‘Pfaffulus!’ called Antal Szent-Gyorgyi across the dinner table. ‘I’m sure you’ve brought some secret plot with you from Nagyszombat. I can see your nose twitching from here!’
The priest felt his nose in pretended alarm.
‘Oh, dear!’ he said. ‘What a dreadful give-away!’ and he laughed. However he went on at once to relate what he had come to tell them.
It seemed that the neighbouring constituency of Szerencs was vacant and there was to be a by-election soon. Two-thirds of the people in the villages there were of Hungarian origin – and all of them fierce adherents of the radical separatist 1848 party – while the remaining one third were Slovaks and rabid socialists to boot. The former member had been a constitutional-minded adherent of the Conservatives and he had only been elected because formerly all such ‘elections’ merely followed meekly what had been ordered by the ruling party in Budapest. Now the situation was different and it was rumoured that a really independent candidate would stand and that, if he did, since the Conservatives had no backing in the district, he was sure to get in.
‘And that, I fancy,’ murmured the little priest, ‘might not be – er – entirely desirable, eh?’ And he turned to his hostess with a gesture that seemed to be asking her opinion. Countess Elise merely smiled; she was not one to embroil herself in any argument, and certainly not a political one. Instead it was her sister-in-law, Countess Illesvary, who was sitting next to her brother and who loved nothing better than discussing politics, who replied, ‘But that would be dreadful!’
‘It could still happen! Especially if no socialist candidate presents himself and if the Constitutional party doesn’t withdraw! Even then it wouldn’t be easy unless the clergy and all the white-collared employees banded together. And this could only come about if – how shall I put it? – the High Court of Jablanka was known to approve and support such a move.’
Now Wuelffenstein thought he should put his oar in, though moderating his usual vehemence as he knew Szent-Gyorgyi considered any sign of enthusiasm to be a breach of good manners. Even so his voice trembled with emotion as he said, ‘It’s really too much to ask this of us. Why, the Constitutional party suffered enough last year when the district boundaries were re-drawn; and what’s more it’s entirely against the movement towards party unity.’
The priest turned his well-shaven face in the direction of Fredi. Pfaffulus’s antenna-like eyebrows were lightly raised as he took out the long-handled lorgnette, which was kept stuck between two buttons sewn to the red sash round his waist, looked hard at the young politician, and said, ‘In my modest opinion, I feel that the voters’ feelings must be allowed to count for something, don’t you think?’
‘As far as the voters are concerned, it doesn’t really matter which party or coalition they vote for. We’re all in the same camp and everyone’s got more or less the same programme!’ was Wuelffenstein’s cynical reply.
‘How right you are!’ said Szent-Gyorgyi coldly. ‘There’s not a pin to choose between the lot of you!’
This was an acid reference to the mutually incompatible policies which had recently led to the dissolution of the pact which had resulted in an uneasy alliance between the ruling 1867 Party and those who supported the complete independence of Hungary from Austria. Fredi, however, did not grasp the allusion.
‘I’m glad you agree!’ said Wuelffenstein, entirely missing the point and believing his host to be on his side. ‘Neither Kossuth nor the People’s Party should put forward a candidate. They’ve absolutely no right, no right at all! Why should we be forced to surrender a district? Never, as far as I’m concerned!’
‘En politique et en amour il n’y-a ni jamais ni toujours – in politics as in love there is no never and no always!’ quoted Countess Illesvary, laughing at Fredi’s insistence.
‘And what about the legal aspect? Could the law remain as it is?’ asked Pfaffulus in a low sweet voice.
‘Well, it’s an old adage that a law respected will live on but a law ignored will soon die of its own accord.’
‘And the union of our ruling parties? Can it survive no matter what happens? Will today’s Coalition endure even when the franchise has been broadened? Even now, are the parties really united on, for example, the Croatian question? I can hardly believe that Andrassy agrees with the dismantling of the Unionist Party which is, after all, our only real support?’
Countess Elise also found any sort of wrangling or dispute bad manners; and for her it was particularly bad form to disagree about Hungarian politics in the presence of strangers. She therefore turned to the only stranger present, Count Slawata, and, so as to make everyone understand her meaning and speaking rather more loudly than usual and in German, she said, ‘Do forgive us, Count, for this little discussion in Hungarian about domestic affairs which can’t possibly interest you.’
The counsellor to the Foreign Ministry in Vienna turned to his hostess and, in his most diplomatic tones and smiling through his thick lenses, said, ‘Oh, but I do understand a little Hungarian, you know, and what Seine Hochwürden – his Reverence – has just said is very true. It’s all a great pity for the Croatian unionists who are, they say, the only party to be truly Kaisertreu – loyal to the Emperor – and they say …’
At this Szent-Gyorgyi intervened.
‘Königstreu! – loyal to the King, if you please!’ for in spite of his Viennese sympathies and personal devotion to Franz-Josef himself, he would always strictly maintain the niceties of etiquette of the Dual Monarchy. Also he was not sorry to administer a gentle rap on the knuckles of the secret envoy of the Belvedere Palace.
‘Natürlich! Natürlich! – Of course! Of course!’ said Slawata with a bow before continuing, ‘Rumour has it that the Ban is seeking new elections in Croatia too. That would be most aggravating, and could end in untold disaster.’
The conversation continued for a while and the Croatian situation was considered, in all its aspects, with many details, for Szent-Gyorgyi owned a considerable property in Szeremseg (which, of course, Pfaffulus knew) and the host was therefore eager to hear what the well-informed priest could tell him. However all of this was discussed in measured, somewhat subdued tones, following the ancient tradition by which the most radical of opposing opinions could be expressed providing that it was done with gravity and finesse.
Though Balint took no part in this conversation, for the Croatian problem was not one of his fields of interest, he still found it useful to listen to what was being said. However his neighbour at the table, young Magda, found the subject boring. With a sudden little bird-like movement of her head she turned to Abady and asked, ‘Well, how many did you bag this morning, in your corner?’
‘I really don’t know. I didn’t count exactly. Perhaps a hundred and fifty … or a hundred and sixty or so.’
‘That’s not very much! Last year we didn’t have a real shoot as we were all in mourning for my uncle, though Papa and the boys used to go out whenever they could – just walking the fields, you know; but the year before that the corner gun shot 237 hares alone.’
‘Who had that place? He must have been a better shot than I am!’
‘Oh!’ she paused, embarrassed. ‘I don’t remember!’
‘Nonsense!’ said Balint. ‘Whatever can you mean? You know he shot 237 hares, but you don’t know who did it?’ He laughed. ‘Come on, out with it! Who was it?’
Magda’s voice was very low when she replied, and her manner suddenly seemed oddly frightened.
‘It was poor Laci, that’s who it was …’ and she lifted her finger to her lips and looked across at her father. ‘Papa has forbidden us to talk about him. Even his name is never to be mentioned in the house … but we’re all so sorry for him!’
Coffee and liqueurs were served in the great drawing-room by an army of silent footmen.
The hostess only stayed in the room for a few moments. In spite of a roaring fire in the great open fireplace and two white porcelain stoves heating the far ends of the
room, Countess Elise still fancied she was cold; and so, with Fanny Beredy and Klara, she quickly retired to her own cosy little sitting-room. When she had gone most of the men of the party, with Countess Illesvary, gathered round the fireplace in the centre of the room while Magda and Lili Illesvary, with Louis Kollonich and the two young sons of the house, sat down at a round table near one of the porcelain stoves and played a game with chips called ‘Hoppity’ that was fashionable that year.
Back in the centre of the room politics were once more being discussed. In the previous summer, in August, Edward VII, King of England, had visited the Emperor Franz-Josef at Ischl. Officially it was merely a visit of personal friendship with no political significance whatever. But rumour held otherwise. It maintained that it was a political visit and this view was strengthened by the fact that King Edward, as soon as he had returned to Marienbad where he was taking his annual cure, was visited by some other important international statesmen; first Clemenceau, and then the Russian minister Izvolsky. It was more than anyone was prepared to believe that these two gentlemen had come, just at that moment, merely to take the waters.
The Franco-Russian alliance had been in existence for some time. It was also a matter of common knowledge that the Belcassé pact – the Entente Cordiale – had been agreed between France and England three years before. This pact brought definite agreement between those two powers regarding their colonial differences in Africa; and even the friction that had grown at the time of the Boer War had gradually been worn down and the old friendly relationship re-established. The way that both powers handled the Moroccan situation had made this clear to the rest of the world. The French had been allowed a completely free hand there to do as they wished and, to everyone’s surprise, they had been encouraged in this by Germany who hoped that adventures in Africa would tie down the French army for many years to come. In Berlin they forgot, or ignored the fact, that most Frenchmen had never forgiven Germany for their defeat in 1870 … and never would.
But that summer had also brought an unexpected turn to international affairs.
After settling the African disputes Edward the Peacemaker had turned his attention to matters further east and further north. One Asian problem was quickly solved. The centuries-old rivalry between Russia and England had been brought effectively to an end when England, taking advantage of Russia’s preoccupation with the Russo-Japanese War (which she had lost most ignominiously), achieved an impregnably strong influence over both Tibet and Afghanistan, which formerly had been real bones of contention between the two countries. The new-found accord between England and Russia was to be celebrated, it was announced, by an official visit of the King of England and the principal units of his enormous fleet to Reval in the following Spring.
And having achieved all this King Edward turns up at Ischl just before having even more discussions with French and Russian leaders.
Any outsider might well be pardoned if he looked at the King of England’s movements and then decided they could have had one purpose and one purpose only – the encirclement and isolation of Germany.
It was this that was being discussed in front of the fire at Jablanka; and in particular what had really taken place at Ischl.
Irma Szent-Gyorgyi, Countess Illesvary, sat in an armchair close to the fire. She was tall and thin, like her brother, and in her long fingers she held a medium-sized Havana cigar, which was then unusual for a woman. Countess Irma, however, again like her brother, held herself to be above criticism and so felt no compunction in braving public opinion. When she spoke of some facts of which she was certain she would underline the words with extra-strong puffs of cigar-smoke.
‘I don’t believe a word of all this gossip!’ (she used the words toutes ces blagues as she habitually spoke mostly in French). ‘One of my friends who was staying with the Emperor at the time said it was merely a friendly visit, an act of politeness – une visite de politesse. After all, it would be only natural to call on Europe’s oldest ruler if one found oneself visiting his domains!’
Pfaffulus, rather cautiously, tried to interject a note of contradiction. Surely, he said, England possessed similar watering places to Marienbad? If King Edward was so anxious to rid himself of his excess weight why, he dared ask, was it necessary to go all the way to Bohemia?
It was now Slawata’s turn. He embarked on a lengthy exposition feeling that he should in some way sing for the supper to which he, as did his host, felt he really had no right, by revealing something of the secrets of the Ballplatz, the foreign ministry in Vienna. He decided to let drop a small secret – nothing that could be thought of as streng geheim – or ‘top secret’ as it would come to be known in later years – but something that could be told in confidence to reliable people of standing knowing it would go no further. Even so he still spoke cautiously, mincing his words so as not to get himself into trouble.
‘According to reports from London,’ he said, ‘the King of England certainly had the intention, if possible, to wean the Emperor away from the German alliance. He was going to offer, in the event of a war between England and Germany, to support the Habsburg monarchy on condition that Austria-Hungary remained neutral. That, of course, would have been tantamount to suggesting the automatic dissolution of the Tri-partite Alliance. However it never came to this for, before any such offer could be made, his Majesty made it quite clear to King Edward that he would never desert his old friends. Of course we can’t know exactly what was said, word for word, between the two monarchs, but this is the gist of the communiqué that we at the Ballplatz sent round to the German ambassador. Berlin had been understandably nervous, as you can imagine, for if Austria-Hungary had joined up with the other great powers then Germany would indeed have been encircled.’
‘Why on earth,’ cried Wuelffenstein, ‘should the King of England wish to destroy the Emperor Wilhelm, his own nephew?’
Slawata smiled.
‘When relations don’t get on, their dislike of each other is far stronger than that for a stranger! However the real reason has nothing to do with that. What has led England on is nothing less than the build-up of the German fleet. That is something that England will never accept.’
‘Unfortunately,’ murmured the priest in his modest manner, ‘the real risk is ours. In the event of war, we could easily lose not only our provinces in Italy but also our friendship with that country. Italy could hardly do otherwise than side with England. She is surrounded by sea – and the English rule the seas. I heard talk of this when I was in Rome recently. So the danger is not just the encirclement of Germany, but the encirclement of both central powers – in other words, us!’
Behind his thick glasses Slawata glared.
‘Dann müsste man eben Prevenire spielen – then we must play our cards so as to prevent it!’ he said mysteriously.
The fat little priest turned towards him, his face as always calm and enigmatic, and all he did was to raise his bushy black eyebrows. He was about to speak when Countess Illesvary sighed deeply and said, quite quietly, ‘Perhaps, after all, it was a mistake not to listen to King Edward?’
Her brother interrupted her before she could say any more. ‘Surely his Majesty knows best what is right for us all?’ he said in a hard decisive tone that brooked no argument.
Slawata quickly grasped this heaven-sent opportunity to agree with his host. He said at once that the situation of the Dual Monarchy itself would be impossible if ever it were to turn against Germany. They would then be the first victims of any war for whatever might happen elsewhere in Europe the far-flung boundaries of Austria-Hungary were untenable, even indefensible. Bohemia, where the Skoda Works, their only ordnance factories, were situated, would be in German hands in a matter of days and then their only defence would be the Moravian hills! All Bohemia would at once be a battlefield. Up until this moment Slawata had spoken with professional restraint, objectively, as became a diplomat. Now his voice rang with personal conviction, deeply moved by the thought of the possible
fate of his own homeland. As he said himself, he was, first and foremost, a Czech.
Only two people had not taken part in this discussion. One was Warday, who smoked his cigar in silence and smiled quietly to himself, thinking of the sweet experience that awaited him later that night. The other was Abady. Everything that he had just heard was new to him. Of course he had read the newspapers, and, as he had formerly been a diplomat himself, he had not been able to avoid such thoughts as everyone had so openly been discussing that evening. But he had been so wrapped up in domestic Hungarian politics, in his co-operative projects – and above all in his love for Adrienne – that he had paid little heed to what was going on in the world.
How different life was here, he thought, from that in Transylvania, where everything was on such a tiny scale. All that mattered there were only little quarrels, minor disagreements. There it was important to know what would happen to Beno Balogh-Peter, the former chief notary of Monostor who had collaborated with the Bodyguard government and tried to install the nominated prefect. This was the sort of issue for which his native Transylvanian brothers started blood-feuds and hates that endured for generations, while all the time, in the real world outside, the threads were being spun of some giant tragedy to be enacted in the unpredictable future. On the other hand, here at Jablanka, in North Nyitra, these people were living in the centre of world happenings, aware of what was going on around them, so familiar with it all that they need discuss only the consequences, not the facts that led to them. And all this lightly, even politely.
They Were Found Wanting (Writing on the Wall: The Transylvania Trilogy) Page 21