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

by Bánffy, Miklós

  The first two days were excessively dull. Platitude followed platitude and each mindless patriotic slogan was greeted with predictable cheers or jeers depending on which side was addressing the house. On the third day, however, it was the turn of the ethnic minorities to express their points of view, the first opportunity that they had ever had. From the centre of their little group Tivadar Mihalyi rose and, in excellent Hungarian, opposed the Address. In measured tones, with moderation and diplomacy, he explained that the minorities he represented could not accept the Address as in their opinion it did not deal with the real evils that bedevilled the progress and prosperity of Hungary. He proposed to present a totally different Address which would concentrate upon internal problems rather than those provoked by the constitutional relationship with the Austrian monarchy. In Tivadar’s Address the emphasis would be on electoral reform, which would ensure that government in Hungary truly represented all those of Hungarian nationality regardless of ethnic origin. This would naturally entail the re-drawing of electoral boundaries, and revision of the nationality laws which had never been accepted by the minorities he represented. Tivadar spoke quietly in measured tones and simple straightforward phrases. Everything he proposed was moderate and reasonable – and above all he reiterated, time after time, that the minorities were an essential part of Hungary and the Hungarian political system, and that all they asked was that they should be recognized as such. When Tivadar sat down, Balint was surprised to note that this first speech by the minorities’ leader caused little stir in the House and was barely applauded. Of course, he reflected, everyone here is only interested in continuing the battle with Tisza. No matter how important any other subject was they would pay attention only when the ex-Minister President rose to speak – and he noted that quite a number of the members had left the Chamber while Tivadar Mihalyi was on his feet and returned only when he sat down. Among those present only one thing counted, and that was the total destruction of Tisza no matter what the battle cost, no matter how much blood was spilt, no matter if all Hungary perished! No one paused to reflect that Tisza had already been defeated in the elections and had left office months before in January.

  Bedlam broke out as soon as Tisza rose to speak. Ferenc Kossuth did all he could to quiet the members of his party, hoping that they at least would behave with the dignity required of those who claimed to be fit to rule a modern European nation. The noise died slowly and at last Tisza was able to speak.

  ‘As one who has resigned as Minister-President I no longer have the constitutional right to direct the proceedings of the House …’he started.

  ‘Too right! Sit down! Get out of here, you old fool!’ The shouts arose from all sides, but Tisza remained on his feet, tall and erect, his dark-clad figure standing broad-shouldered and defiant against the red velvet that covered the ministerial benches. Tisza held his left hand behind his hip, as if he were taking up the stance of one about to fight a duel. When he started to speak he stabbed the air with his right index finger to underline what he was saying. Though he was backed by the members of his own party he gave the impression of being alone – completely, utterly alone.

  Despite shouts of ‘He’s inciting the peasants against us!’ he continued impassively, quoting figures and statistics to back up his argument, and for more than an hour he went on just as if he were speaking to an assembly of reasonable politicians ready to discuss what was best for their country. Despite innumerable interruptions Tisza kept on his feet until, with his virile, accusing voice, he came to the end of his argument. Then he sat down.

  ‘He’s a cheeky bastard for someone nobody wants!’ one red-faced ‘patriot’ shouted. This was going too far and the new Minister-President Justh was obliged to give the man an official reprimand; not that this made much impression, for immediately three or four others jumped up from the rows of the 1848 Party crying: ‘Cheeky bastard! Cheeky bastard! What about reprimands all round?’ and the uproar grew so loud that the assembly had to be suspended.

  The House quickly emptied, its members congregating in small groups in the corridors, each surrounding a party leader hoping to catch a phrase or two that they would repeat as their own in the club bars, in small party meetings and in talking to political journalists. In this way the back-benchers hoped to curry favour with the general public.

  No one gave a thought to Tivadar Mihalyi’s speech. The only subject thought worth discussing was Tisza, who was accused of every treachery, from intriguing with Austrians to destroy the liberty of Hungary, to plotting with disloyal Hungarians to break with Austria. The attitude of the Croatians was also a disappointment to the others. Before the House met everyone had imagined, and the newspapers had predicted, that they would vote for the Address. No one had thought that they would do the opposite. Such was the general political naïvety, and the disappointment at what had actually happened, that they at once assumed that they were the victims of conspiracy. They saw enemies everywhere, not realizing that all nations were governed by their own interests and that the skill with which these were grasped and developed was the true basis of a nation’s peace and prosperity. From this distrust of anyone who did not agree with them sprang the divisions within their own ranks which would lead, eventually, to the disintegration of the ruling Croatian party. No one present at this disastrous session of the Budapest Parliament foresaw that with the defection of the Croatian party the way would be opened up for the pan-Serb coalition that would eventually succeed in depriving Hungary of the provinces beyond the Drava river.

  The Transylvanian lawyer, Zsigmond Boros, summed up the general reaction, saying: ‘We have to admit that our noble and patriotic Address, in the face of the united and prejudiced opposition of Tisza, the Croatians and the smaller minorities, has now no chance of being received either sympathetically or objectively by the Throne! That’s the trouble. Only that. It is they who have spoiled everything. If it hadn’t been for them, the King would certainly have yielded. Of course he would! The King’s only too anxious to expand the army. It’s his passion. Only this lot have spoiled it all!’

  Balint listened sadly for a few moments and then turned away. As he did so he caught a glimpse of the small group of Romanians who were gathered in a dark corner, among them the lawyer Timisan. He went over and greeted them, shaking hands. Timisan, just as he had been on the train, was pleasant and seemed in a good humour, though his smile was mocking and cynical. The others, to whom he presented Balint, were cold, silent and suspicious, and Balint felt that he was being watched, doubted and judged. He started to speak about one of Tisza’s commercial points that affected Transylvania, thinking that it might form a common bond of interest, but they answered him only with polite phrases that showed clearly their distrust of him. After about fifteen minutes the bell rang summoning the members back into the House. Frustrated but somewhat relieved, Balint moved away.

  As he went back to his seat he passed close to Wuelffenstein, who spoke to him.

  ‘How could you speak to those barbarians? It simply isn’t done! My Hungarian blood boils at the mere sight of them!’

  Abady felt the veins in his forehead swelling with anger. ‘I do as I see fit! Do you object?’ he said fiercely to Fredi, who did not have a drop of Hungarian blood in him.

  ‘No! No! Of course not! I only thought …’ said Wuelffenstein, quickly sliding down in his seat with hunched shoulders, his black and white suit in stark contrast to the red of the benches.

  Later on at the Casino – and at every other political meeting-place – the view so succinctly expressed by Zsigmond Boros was rehearsed over and over again. There were minor variations, but the theme remained the same. No one spoke of anything else. In the great world outside Hungary events were taking place that would change all their lives: the uprising in Russia, the dispute over Crete, the Kaiser Wilhelm’s ill-timed visit to Tangier, the revelation of Germany’s plans to expand its navy – but such matters were of no importance to the members of the Hungarian Parliament.
Even events closer to home, such as the rabble-rousing speech of an Austrian politician in Salzburg urging revolt among the German-speaking minorities in northern Hungary, or the anonymous pamphlet, which appeared in Vienna and revealed the total unpreparedness of the Austro-Hungarian forces compared with those of the other European powers, went unnoticed in Budapest. Naturally, when Apponyi made a speech in favour of Dezso Banffy’s proposal to limit the demand for Hungarian commands in the army to using Hungarian only in regimental matters, everyone listened and discussed it as if their very lives depended on it.

  Chapter Four

  AS FAR AS MOST of the upper classes were concerned, politics were of little importance, for there were plenty of other things that interested them more.

  There were, for instance, the spring racing season, partridge shooting in late summer, deer-culling in September and pheasant shoots as winter approached. It was, of course, necessary to know when Parliament was to assemble, when important party meetings were to take place or which day had been set aside for the annual general meeting of the Casino, for these days would not be available for such essential events as race-meetings or grand social receptions. And, after the Budapest races, the Derby season in Vienna would follow, and so many people would be away at that time that it would be useless to make plans for a time when ‘nobody’ would be in the Budapest.

  Now, at the beginning of May, the social season was at its peak. The greatest event was the King’s Cup race, which many people came from Vienna to attend, especially the great Austrian breeders and stud-owners and many of the rich young men about town. Among these last Montorio had already arrived so as to attend the great race and also the big ball to be given afterwards at the Park Club. He encountered the Kollonich party at the races and immediately engaged Klara for the cotillion. As he spoke the girl detected an unusually determined ring in his voice and took this as a warning that she must be careful.

  Before leaving for Budapest the prince had decided that the matter of his marriage could wait no longer. He had to know where he stood. He wanted to get married and he knew that his mother approved of the Kollonich girl. It would be a good match; he liked Klara and her ample dowry. Everything seemed to be set fair and yet somehow the matter had dragged on. It was possible that the girl was not willing, and if that were so he would look elsewhere. He decided he must get the affair settled one way or the other on the first night of his visit to Budapest. He was confident that he only had to ask to be accepted, for had not his mother shown him the Princess Kollonich’s letters in which she had hinted strongly that this was so? Such a handsome young man, Princess Agnes had said, so nice, so attractive!

  Laszlo Gyeroffy was also at the races. When Klara walked down with Magda Szent-Gyorgyi and some other girls to the paddock where the glossy-coated thoroughbreds were being walked round before being saddled up, Laszlo joined them. They leaned together on the white-painted wooden rails.

  Although Klara gave the impression that she was engrossed in her race programme, Laszlo sensed that she wanted to tell him something important, and was only studying the names of the horses with such intensity because she was waiting until the other girls’ attention was distracted. When Magda started a heated argument about the identity of one of the horses, Klara turned quickly to him and said in a low voice: ‘I have to have supper tonight with Montorio. Come and sit on my right and as soon as we can get up ask me at once for the supper-csardas. It’s vitally important! I think he wants to ask me something …’ She broke off and turned to the others, joining in their discussion about the bay mare. Later they all strolled slowly back to the grandstand.

  The supper was given in one of the ground-floor rooms of the Park Club. The night was warm and the windows on to the garden were all open. Klara chose a table far away from the band. She sat down with Montorio and three other couples who were her usual companions. With Laszlo there were nine at the table, and because of Montorio’s presence, they all spoke either in German or English. They were all very lively, led by Klara who was in high good humour, wickedly vivacious and provoking, flirting with all the young men in turn and keeping everyone so amused that the conversation remained general. She was determined that this should be so as she dreaded giving Montorio the chance to talk quietly to her alone. Her female intuition had told her that sometime that evening he would ask her to marry him, and this she was determined to avoid. It would be too awkward if he insisted on a definite answer and she was forced to prevaricate; somehow, therefore, he must not be given any opportunity to speak.

  Gaily, and unusually loudly for her, she teased Magda, who was sitting opposite her across the table with Imre Warday. Her normally soft eyes glittered and her beautiful lips curled with amusement as she kept up a stream of high-spirited mockery of the others. The music could hardly be heard at this end of the room and Klara kept them all laughing and joking until the supper was over. They all thought they had never had such a good time and Warday was especially pleased that Klara seemed to have singled him out. Only Montorio was more silent than usual.

  When the time came for the supper-csardas, Laszlo went over to the band-leader to tell him to take the musicians up to the ballroom. As he did so the other couples also rose and moved away. Klara stood up and started to pull on her gloves.

  ‘Wollen wir nicht ein bischen in den Garten – wouldn’t you like a little turn in the garden?’ said Montorio in a low voice, and added: ‘Es ist so schwiil hier – it’s so crowded in here.’

  ‘Ich finde nicht!’ said Klara, shaking her head.

  ‘Nur ein Moment. Ich möchte Sie etwas wichtiges fragen – only for a moment. I have something important to ask you!’

  This was serious.

  For an instant Klara’s ocean-grey eyes seemed to darken. She hesitated. Looking up at his face, though at his mouth and the thin line of neat moustache rather than into his eyes, she realized that she hated him because he had found the way to an intimacy from which she shrank. Then she spoke:

  ‘Es wäre zwecklos – there would be no point,’ she said slowly but with unmistakable emphasis.

  ‘So? …’ said Montorio, straightening up stiffly. ‘So ... So … So … Vollkommen – so that’s it, then!’

  Laszlo rejoined them at this moment. Klara put her arm though his and together they hurried away, as if in flight through the hall, up the stairs and into the ballroom where the slow opening in the csardas was already beginning. Montorio stood motionless where he was. After a few moments he was alone in the supper-room. He passed his hand over his elegantly balding forehead and then, with an air of deliberate calm, he took out his cigarette-case and lit a cigarette before walking slowly towards the darkened entrance hall, threading his way through the rush of waiters who were busy clearing up the plates, and surreptitiously swilling down what remained of the champagne.

  In the oval drawing-room which opened off the hall were some of the older ladies, gossiping together before going up to watch the dancing. Seeing Montorio by the doorway Princess Agnes detached herself from the group with whom she was talking and came towards him. Wearing her most proprietorial smile she said: ‘How lucky I am. I was just going to look for you! Could you come to us tomorrow at midday? A small luncheon, en famille, just ourselves!’

  The young man replied coldly: ‘Thank you, Princess. You are most kind, but I shall be returning to Vienna on the morning train.’ His eyes were angry. Why had this woman made such a fool of him? If it hadn’t been for her letters he would never have made this humiliating attempt!

  He bowed stiffly and moved on; not towards the stairs but straight to the main door and out into the open. Princess Agnes watched as he disappeared into the darkness outside.

  It was nearly three o’clock when the Kollonich carriage was driven up to the portico in front of the Park Club entrance. It was a beautiful carriage hung elegantly on eight-fold springs, so elegant indeed that only the French word équipage could describe it. There were only two or three others to compare with it in
the whole of Budapest. It was drawn by two large bay horses, perfectly matched and as perfectly groomed, their coats shining and when, as now, they stood still their hind legs were stretched out behind them like horses in equestrian statues. They were so carefully trained that they would stand motionless, without even the smallest movement of their neatly docked tails, for as long as the coachmen wished.

  Most people had already switched to automobiles but the Princess Kollonich was so proud of her carriage and beautifully matched pairs of horses that she did not want to part with them. Their perfection had been a labour of love only achieved after many years’ study and careful preparation and, after all, anyone with enough money could own an expensive motor. A perfect équipage was only for those who understood such matters and to whom tradition and style were more important than the latest fashion. And why should anyone struggle to arrive more quickly when there was nothing to hurry for?

  The two grooms jumped down and hurried forward to take their places on each side of the Park Club doorway. They bowed deeply as the princess and Klara, both wrapped in furs, moved slowly down the steps. One of them took Klara’s flowers from a footman who had followed them out, while the other hastened forward to open the carriage door and let down the folding steps. When the ladies were seated and a rug placed over their knees, the steps were folded up again, the doors firmly closed and the grooms jumped back to their places. The carriage moved slowly off, its rubber wheels making no sound on the pavement. The only noise to be heard was the ‘clip-clop’ of the horses’ hoofs as the carriage made its slow way back to town with the two ladies inside sitting in silence. Both lay back against the silken upholstery with tightly compressed lips.