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

by Bánffy, Miklós

  ‘Oh no! We only accepted them at the time of the elections so as to keep those ’48-ers quiet!’

  He answered with extra politeness in the hope that the owner of Jablanka would again invite him to one of those much envied shooting parties. He went on, ‘And so it would not be at all the right thing to do not to support those demands wholeheartedly, even though Kossuth and Independence members, and even more so Justh himself, seem to have dropped the matter and now only talk about the banking question, so naturally we have to go on with it. After all a gentleman’s word is his bond, ain’t it?’

  And so it turned out that this volte-face on the part of the Constitution Party provoked yet another government crisis. While the men of 1848, for whom the army demands had been a banner and a rallying cry, now dropped the matter, the leaders of the Constitution Party, Wekerle and Andrassy, who had only accepted this distasteful policy so as to cement the Coalition, now found themselves its only supporters. There were those who declared, from the height of their political acumen, that the change was due merely to the Constitution Party’s desire to hinder the establishment of an independent banking system, which they thought would harm the economy, and that the best way to achieve this would be cynically to offer the chauvinists an unimportant tit-bit in its place. This at least had a certain logic. Nevertheless the switch in policies did seem rather strange and independent observers watched with astonishment as both leading parties ignored their own traditional programmes and worked hard to promote those of their opponents! As it happened, though the crisis lasted many months and the fight was most bitterly fought, it all came to nothing for in the end the King refused both demands.

  And so it turned out that all the energy and emotion put into this prolonged struggle, which paralysed the government of the country and ended only with the final demise of the Coalition, resulted only in further diminishing the prestige of the Monarchy.

  Now some latecomers brought more news: details of Lukacs’s proposed solution.

  Farkas Alvinczy, who hitherto had always been a somewhat dim figure at the Casino, now had his brief hour of glory – barely more than fifteen minutes, as it turned out – for he had been with Kossuth and was able to give an authentic account of what was being planned.

  Lukacs’s proposal, it seems, was that a new government should be formed consisting only of members of the Independence Party, whose sole task should be the immediate establishment of universal suffrage. Apart from the Independents, certain posts – those of President of the House, Minister of the Interior and Chancellor of the Exchequer – were to be filled from the ranks of those former supporters of the links with Vienna as set out in the 1867 Compromise but who no longer owed allegiance to any party. This opened the doors to the free-thinkers and those who were tainted by memories of the Bodyguard government, as it had been called when the King had appointed General Fejervary to be Minister-President.

  ‘Justh accepted the proposal,’ cried Alvinczy, ‘but Kossuth turned it down this morning. I had it directly from him!’

  Alvinczy was visibly proud and pleased to be playing such an important role as the bearer of the news everyone was waiting to hear. He was all the more pleased with himself, for though he had been a Member for three years, and was a tall, handsome, elegant young man, who had even been known at the gaming tables – without ever playing as recklessly as had Laszlo Gyeroffy a few years before – until now he had hardly been noticed. So he told his tale over and over again, to anyone who would listen; and each time he did it in exactly the same words, as honest men with a limited vocabulary are apt to do.

  The news created great excitement. Only two of those present listened calmly and without enthusiasm. One of them was Antal Szent-Gyorgyi, who had almost certainly known in advance because of his close connections with the imperial court, and who in any case would automatically approve anything the Monarch might decide; and Balint Abady.

  Abady’s aloofness sprang only from the fact that his whole mind was now filled with the question of Adrienne’s divorce. A few weeks before he had had a letter from her announcing that her daughter was now back with her. Then another letter had come telling all about the visit to Absolon and the consultation with Dr Kisch. Balint had not understood why the doctor had had to be dragged into it all and, though still remaining resigned to the need for patience, was beginning to fret at the idea of further delays. And so, whatever daily sensations shook the world of politics, Balint’s mind was occupied solely with thoughts of Adrienne, now far away at Almasko where their fate would soon be decided.

  It was with indifference, therefore, that he listened to Alvinczy’s great and important news; and he took equally calmly Szent-Gyorgyi’s invitation, which was in itself a most exceptional distinction, to go with him by car to Alag where the great annual steeplechase was to be run that afternoon and in which one of Count Antal’s horses was the favourite. ‘All right!’ he said when asked, and that was all, for was it not the same where he went and what he did or said or heard, when the only thing that mattered was when Adrienne would be free of her husband? Beside that, no one, and nothing, was of the smallest importance to him, and he barely noticed that in the car waiting for them below there were already two exceptionally pretty girls, his cousin Magda Szent-Gyorgyi and Lili Illesvary.

  He had talked a lot to Lili when they had both been at Jablanka for the previous December’s shooting party. Later, during the carnival season, he had seen her at the few grand balls he had attended and it had turned out – by chance, of course – that they had often found themselves next to each other in the ballroom or buffet. Occasionally they had danced a waltz together and once he had found himself, during the spring season, asking her for a cotillion for she admitted, as if it were a shameful secret only to be whispered about, that she didn’t have a partner. All this had happened so naturally that it had appeared to Balint, who had been so taken up by the thoughts of his love for Adrienne that he had hardly noticed the existence of any other woman, that if he had spent more time with Lili than with any other girl, it had all been purely by chance. Of course he had enjoyed being with her for she talked well and her conversation had been both piquant and soothing like a draught of fresh orangeade.

  It was the same now. Apart from some of those whose life was spent with horses and whom Balint barely knew, there were few women at the races, and so he passed the whole afternoon with Magda and Lili.

  On their way back they asked him to dine with them that evening and one of them – it might have been Lili – said that they would be going to the Park Club.

  When he arrived there were only a few people on the long terrace, just some young men staying at the club and the Lubiansky girls with their father; and, at a table some way off, Laszlo Lukacs and his beautiful wife. Sitting with them was another man whom Balint recognized even though his back was turned to them. It was Count Slawata, the confidential adviser to the Heir. Balint wondered if it was Slawata’s presence that had made Lukacs choose a table so far off and well away from the bright lights of the chandeliers. Was there perhaps some connection between Lukacs and those plotters in the Belvedere Palace? Could it be that the Homo Regius – the King’s Man – was now also in direct touch with the next ruler?

  Balint did not want to have to meet Slawata at this time; and furthermore he was in no mood for prolonged political discussions; and so, when they had finished dinner and the girls had first talked of dancing to the gramophone and then decided that it was too hot and that they would rather play some parlour game, Balint at once agreed to join in. It was still partly that he did not really care what he did, but also he now felt quite unable to listen to any more of old Lubiansky’s endless complaints about the way the country was being governed, and also wanted to get as far away from Slawata as possible.

  They went indoors and settled in one of the cool drawing-rooms. Lili suggested they play the old parlour-game of ‘Up Jenkins’ which meant that they had to separate into two equal groups who sat on opp
osite sides of a table with the leaders of each group facing each other in the centre. One of them selected some small object, such as a coin or a ring, to be the ‘Jenkins’ and, on the command ‘Up Jenkins!’, he showed it to the opposing team. When the command came, ‘Down Jenkins!’, he put his hands under the table and, concealed by the cloth, passed it to another member of his team. Now came ‘Jenkins on the table!’ and all the team who were hiding Jenkins had to put their hands on the table.

  Who had Jenkins? This was the game and there was much laughter and mockery as they all made guesses. In the end the leader had to decide and could point to only one of the hands on the table. If he was wrong there was much triumph on the side with Jenkins and gloom on that of the seekers, and the game went on until Jenkins had been found. Then Jenkins crossed the table and it all started again.

  Magda offered a ring to be Jenkins, and the two leaders were Lili and Balint.

  They were sitting facing each other across the table. Lili was wearing a light summer dress with rather short but wide sleeves of broderie anglaise and through the many little embroidered holes in the material could be caught glimpses of the pink skin of her arms and shoulders. The dress was suitable only for a young girl and was almost childish in its virginal whiteness – but was far more arousing than any sophisticated décolletée.

  At first Balint hardly noticed. Slowly, however, indeed every time that Lili lifted her hands in some gesture to show everyone the ring and the wide sleeves slid back on her bare arms, he found himself flooded by a strange magic. It was as if she sat there before him clad only in a wedding shift, her flesh barely covered by fine gossamer, smiling expectantly and looking at him with some unspoken question in her eyes. Even Balint knew that this was no game, no meaningless attempt at flirtation but was rather the eternal urge of the female to attract and to lure. Everything about her told him the same story. Her petal-like skin with its elusive scent, the slightly parted lips, the dress falling in soft folds around the infinitely desirable curves of her firm breasts: this was no trivial, shallow game but rather the subconscious display of the finest weapons in a woman’s armoury of attraction.

  Balint felt a twinge of guilt at having sensed it, and guilty too at finding himself aroused by desire and yet being unable, in spite of the laughter and simplicity of the childish nursery game, to free himself of it.

  This was the only time when, for a brief moment, he was made to forget the agony of waiting which otherwise totally engrossed him. He could think of nothing but when he would get news from home and discover what had happened at Almasko.

  Balint heard with indifference what was happening in the great world around him. Whereas a month or two before, during the long winter months, worry about the possibility of war and the fate of his beloved country could make him forget his private worries, this was no longer true. The deepening political crisis at home – Wekerle’s resignation, Lukacs’s embarrassed handing-in of the royal commission, the King’s insistence on a new coalition, new rifts between Kossuth and Justh – and alarming news from abroad with Sir Edward Grey’s depressing analysis of the international dissensions, the menacing build-up of the British Fleet, the Eulenburg scandal and the sudden resignation of the Chancellor Bülow, now all seemed so trivial to Balint that he barely took any of it in.

  On the other hand not a day passed without him becoming more and more anxious about Adrienne.

  In her last letter she had said that soon the doctor from Regen would turn up with old Absolon and so at any moment the great decision should be made. Balint now felt he must return so as to be within reach, when their fate was decided. In this way he would get the news more quickly and would be on the spot if she needed help. He could get over to Almasko in no time in his new car, and could whisk her away to safety if she felt in any danger from her husband. Balint felt he must be ready for anything, and for that he had to be at home.

  On July 9th he made up his mind to go as soon as possible. It was late afternoon and too late to send a telegram to Denestornya, because it could hardly get delivered before he would be there himself. It did not really matter, for he was sure to find some little horse-drawn gig or fiacre at the station at Aranyos-Gyeres. At eight in the morning he got down from his sleeper and was surprised to notice that the express did not leave again at once but remained stationary at a side platform. In front of the booking office the station-master was standing, white gloved and in full formal uniform. With him was his assistant, similarly dressed, and both looked nervous and unhappy. Uniformed railway staff were running about in all directions, checking the points, and two constables were marching officiously up and down and ordering everyone to keep off the platform.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Balint asked as he shook hands with the old station-master. As he did so one of the constables was unceremoniously pushing Balint’s porter out of the way. ‘What’s all this about then?

  ‘The Heir’s private train is due to pass through in a few minutes. It has already signalled and we have strict orders to clear the station of everyone but the railway staff. Please forgive me …’ and he trailed off clearly embarrassed at having to treat Count Abady in this fashion, for he had known the family all his life as it was the station for Denestornya. Then he accompanied Balint to the exit; even for the noble Count himself he could not disobey orders from so high a source.

  A few moments later Balint had got into a small one-horse cart, and was nearly clear of the village, when from the bridge over the river came the rumbling sound of an approaching train. From the engine came a discreet whistle, then there was the scream of brakes and the train started to slow down. At the platform it stopped, but only for an instant, and then, quickly gathering speed, trundled off in the direction of the mountains.

  Balint did not pause to wonder why Franz-Ferdinand’s train had stopped, if only for an instant, at such an obscure wayside station. Neither did any of the other passengers who had been herded like cattle into the waiting-room. But if someone had noticed and had thought fit to alert one of the more chauvinist of the Budapest papers, there would have been screaming headlines and a big political row. The reason was that the person for whom the train had been halted, and who had hurried discreetly out of the station-master’s office and through the already opened door of one of the saloon-cars, was none other than Aurel Timisan, the champion of the rights of the large Romanian minority in Hungarian Transylvania.

  The Werkstadt – the Archduke’s private office in the Belvedere Palace – had been in secret contact with Timisan, as it was with many of the other minority leaders, for many months. It was someone from there that had given Timisan orders to join the train at Aranyos-Gyeres, sent him his travel papers and ensured that the station should be cleared so that no one should see him climb aboard. A few stations later the process was reversed and he left the train still unnoticed. He had just had time to hand over the lists of names that the Heir’s principal private secretary had demanded.

  The next day, in the Romanian town of Sinaia, the Archduke Franz-Ferdinand received a group of political exiles. They were the leaders of most of the ethnic minorities of the far-flung Habsburg empire, that empire over which he expected soon to rule. While he was assuring these good men of his goodwill and future patronage, a band of students tore through the elaborately decorated streets of the little spa, tore down all the Hungarian flags, those symbols of the independence of the Monarchy’s sister country, and trampled them in the mud.

  Chapter Two

  BALINT READ ABOUT THE RIOT at Sinaia at tea-time at Denestornya, when the Budapest morning papers arrived. At the same time the midday edition of the Kolozsvar paper arrived carrying an official denial on its front page. This declared that absolutely nothing had happened; the Archduke had received no one and no insults had been offered to the Hungarian flag. The previous day’s report was based on a most regrettable mistake – or so announced the official spokesman of the Palace.

  Whether anyone believed this was another ques
tion; Balint certainly did not. Everything he knew about the personality and views of the Heir to the throne, and everything that Slawata had told him in confidence several years before, affirmed the truth of the reports. Nevertheless he tried hard not to think about the matter and meekly to accept the official denial, for in this way he was able to turn aside from what in other times would have filled him with alarm because of its dire implications for the country’s future. To have worried now about the Heir’s complicated plots would have torn him away from that one personal problem that needed his whole attention.

  The time had come when he would have to tell his mother that he would soon be married. The problem was how and when to do it.

  That it would be painful for them both was certain. He need not do anything until the news came from Almasko, but then he would have to act at once, for afterwards he knew that he would not be able to remain more than an hour in the same house with his mother. He knew her so well; and what she once said with such firmness she never went back on. When she heard that the marriage with Adrienne was not only certain but imminent she would act as if her son had died and this she would maintain, if not forever, certainly for a very, very long time. Only if the longed-for grandchild was born, and then, if it were a boy, an heir to her name and to Denestornya – only then, might she begin to relent and possibly forgive.

  Balint realized that it was now, during these few days at home, that he had to make all his preparations.

  First of all it was clear that he could not be with Adrienne either here or at Kolozsvar, for they could not live together in the same town as Countess Roza. The only answer was Budapest, where things would not be so obvious and the irregularity of their situation, even if only temporary, would not be so painful for either of them. He would therefore have to take a flat there.