They Were Found Wanting (Writing on the Wall: The Transylvania Trilogy)

by Bánffy, Miklós

  Influenced by this train of thought, and since they were talking of relationships and genealogy and Magda was almost insulting her, Lili felt bold enough to ask, ‘What relation is he to you, this Abady?’

  ‘Cousin issu des germains – second cousin,’ said Magda.

  ‘Then he must be my cousin too?’

  ‘Not at all! It’s not on the Szent-Gyorgyi side, but the Gyeroffy. My mother’s mother was Kate Abady, sister of Count Peter, Balint’s grandfather. She married my grandfather on my mother’s side, Laszlo Gyeroffy …’

  Now they were interrupted by an angry voice. From deep among her pillows Klara said, ‘Please go away, both of you. I’m getting a headache from all this chatter.’ And when Magda tried to kiss her goodnight she merely pushed her away and buried her head in the pillows, saying, ‘Go away! Please, just go away!’

  After saying goodnight to the others in the drawing-room Balint and Slawata had walked together along the corridor to their rooms.

  ‘May I come in and talk to you for a while?’ asked the diplomat when they arrived at Abady’s door.

  As soon as they were inside Slawata started to pace up and down, for which there was plenty of room, for Abady’s was one of the larger apartments made out of two of the original monks’ cells. Then he took off his thick glasses and polished them carefully. He had the air of somebody who liked to tidy his thoughts before speaking.

  Abady sat down and waited.

  At last Slawata spoke. He started off with a few compliments saying: ‘wir – we’ (meaning the Belvedere party that supported the Heir rather than the Ballplatz where he was officially employed) ‘have been watching you. We have observed the path you have been following. We observe and we remember. We find it admirable that you have not entered party politics, not taken sides!’ and two or three somewhat flattering remarks followed about Abady’s obvious abilities. Finally, after all this preamble, Slawata started to come to the point, almost, if not quite, making a definite statement. ‘What I tell you now, and what I will ask of you, you must understand is said only by me, Jan Slawata. I have not been instructed to do so, and I must make it absolutely clear that anything I say comes only from me and that I say it because I have faith in the soundness of your judgement and in your discretion. Any answer you may make is for my benefit alone and for no one else! Also ganz unter uns – just between us!’

  He stopped, readjusted his glasses upon his nose and then began again. ‘Now give me your opinion. If the monarchy should become embroiled in a war with one of its neighbours, what attitude would the Hungarians take?’

  Abady was startled. At that time no one believed in the possibility of war in Europe. Everyone accepted that the race for armaments was just a device of the great powers which was nothing more than a safety-valve used to save everyone’s face. The compliments just lavished on him by this former ‘colleague’ at the Foreign Office made Balint suddenly cautious. Therefore, before giving a direct answer, he felt he needed more information.

  ‘A war?’ he said. ‘But I thought you were saying after dinner that the Macedonian question had now been settled by Izvolsky?’

  ‘That is so. And in any case Russia is in no state to make war today. All her supplies have been used up in the Far East and the revolutionary movements are keeping her busy at home. That is why the question is becoming a real threat.’

  ‘What threat? There is general peace. If Russia can be counted out for some years to come then surely the Serbs too will keep quiet? Romania and Italy are our allies. Which neighbour could possibly attack us?’

  Slawata had quickly grasped that he would get no answer from Balint unless he gave him some more information. He paused. Then he pulled up a chair and sat down.

  ‘This is the situation. Father Czibulka interpreted the problem quite correctly when he analysed the consequences of the Anglo-Russian Agreement. Undoubtedly Italy is already lost to us – and in my opinion Romania too, their sympathies are far too close to St Petersburg. And so we have to think of what will happen in a few years’ time when Russia has been re-armed with French gold. Then the Dual Monarchy will have to face a coalition compounded of Russia, Serbia and Montenegro that will, of course, be backed by Italy and probably Romania, since they all hanker after different parts of our territory. There’ll always be some reason for a war in the Balkans. All this means that the monarchy’s 47 million citizens will have to face quarrel with 182 millions all around them. It is obvious that we could never survive unless someone came to our aid. And if Germany comes galloping along to the rescue they’ll find themselves attacked at once by France and England – France because it would offer a marvellous chance of revanche for 1870 and England because it would be in their commercial interest to destroy the German fleet. It would be a terrible risk for the German Reich to take, especially because of the great resources and remarkable toughness of the English. There is only one solution, and it would have to be put into effect immediately without any hesitation. This is the opinion of Conrad, the Chief of Staff. Germany’s enemies – and our own – would have to be put out of action one by one, starting with Italy who has no fortifications and whose military equipment is far too antiquated to be any use. Ours is too, for that matter,’ added Slawata with a wicked smile, ‘largely owing to Hungarian obstruction, of course; but the Italians are even further behind than we are, so it’s certain we would have an easy task. Therefore my question is this: Where would Hungary stand in these circumstances?’

  ‘Certainly I assume that Hungary would stand by her obligation, her duty if you will, to contribute to the defence of the monarchy. However it may appear, loyalty to the King is strongly rooted. Of course sympathy with Italy exists too, in no small measure – but as long as our people understood that they were merely fighting a defensive war …’

  ‘That is most interesting – a defensive war!’ interrupted Slawata. After a moment’s reflection he went on, ‘You are quite right, of course! The incident to be used for declaring war would have to be provoked in Fiume, inside the lands of the Holy Crown …’ and now his voice took on a mocking tone and he emphasized his words with clownish gestures as if to underline the cynical nature of the farce he was proposing. ‘Die Länder der Heiligen Krone, of course! That’s it! That’s how it will be done; and then it will at once become a matter of Hungarian honour! A defensive war in Hungary’s interest! That’s how Hungarian opinion will see it! Sehr gut! Sehr gut!’

  Abady’s expression darkened. It hurt him to hear such a low opinion of his countrymen coming from a foreigner. He cut in, making clear his displeasure, ‘These ideals are sacred to me too. Therefore please do not mock them if you wish us to discuss this calmly!’

  ‘I’m sorry! I beg your pardon!’ the other said hurriedly. ‘Please do not misunderstand me, I did not mean to mock. Far from it, I picked this out only to show how well I understand the political ideology that is so dear to the Hungarian mind!’

  Neither spoke for a little while. Then Balint broke the silence between them. ‘A preventive war? Isn’t that a truly terrible idea? Didn’t Bismarck once say that he would never recommend starting a war only because the enemy might become stronger if he waited – though, of course he was not a sentimental man!’

  Slawata shrugged. ‘If you know that you are being stalked by bandits who are eager to kill you, would you not shoot one first before they could surround you and make sure of killing you? It’s just the same situation!’ He paused for a few moments before saying, ‘All Hungary’s problems would be solved by a little war such as I’ve described. Then we would have time really to prepare for the inevitable attack from Russia. And if such a war were to be declared then the Hungarian Parliament would surely pass every estimate for bringing our joint armies up to date?’

  Balint did not answer. Slawata’s reasoning filled him with horror even though he recognized its logic. Once again he was felled by his fatal capacity to see both sides of the question. Even when he disagreed from the depths of his soul
, he could understand his opponent’s standpoint and his reasons, no matter how alien they might be to his own way of thinking. He had often suffered from this, especially during all the obstructions and upheavals at the time of the Fejervary government; and now, as then, he felt it all with an almost physical pain.

  ‘And when is all this planned for?’ Balint just managed to get the words out and still remain civil to his guest.

  ‘Nothing is settled yet. Hoheit – his Highness (he referred to the Heir to the throne) and Conrad both believe this to be the best way. Aehrenthal does not agree. And our revered Lord and Master? Well, of course, he is for peace at all costs. But we’ll prepare the ground, you can be sure of that! Mayor Lüger will raise the subject in his speech at the Radetsky dinner, and his tone towards Italy will be nothing if not belligerent!’

  After this they exchanged only a few platitudinous phrases and then Slawata got up to go.

  ‘Well!’ he said. ‘Vedremo – we’ll see. Und ich danke für den wertvollen Tip! – and I thank you for a most useful hint!’ Then he disappeared through the door.

  ‘Thanks for a most useful hint!’ Balint was particularly annoyed by this remark as the fellow seemed to imply that he, Balint, was offering sympathetic advice to the agent of the plotters surrounding the Heir. He was so angry that for a moment he nearly followed Slawata out into the corridor. But he stayed where he was. What would be the point? Slawata was only trying to be polite in his own fashion and the difference between Balint’s bald statement that Hungarian public opinion would only give support to a defensive war and the way that Slawata seemed to interpret this as a useful piece of information and an informed warning, was nothing for him to worry about. And when you studied the matter the difference between them was so slight that even to explain it was almost impossible.

  As he stood there in the middle of the room, upset and angry, it seemed to him that everything that had happened that evening somehow formed one cohesive whole. While the other guests had exchanged words in the drawing-room that could be interpreted in many different ways, Balint’s whole attention had been riveted on what they were saying. Now, later on, he found himself shocked by Slawata’s cold cynicism. Alone in his room he was horrified by the thought of war, by the dreadful possibility that a war was not far off in the future, a real war, here in Europe, not just some struggle for a remote colony but a war which could toll the death-knell of nations and which, if lost, would certainly bring about the break-up of the Dual Monarchy. And what price would be paid by his own country, by Hungary, and by his beloved Transylvania which had always stood as a proud fortress on the road from Russia to Constantinople?

  This last thought so constricted Balint’s throat that for a moment he found himself breathless.

  He went to the window and opened it. The icy air came in with a blast. It was good, it was real, and Balint for a moment felt soothed and soon started to breathe again normally. He leaned out, his elbows on the window sill. There was no moon and he could see nothing outside, only a myriad stars high above in the sky, the unchanging stars that had gazed down on human misery for a million years and more. They were like huge signposts which no one except a few eccentric magicians could ever attempt to interpret, claiming that they foretold the fate of men and of nations.

  As if mocking the limitless oceans of space in the sky above, somewhere down below in the valley of the Vag a tiny light appeared, moving slowly northwards, crawling along the bed of the valley. Just behind it was a minute red spot – it was, he realized, the Berlin Express, for now he could even hear the faint chugging of its engine. Balint’s heart missed a beat. If there ever were a war with Russia it was through this pass that the troop trains would make their sad way to the north. This would be the road down which would go so many of the flower of the nation’s youth to the horrors of war, to their death in battle … and against such a vast enemy their sacrifice would surely be in vain … in vain …

  Warday had been lodged in the third room away from the chapel. He made careful preparation for the blissful moment when he would steal into Fanny’s room. After much application of lotion and frantic brushing he decided that his hair shone sufficiently brightly. He had carefully anointed his face, neck and shoulders with scented cologne and his silk dressing-gown was just as it should be. He listened to be sure that no one was still about, and then, hearing nothing, he opened the door a crack and peered out. He had almost put a foot outside when suddenly Slawata walked by. Again he waited until everything was once more quiet. Then he stepped out.

  Just as he did so the second door along from his was opened and Pfaffulus appeared. Warday drew swiftly back, but he had not been seen for luckily the priest moved swiftly, his breviary under his arm, towards the chapel door. He was wearing only his black soutane and had left off his red sash and crucifix. Then he disappeared and the chapel doors clicked shut behind him.

  Again Warday waited for a few more moments, for perhaps the priest would come back. But no, he had his breviary with him and that surely meant he had gone to pray and so would be inside for some time to come. Warday was now so impatient that he quickly let himself out of his room, glided softly along the carpeted corridor as if he were skating – not that his heelless slippers would make any noise – until he reached the door to what had to be Fanny’s bathroom, the door next to the stair. It was open, and inside there was darkness.

  Now he recalled what Fanny had taught him when two years before she had first taken him as her lover. ‘It is far more sensible to turn up the light for a moment and find out where you are than to bump into something and wake everyone up!’ He smiled at the memory and his hand reached for the light switch. When he did so he realized that he was at the door of her room, and that all he had to do was to turn the knob and go in to her. Quickly he turned out the light again and, his heart beating hard with joy and anticipation, put his hand on the door-knob in front of him.

  The door did not yield. It was locked.

  He knocked lightly. There was no answer. He knocked again, louder this time, and then waited. He fancied he could hear some soft panting inside. What on earth had happened? Was she playing some sort of joke on him? Angrily he knocked again, quite loudly, and called out in an annoyed voice, ‘Fanny! It’s me, why have you locked the door?’

  But all he heard was some sort of stifled sob and finally Fanny replied faintly: ‘Go away. I’ve got a headache, I can’t …’

  Warday was not a bad man. He felt sorry for the poor girl whose voice had sounded almost stifled as if she could hardly speak.

  ‘Poor Fanny, what rotten luck! Perhaps in Budapest we might …?’

  ‘All right! All right! But go away now, please!’ and as the young man moved cautiously back to the corridor he heard again that soft panting that had so disturbed him before.

  How the poor girl must be suffering! he said to himself as he hurried back to his own room.

  He was right, of course, but not in the way he thought it. Countess Beredy was lying face downwards on her bed, her hair spilled carelessly over the pillows and she was sobbing her heart out in great racking spasms. Her night-gown was torn and every now and again she would arch her back and plunge down again into the soft coverlets as if thereby she could smother herself and find oblivion.

  Finally there was peace in all parts of the great castle of Jablanka. Of the hundreds who lay down there at night only four were still awake, two men and two women. Klara, in her old room, lay motionless against the high pile of lace-covered pillows, gazing up at the alabaster hanging lamp; and on the other side of the castle, Fanny was drowning in sorrow and misery, her hair and pillows wet with tears.

  Pfaffulus was in the chapel, kneeling in front of the candle that burned there perpetually. He was praying for that foolish and wayward young man, the same for whom one woman wept and another gazed silently at the night-light in her room.

  And Balint, too, kept vigil. Still at his open window he might have been staring into the face of destiny
, the inexorable destiny that would in time overwhelm his beloved country.

  Now the Berlin Express reached that curve where the valley of the Vag narrows into a mountain pass. The engine shrilled a loud warning, its whistle, screaming in the dark, echoed through the cloisters of the former monastery.

  PART THREE

  Chapter One

  BALINT RETURNED to Budapest. There he found a stormy atmosphere in parliamentary circles.

  The most noise was being made by the Independence Party. Kossuth had had to work hard to keep its members sufficiently in order to get the new commercial agreements with Austria ratified. Obstructions were being made by all those who had left the party in protest over the increases in the Hungarian contribution to the joint Austro-Hungarian army and so, with these problems in mind, the government put forward a proposal that consisted only of a single paragraph which laid down that, once accepted, all budget proposals would remain in force for ten years from the following January 1st.

  Never before had any government dared to ask Parliament for such a mandate; and it was all the more surprising that this measure should come from those in the Coalition who formerly, when they were in opposition, had bent over backwards and split every hair to maintain the supremacy of Parliament in the passing of laws, and the freedom of speech of all members. However the government’s hands were now bound for they had sworn to follow a certain programme and this was the only way this promise could be redeemed.