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

by Bánffy, Miklós

  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.’

  ‘Yes, the Valse Macabre.’ They looked deep into each other’s eyes, a long, long look.

  A shrill whirring rose in the air and cries of ‘Partridge! Partridge!’

  Laszlo jumped up again, his gun to his shoulder. He emptied both barrels, changed guns and emptied two more at the swift-flying covey above him. Three birds fell, rolling as they hit the ground from the speed of their flight. One fell at Klara’s feet. She bent down and picked it up and holding it in one elegantly gloved hand she caressed it with the other.

  ‘Look, how beautiful he is! He might be asleep. There’s not a spot of blood on him!’ She lifted the bir
d to her lips and again and again gently kissed the soft grey feathered breast and, tenderly smiling, looked up into Laszlo’s face.

  ‘Do look! It’s so strange!’ She blew into the downy feathers that fluttered around her mouth and there was something essentially voluptuous both in the way she parted her lips and in her questioning look.

  Once again they were interrupted. A mass of pheasants flew over them and Laszlo had his work cut out to bring down the cocks and do the job for which he had been invited.

  When the beat was over the girl walked away quietly and joined a group of other ladies. Laszlo remained at his place, his loader and cartridge-carrier busy with the beaters picking up the fallen birds, jealously ensuring, for the honour of their master, that everyone knew what a good shot he was and how many birds had fallen to his gun. So they shouted to each other: ‘There’s another cock over there! That one’s ours! There are two more beyond those bushes!’ each man showing as much pride as if he had shot them himself.

  Gyeroffy stood silently at his place. The men thought that he was counting how many brace they were laying at his feet; but he did not even see them, his heart was beating too fast.

  To Laszlo it seemed that the late afternoon was filled with a mysterious scent.

  It was dark before the shooting party reached the castle. In the drawing-room a lavish tea was served, but no one stayed long. Excuses were made that they must dress for dinner, and so they all retired to their rooms. But the truth was that after such a tiring day everyone was exhausted.

  Chapter Four

  THE PRINCESS WAS READY FOR DINNER long before the ladies who had gone out with the guns. She had had her hair dressed for the evening before she came into the drawing-room for tea so that when she returned to her own rooms she only had to change her dress.

  ‘Ask the Duchess Klara to come to me when she is dressed,’ she said to her German maid as soon as the finishing touches had beeen put to her gown and jewellery. The maid hurried away leaving the princess alone at her dressing table. When the woman had left the room she rose and moved over to the sofa that stood at the foot of the great State bed. It was from this sofa that Princess Agnes ruled the family. She always sat there when either her husband or children gave trouble or needed advising as to their conduct. She would issue a summons to this spot and they would come to it. No one knew whether she had chosen the place by chance or whether she realized quite consciously that her authority was underlined by the fact that sitting there in the centre of a vast expanse of formal satin upholstery she had a hieratic advantage over her visitor who must either stand submissively before her, or walk up and down, or take a seat on one of the small chairs with which the room abounded. It was a strategic position and it was generally felt that she knew it.

  The princess waited, and, as she did so, she recalled just how much planning and hard work she had devoted to arranging a marriage between Montorio and her stepdaughter. Early in the spring, before they moved to Vienna for the Derby and the racing season, she had persuaded a mutual friend to mention the idea to the Prince’s mother. When she arrived in Vienna she had immediately given a lavish garden party at the Kollonich Palais to which were invited only those guests whose presence would prove to Princess Montorio – who had been born a Bourbon-Modena – that both families had equal standing in Viennese high society, the ‘Olympus’, as the inner circle of ruling families was known and to which only those to be found in Part Two of the Almanach de Gotha, and not all of them, were accepted. The party, which had been a great success, had also been extremely expensive, as the princess had thought it necessary to redecorate certain State rooms which had not been used since the death of the Sina grandmother, to re-lay the elaborate parquet floors, to install a quantity of modern plumbing and to wire the huge gardens with electric light. She had also filled the whole place with displays of imported tropical flowers. Not that the princess minded this lavish expenditure – though Louis Kollonich had not stopped nagging her about it for months afterwards – for it had certainly achieved the desired effect of strengthening the social position of the Kollonich family to the point at which the ladies of the Olympus seemed to greet her with added deference. Soon after the party Princess Montorio herself mentioned the idea of a marriage between her son and Klara.

  Since then the two ladies had corresponded and met frequently. Each praised the qualities of their candidate and the Princess Kollonich had indirectly let the Princess Montorio know that even though Klara’s portion from her mother was only modest the ‘good’ Louis Kollonich would provide an ample dowry to be paid over in full on the day of her marriage. Naturally none of this had been discussed openly – it had been conveyed discreetly by the good offices of their mutual friends, as God forbid that anything so vulgar as money should be mentioned between them – and this left the ladies free to dwell only on such subjects as praise of character, kindness, good manners, health, love beauty and, of course, breeding.

  The inevitable understanding had been reached and the Prince Montorio had been asked to shoot at Simonvasar. Although the young man was no sportsman, this would give him unrivalled opportunities to make the formal proposal his mother had made clear he was now ready to do.

  And what had happened? Quite ostentatiously Klara had seemed to ignore his presence! Not once during the first day’s shoot had she visited him at his stand; indeed she had joined everyone but him, and this despite the fact that Klara had been told distinctly that this handsome, elegant and eligible young man had been invited for her sake alone. Such contrary behaviour could spoil everything and undo all that hard work and expense! If it were allowed to go on, this most desirable suitor would go away feeling he was not wanted; and then his ancient name, his title, his immense fortune and acceptable good looks would soon get scooped up by some worthless girl and all their plans would be for nothing.

  With this passing through her mind Princess Agnes waited for her stepdaughter. She wanted to warn and admonish her before it was too late. Not, of course, that she would mention all the planning that had led up to the present moment – no young girl would take kindly to the idea that her happiness had needed planning – but she would have to be told how thoughtless it was for her to behave in this way and so jeopardize the best offer she was ever likely to get!

  The princess knew she was right. She was conscious that she wished only the best and most suitable and splendid future for Klara, whom she loved every bit as much as she did her own children. This made it even more important for her to intervene.

  The door opened, and Klara came in, freshly bathed, in deep décolleté, all pink and sweet-smelling.

  ‘You have asked for me, Mama?’ she said, and sat down opposite her.

  Klara was very fond of her stepmother, who was the only mother she had ever known, her own dying at her birth. She had been two years old when her father had married again and this handsome dark-haired lady, ‘Mama’ in her earliest memories, though she could be severe, had always been kind to her, perhaps even more so than she had been to her own children.

  ‘My sweet!’ When she was angry the princess invariably began with this endearment. ‘Why are you neglecting Montorio? Oh, yes you have! You’ve been avoiding him all the afternoon.’

  ‘Mama, I didn’t avoid him. It just happened, really! Anyway I did spend some time at his stand.’

  She hesitated; then seeing her stepmother’s stern look, she faltered and gave herself away. ‘I … Anyway I’ll be sitting next to him at dinner tonight. I thought that would be enough!’

  ‘You will sit next to him at dinner because I arranged it like that, even though your Uncle Antal could take offence as it should really be Magda’s place, not yours. Montorio knows this perfectly well, so it makes it worse that you neglect him and don’t even seem to notice his presence. Don’t deny it! You made a point of avoiding him at the shoot, and that’s a fact!’ She paused, and then went on: ‘You avoided him most conspicuously. You went to everyone else, even to Laci! This is absurd!
To Laci, throughout the whole of the last beat and that a double one, and Montorio was next to him. It couldn’t have been more obvious and more insulting! You cold-shouldered the man who only came here for your sake and who had even asked your father for an invitation so that he could meet you.’

  The girl’s ocean-grey eyes darkened. That scoundrel Niki must have sneaked, she thought, and she remembered all her grievances against him throughout her childhood, how he had invariably told tales about her to the governesses and to her stepmother. All these old sadnesses now rose up to reinforce her present distress and she replied, her voice hardening:

  ‘Every move I make,’ but here she paused as she did not want to go on ‘your spies report to you’, so she changed it to ‘Every move I make is difficult to explain.’

  Just for a moment storm clouds had seemed to gather between the two women; but these were dispelled when Klara changed what she had been going to say.

  Princess Agnes said drily: ‘That’s why I have to think for both of us!’ Now she changed her tone. The time for harshness was past. The girl had realized that she could not pull the wool over her stepmother’s eyes and that was enough. Now was the time for frankness and common-sense. In a friendly and down-to-earth manner the princess started to explain what an eminently satisfactory choice Montorio would be. She enumerated his virtues, how nice he was, how he had no vices like drink or gambling, how he worked hard managing his family’s vast estates in Carinthia. She spoke of his great town house in Vienna on the Herrenstrasse, of his close relationship to the most important families, how his mother was a real Bourbon and not one of those trumped-up morganatic branches that gave themselves such airs. Their ages were right, too, Montorio being only thirty-two. It was rare in life to find, just at the right moment, a parti so suitable in every way. She ended up: