They Were Counted by Miklós Bánffy

variety of delicious stuffings.
    The guests fell to heartily, hardly noticing the arrival of the gypsy orchestra, who tiptoed silently into the hall, along the table , edging their way between the guests and the great tiled stove, trying not to trip over the legs of the chairs or crash their instruments against the wall or over the guests’ heads. Even the cymbalist managed it somehow, though he once almost dropped the great brass plates as he stumbled over the chair legs. Gathered behind the hostess and led by the famous Laji Pongracz who had played for the Archduke Rudolf, the band, gently at first and then louder, struck up the old tune ‘Blue Forget-me-not’, which Countess Ida had chosen for her own when she was still very young and when, like so many girls of her generation, she had been half in love with its composer, Gyurka Banffy.
    The hostess looked round, as if in surprise – though of course, as nothing escaped her, she had been perfectly aware of the band’s arrival. She smiled a welcome to Laji, who bowed low directly to her, his arms outstretched on either side of him, the violin in one hand, the bow in the other, thus silently offering his homage on her name day. Then he straightened up and went on playing, his bow caressing the strings, the well-known melody that everyone associated with Countess Ida.
    When he had finished he looked down the table at Count Jeno and, with a playful smile that said much he started to play the host’s favourite: ‘Long, long ago when I drove the carriage for beautiful ladies …’
    Suddenly, as the tune was being played, the Prefect got up. He cleared his throat and tapped his glass with a knife. The music stopped as if cut by scissors.
    ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and gentlemen!’ Then, to Sandor Kendy who went on talking, ‘I beg the Count’s pardon, but I would like to say a few words!’ Crookface scowled and muttered half under his breath, ‘Go fu …’, but the words were almost inaudible through the thick moustache, and no one noticed. The Prefect had already begun his toast.
    He started with an elegant reference to Greek mythology, to the Judgement of Paris, slipped from that to Mount Ida and a play on the hostess’s name, drew a far-fetched parallel (which no one understood) between the Trojan Wars and the hospitality of Var-Siklod, returned to the beauty of the three goddesses, and, declaring that Countess Ida outshone them all, ended with calling for three cheers for the hostess. The gypsy band, by now quite ready, played a swift fanfare, a mere flourish on the strings.
    When the cheering and clinking of glasses had somewhat abated old Daniel Kendy, from beyond Aunt Lizinka, rose and turned, his big bulbous nose facing the prefect. Everyone noticed and waited, on tenterhooks because they all knew how mischievous Uncle Daniel could be. ‘Wait for it! It’s Uncle Dani!’ They all wondered what would come out. Then he opened his mouth, stuttering more than usual as he was already not a little drunk.
    ‘M-M-Mister Prefect! You are a m-m-monumental f-f-fraud!’ and he sat down, with a self-satisfied smile on his face, and emptied his champagne glass, his swollen shining face creased into ridges of pleasure.
    General laughter followed, though some of it seemed a little artificial and a few people muttered that Uncle Dani had gone a bit far this time. Even the prefect forced a smile. But the situation was saved by the quick wit of Laji Pongracz who raised his violin and after a few loud chords, led the band into such a tearing, rippling csardas that everyone was silenced and all emotions forgotten as the company was swept along by the well-known rhythm which seemed to make even the glasses dance upon the table.
    The dinner went on: ices were served and monumental cakes, quince jellies, fruit and fine liqueurs in tiny Bohemian glasses. But like all good things, it had to end. The company rose from the table and left the hall, the older men to the library