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 avaiclass="underline" ‘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 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.