They Were Counted (24 page)

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 felt 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.

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 bird 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.