but later, as Niki took no notice, he called out, though to no avail: ‘Nicht vorschiessen! – Don’t poach!’

  It was during the last beat before lunch that the storm broke.

  This time old Kanizsay had been placed at the corner of the woods, with only Niki beyond him. Lots of birds came his way, and at first he tried a few shots, but every time he was too late. Niki got in before him and each bird fell before he could let off his gun.

  The old man gave up the unequal struggle. Scowling, he wedged his gun between his large chest and even larger belly and refused to raise it no matter how many shouts of ‘Cock to the left! Cock to the right!’ would reach him. He was like Jupiter Tonans, hurling thunderbolts of anger and swearing like a trooper. Niki, disregarding the old gentleman, continued to pick off every bird that came his way.

  When the beaters appeared Kanizsay exploded.

  ‘So ein Lausbub! So ein Rotziger!’ In his anger he used the choice vocabulary of the parade ground, the words with which he would castigate the stupidity of raw recruits. Niki, by now thoroughly alarmed, tried to excuse and justify himself, but nothing would pacify the enraged old man. Even when Kollonich tried to calm him by scolding his son, Kanizsay went on until he had run out of breath – and even then he went on panting and roaring like an old buffalo run berserk.

  Only Szent-Gyorgyi remained aloof, a faint ironic smile on his lean aquiline face; nothing would draw him into other people’s quarrels just as he would never, following English etiquette, poach anyone else’s birds. In this, as in everything else, he was indomitably correct.

  Still unmollified, the field marshal marched off to lunch with the others. Only when the meal was served and he found himself surrounded by young ladies did his natural sense of gallantry allow him to relent.

  Tactfully, Duke Peter placed him between the beautiful Fanny and Magda Szent-Gyorgyi and, after a few glasses of wine, the old field marshal started to chat merrily with them. Then he remembered the terrible words he had used to Niki, smiled, and reached across the table touching his glass to Niki’s.

  After luncheon a long carriage ride was to take the guests to stands in a more distant part of the estate.

  Just as Balint was getting into his carriage, Slawata called to him.

  ‘Let’s go together. I would enjoy a talk with you,’ and he turned to the two loaders, his and Balint’s, and said in fluent Hungarian: ‘You two go in my carriage.’

  As they carriage moved off, Balint turned to Slawata.

  ‘I didn’t know you spoke Hungarian?’

  ‘Really very little. I once served in the 7th Hussars and I try to keep up what I learned then. Sometimes one hears interesting things.’ And he smiled a little maliciously behind his thick spectacles, no doubt recalling the previous day’s political discussions or even the mockery of Wuelffenstein and Niki when they had laughed at him behind his back. ‘I haven’t seen you for some time,’ he went on, ‘How are you? What are you doing now? I always thought it was a pity you left the Diplomatic Service.’ This was, perhaps, just a piece of social politeness as he continued ‘Yet perhaps not! Perhaps it is better so. You should know what is happening in Hungary. Observe, study. With your experience abroad it should prove useful, even invaluable, in the future. You don’t belong to any party?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Quite right. Much the best policy. Don’t take an active part, don’t involve yourself. Just observe and, above all, don’t join anything! This world won’t last long!’

  Balint’s interest was aroused. He recalled that he had heard people say that Slawata was intimate with the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, and he fe
lt a sudden conviction that the reason why the Counsellor to the Foreign Office now wanted to talk to him was to sound him out and possibly recruit him to the party that was gathering around the Heir. He answered cautiously and vaguely, while encouraging the other to continue. At the least he might get some idea of what was being talked about in the private discussions in the Belvedere Palais, for here in Hungary all was rumour and gossip, for no one knew the truth.

  ‘The Old Man can’t last for ever, and then it will be the Heir’s turn,’ Slawata went on in the lowered voice used when dangerous matters are discussed. ‘A few years, maybe? How many? Four? Five? And then it will be His Highness! This is a certainty. This is what we have to plan for! Franz Ferdinand! When he rules, things will begin to change. Then we’ll see the end of this worthless “Dualism” so dear to the Old Man’s heart. Of course it’s dear to him; he took his coronation oath on it. But the next ruler hasn’t promised anything, nor will he! He’ll rule on new principles; his plans for the Empire are all ready. But he’ll need some new men, men who haven’t compromised themselves by getting too involved with this old and useless system.’ He went on explaining speculating how ‘Dualism’ would be replaced by centralization, constitutional certainly, but based on the real up-to-date statistics. Numbers were important. Provinces should be re-formed according to nationalities; and all should be represented in one grand central council which would control everything; economy, army and navy. There might be a trial agreement with the Catholic Slavs of the south. Everything was possible. Only one thing was sure: today’s order would change. If Tisza succeeded in discrediting the loud-mouthed Hungarian opposition it would be all for the better. What was needed was a belief in the future and recruits to the principle of change. In the meantime the main thing was to build up the army. With a strong army His Highness would impose order everywhere.