They Were Divided

by Miklos Banffy

  From then on no one in the House would speak on any subject other than the salt-contract scandal. In vain did the government try to introduce a bill for wider suffrage. The waves of personal hatred and malice were so strong that no progress could be made. One day in March the opposition appeared in force in the Chamber, and Lovaszy, backed by some seventy or eighty supporters, shouted out ‘Stop for a moment!’ and in the brief silence that followed all those behind him started calling out ‘Salt! Salt! Salt! Salt!’ Of course Tisza suspended the session and ordered in the guards. These were at once rounded on by the rebellious members, who tried to wean the guards from their duty by explaining to them that their military oaths were not valid and did all they could to get them too to mutiny and disobey orders.

  This was the first time that these so-called politicians, who made great play of their patriotic duty, tried to incite mutiny. It did not succeed.

  Now they looked around for new allies and even went so far as to make common ground with the most left-wing of the Galilei Club, with whom they organized a big meeting in the Vigado. At this rally the public were regaled with the unusual sight of the otherwise reactionary Apponyi and Aladar Zichy sitting side by side with Jaszi and Kunfi who some years later were to play a leading part in the October Revolution and the Bolshevik regime which followed it. Everything was forgotten except party hatreds and opposition to the government.

  At the same time as this was happening at home the situation abroad was growing ever more serious.

  Diplomatic activity had never been so frenzied. In London a conference was convened to heal the wounds and lead to peace, but it was held in vain. Even though Turkey accepted most of the great powers’ proposals, peace seemed as elusive as ever. The much-vaunted disinterestedness of the great powers was clearly shown for what it really was by their insistence on Turkey’s ceding the Aegean Islands to their own jurisdiction – a concession that was immediately granted but which led only to the peace talks being abandoned. Adrianople remained under siege while Montenegro never paused for a moment in the shelling and encircling of Scutari, cynically disregarding the fact that the London Conference had just confirmed Albania’s right of ownership.

  What impertinence! said the great powers. This cannot be tolerated, they muttered indignantly: but six weeks went by until it was already the end of March before they managed to agree upon any practical action. A resolution was made summoning Nikita to explain himself. Nikita refused to appear. Then, at the beginning of April, the Allied fleets demonstrated before Antivari. Still Nikita refused either to budge or to restrain his army. Then an international blockade against tiny Montenegro was declared; but even this had no effect upon Nikita, who scornfully ignored it while his armies occupied Scutari.

  And they stayed there, regardless of the menaces launched from the London Conference. Nikita must have had secret knowledge that Russia stood behind him despite her ambassador’s public support for the sanctions agreed in London.

  The Dual Monarchy now found herself forced to take the initiative. In London she declared that she could not tolerate the Montenegrin presence in Scutari and would therefore ‘act independently’.

  War, which had been coming nearer and nearer for two months, now stood before the door.

  Balint read all this in the newspapers, but he was not as affected as he used to be; for his anxiety was personal and near at hand. There was, firstly, his mother’s uncertain condition, and then, for a while, the impending trial. Though this faded with the collapse of the prosecution, it did not alleviate Balint’s anxiety. Indeed it rather increased it for now Balint had something else to worry about.

  Only this was real to him: this and the beauty of Denestornya in spring.

  By the middle of March the snow had vanished but for a few patches on the northern sides of the nearby hills. For a while some lingering traces of white remained on the banks of the streams but, when these disappeared, on the riverbanks and beside the paths, young grass started to shoot up and, in meadows which had lain asleep all winter, violets bloomed in their thousands.

  One afternoon in early May Balint returned from a visit to the mares who had been put out at grass in the meadows near the castle until the summer grazing paddocks were ready for them.

  On the steps of the main entrance he found the old butler Peter waiting to tell him that Countess Roza had been repeatedly asking for her son.

  ‘Where is she? She isn’t feeling any worse, is she?’ he asked.

  ‘Not at all, my Lord,’ replied Peter. ‘On the contrary she seems suddenly to be better. In fact her Ladyship is expecting you on the veranda. She has already asked for her tea.’

  Balint ran up the stairs, passed through the billiard-room and there, on the glazed-in veranda, sat his mother in her wheelchair. At first he could not see her face, for she was sitting with her back to him, but as soon as he took his place on the sofa beside her he saw an unexpectedly joyful radiance in her eyes. When the old lady saw him sitting beside her she put out her left hand – the only one she could move – and took his in her own.

  ‘Ah!’ she said. ‘Here you are! Here you are!’ The words were not quite clear, indeed they sounded more like ‘He-y-Ga!’ though to Balint’s ears they seemed clearer than for many months. Her still half-frozen face was irradiated with a happy smile.

  ‘Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you … waiting for you so long…’ and her smile seemed to suggest that she had been awaiting him for years, since time immemorial.

  Balint did not quite know what to make of this, for he had been with his mother two hours before, just after lunch. And not only that but for some weeks she had received him with such indifference that this sudden warmth made him wonder in surprise whether she had really recognized him at all. Whatever the reason for the change he was overjoyed and started to tell her about the mares grazing in the meadow and how the new grass was already growing lush and appetizing, with plenty of clover in it. Everything he told the old lady was happy and encouraging, and she would squeeze his hand and interrupt, saying, ‘Oh, I am so happy, so happy!’, while the repeated little pressures of her fingers seemed to pulsate to the rhythm of his words.

  As he spoke the nurse Hedwig offered the old lady the special cup with a spout from which she could drink her coffee and buffalo’s milk. Roza Abady allowed the spout to be put in her mouth and then, when she had drunk her fill, her lips to be wiped with a white napkin. On this day she let this be done for her without protest, though on all other days she had let them know that she hated to be helped and would herself hold the cup to her mouth with her left hand. Now she was using her left hand to hold Balint’s and did not let it go for an instant. As soon as possible she turned towards Balint and gazed hard at his face as if she could never see too much of him. Soon, however, she started to tire, and then it was clear what had rejoiced her heart.

  Countess Roza closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the pillow. Then, just before dozing off, she murmured, ‘Tamas! I am so happy … so happy that you came back! Tamas, my Tamas!’ And she spoke quite clearly without even the hint of a slur.

  For a moment Balint did not fully understand; but then it came to him – Roza Abady had thought that it was not he but his father Tamas who had sat beside her and held her hand; Tamas, who had died twenty-five years before, had come back; and that was what had made her so happy.

  She did not sleep for long. In barely half an hour she was awake again.

  Her first glance was at her son who had sat there without moving, his hand imprisoned in hers, all the time she had been asleep. Again she smiled at him.

  Perhaps subconsciously recalling what Balint had been telling her before she drifted off to sleep, Countess Roza’s first words were: ‘Let’s go … to the studfarm … to the stud …’

  Balint did not at once understand what she was saying, so the old lady shook three times the hand she still held imprisoned in hers, repeating, ‘To the stud … with you … the stud!’ an
d when Balint tried to dissuade her some nervous energy so took possession of her that again she said: ‘… to the studfarm … I want … with you… to see the mares …’ and the veins stood out on her forehead.

  The nurse ran to find the doctor, and when he came the three of them tried to calm her down and explain that it would be too tiring for her to visit the stud-farm straight away, too much for her. In the end they succeeded, possibly because by then she was too tired by her own eagerness to argue further, but it was only after they had promised that they would take her to see her beloved horses in the morning. Then she dozed off again.

  The next day the country practitioner from Aranyos-Gyeres was called in early and the two doctors discussed whether they should allow the promised expedition. In the end they agreed that if the patient still wanted to go out she should be allowed to do so, for the weather was exceptionally fine and surely, if she were carried carefully downstairs and pushed gently along the smoothest paths, no harm could come of it. On the contrary it might help renew her will to live, that will which until the previous day’s miraculous revival had so noticeably declined.

  Balint was still somewhat anxious, but felt unable to forbid it; all the more so because the previous evening, when he had gone to visit his mother in bed, and early that morning when he had looked in to see how she was, he saw in her such happy expectation and joy that he did not have the heart to disappoint her.

  With a contented smile she had welcomed him to her side; and each time she had again called him by his father’s name. Filled with renewed joy she told her maids, in his presence, which dress and which bonnet she would wear that day … and what she chose was her finest.

  As might have been expected the news had spread early that the old countess was going to visit the mares and so all the Denestornya employees gathered below the castle hill just where the great avenue of tall Hungarian oaks began.

  The wheelchair was carried down the stairs by Simon Jäger and Balint. At the bottom of the steps that led up to the castle’s main entrance old Gergely Szakacs was waiting to ask for the honour of wheeling his old mistress along the paths of the garden and park.

  So a procession was formed.

  Balint took his place to the left of the wheelchair, his hand still held by his mother’s. On her right was the nurse Hedwig and behind Gergely Szakacs walked the two physicians and the second nurse. These were followed by Peter the butler, holding a big box of sugar-lumps, and Countess Roza’s elderly maid Terka. Behind the group tottered the two housekeepers, Mrs Baczo and Mrs Tothy, overweight and struggling to keep up with the others. Breathless and flatfooted, these two were forced to give up before they were half-way to wherever their mistress was going.

  On each side of the alley that ran between the great oak-trees stood a line of the entire staff, indoor and outdoor, of the castle and estate of Denestornya. Everyone was there, even two of the park game-keepers who, hearing that there was a chance to catch a glimpse of their mistress, had come to be there with the others. All the men held their caps in their hands and saluted silently as Countess Roza’s chair was pushed slowly past.

  Sitting almost upright, her slipper-shod feet placed on the footrest as if it were a footstool, the old countess passed between the two lines of her employees like a queen on a slow-moving throne. Even now, old and ailing and very, very weak, she was still the ruler. She was wearing the same lace-trimmed bonnet that she had put on to hand out the presents the previous Christmas. The wide ribbon was tied tightly with a large bow beneath her chin – for she did not want anyone to see how distorted her features had become – and as she passed she inclined her head slightly to left and to right and did her best to smile.

  And in fact she did smile, a smile irradiated with happiness and triumph … for she was thinking that all these dear people had gathered there not only for her but also to greet that beloved husband who somehow had come home at last and who was now walking at her side, and holding her hand, as he had done so long ago when they were both young.

  The procession went on its way until it reached the bank of the millstream. There Balint took the box of sugar from old Peter and, alone with his mother and the nurse, and of course Gergely Szakacs pushing the chair, they made their way along the path that led across the great meadow. The others all stayed behind at the end of the oak avenue, while Simon Jäger and the stable-lads ran off towards the bridge over the river.

  ‘Where are they going?’ asked Countess Roza, smiling up at Balint.

  ‘They’re going to drive the mares over here.’

  ‘Good! That’s good!’ the old lady agreed happily.

  As they waited she looked to the right, towards a stand of tall poplars whose silver buds were just beginning to unfold, and to the undergrowth beneath them where the hawthorn bushes were covered with creamy white flowers. Then she turned her head to the left to look along the lines of lime-trees and wide-spreading horse-chestnuts whose great trunks were outlined by the morning sun. From where they stood the view extended into the far distance, which was why the meadow was known as the Meadow of the Great View – and now Countess Roza, her slightly protruding eyes opened wide, gazed over the vast extent of her domains before again looking up at her son, and saying, as she squeezed his fingers in hers, ‘You see how beautiful, how beautiful it all is … how beautiful!’

  Balint could not reply. His eyes were full of tears and all he could do was to give her hand an answering squeeze.

  Far in the distance the mares could now be seen coming towards them, galloping because the stable-lads were cracking their whips behind them and this was something to which they were not accustomed. On they came, at a fast gallop, and only stopped about fifty paces away from the little group. There they stood, heads lifted high, with ears cocked as if asking who these people were who had strayed onto their meadow and wondering what was this strange little carriage they had never seen before. For a moment they stood in amazement, almost motionless, with nostrils distended … but only for a moment, for suddenly one of the older mares came forward and advanced towards Countess Roza. Then came another, and another, and then, again another, until it was clear that they had all recognized their beloved mistress and were hurrying to her side.

  In a few moments her wheelchair was surrounded. So close they came that their soft muzzles searched her face and rested on her shoulder, asking for the familiar lump of sugar. Balint and Szakacs had a hard time keeping them in order, but Countess Abady was laughing happily, ‘See? This is Csujtar … and Menyet … and here is Borostyan…’ and with her left hand she gave them lump after lump of sugar. She gave and gave and gave; until at last her arm tired and fell into her lap. Then she closed her eyes and leaned back in the cushions murmuring, ‘I’m so happy, so happy!’

  She said it so softly that it was barely more than a breath. She did not move. Her head was inclined towards her shoulder.

  ‘She’s tired,’ said the nurse. ‘We should wait a little.’

  Balint, helped by Gergely Szakacs, succeeded in driving the mares a little further away. Then they returned to his mother.

  She was still in the same position, quite motionless, a smile upon her lips. For a few moments her son waited. Then he took her hand in his. It was already cold and she had no pulse. The two physicians hurried to her, but all they could do was to confirm that she had just died. The younger doctor suggested trying to resuscitate her by an injection, but Balint and the other doctor would not allow it, believing it a dreadful idea, just for few hours, to bring the dying back from other shores only to suffer again before finally letting go. Why should they trouble her now, she who had died so beautifully and in such happiness?

  Gently they lowered the chair’s back. Then they raised the footrest until Countess Roza lay almost horizontally, her chin still supported by the bonnet’s wide ribbon.

  Slowly they started back.

  Once again they passed under the great flower-laden trees where the birds were all singing their joy in th
is resplendent return of spring. Behind them the same procession reformed, but it was now a funeral cortège.

  Further back, just a few paces away, the whole stud followed, all of them, close to each other, their heads lowered as if in sorrow for the dead mistress who had loved them so much. It was as if they too wished to honour her last journey.

  At the bridge over the millstream they were held back by the stable lads. Then one of them neighed. They remained there a long time.

  PART FIVE

  Chapter One

  WHEN THE BALKAN WAR finally came to an end, leopold berchtold, foreign minister of the dual monarchy, summoned a delegation of both houses of parliament to meet him on november 19th, 1913. the delegation included members of both the government and the opposition parties in proportion to their strength in the house.

  In the previous year Berchtold had sent for a similar delegation so as to give the representatives of the Hungarian Parliament a resumé of the Ballplatz’s view of the state of foreign affairs. This had not been easy the year before; in the autumn of 1913 it was even more difficult.

  A year and a half had passed since Berchtold had first taken charge of the Viennese Foreign Office, and in this time all his efforts at diplomacy had ended in failure. When the Balkan War had started Berchtold had been so confident of a Turkish victory that he had then declared that, no matter what happened at the front, the status quo in the Balkans would remain unchanged. He had spoken recklessly, and too soon, for almost at once the rebels in the Turkish provinces had chased the Ottoman armies from the field, and so there had been no question, after such dizzying triumphs, of ordering the victorious insurgents to withdraw behind their former frontiers. Berchtold had then found himself in the unenviable position of having to go cap in hand to the London Conference, defend his now untenable former convictions and somehow save what he could from the débacle he had failed to foresee. His task had been to evict Nikita from Scutari and prevent the Serbs from obtaining such influence in Albania that they would acquire the use of an Adriatic port. His aims therefore had been entirely negative.