They Were Found Wanting (50 page)

Of course the annexation itself had been inevitable and long
foreseen
. It is unlikely that any other course could then have been taken by the unwieldy Austro-Hungarian monarchy, to whom Fate had then dealt a hand that was almost unplayable. As in Greek tragedies there had arisen a situation in which every option open to Vienna conflicted with another of the Monarchy’s prime interests. That the empire remained a cohesive whole depended upon a complicated web of alliances, treaties, unwritten agreements and historical relationships, and the recognition of the loyalties and rights that these conferred. To dishonour any one of these ancient obligations was to undermine and deny the validity of the whole structure.

It was therefore as a breach of the given word that the
international
Press interpreted the latest events, and on which was based the storm of criticism and disapproval that was directed against Vienna. The campaign started with the publication in the London newspapers of photographs of the Emperor and his heir, the Archduke Franz-Ferdinand, labelled succinctly ‘Breakers of their Word’. Such an unspoken and insulting personal attack seemed extraordinary coming from England where one was accustomed to more measured tones.

The first obvious effect of this action by the Monarchy was that from that day Great Britain became one of Austria-Hungary’s most implacable enemies.

In Istanbul the reaction was limited to a boycott of Austrian goods, for there everyone’s eyes were on Bulgaria since her troops had been massed on the Rumelian frontier; and it was against this new threat from the north that Turkey responded by
mobilizing
her reserves.

The wildest turmoil raged in Belgrade. Volunteer forces were enrolled, there were street demonstrations almost every day and the mob attacked Austro-Hungarian shops and looted them. Montenegro prepared itself for war by dragging cannon onto the heights of Mount Lovcsen, and Vienna responded by sending warships down the Danube to Zimony, calling up the reserves of the south-west provinces and banning the shipment of arms to the neighbouring states of Bosnia and Herzegovina.

While all this was going on in the Balkans the diplomatic
representatives
of those great powers opposed to Austria swung into action. Izvolsky rushed to Paris to repair the effects of his first
mistake
in listening without comment to those conversations which had implied general acceptance of the forthcoming annexation. Now he proposed another conference which would have the declared intention of handing over to its neghbours the Sanjak of Novibazar, a Turkish province set between Montenegro and Serbia, thereby giving the latter a corridor to the Adriatic. After Paris he went to London and there, in the middle of the month, settled the arrangements for the preliminary discussions. At the end of October Prince George, heir to the throne of Serbia, was received by the Tsar on a state visit.

It now seemed to the initiated, as indeed it did several times in the next few months, that war was inevitable.

The Hungarians, of course, seemed totally to ignore the
implications
of what was happening outside their own frontiers. There was some passing comment in the Press, but no one took it as having any relevance to their own affairs, for, perhaps wisely, the newspapers had adopted a conscious policy of not being
alarmist
. And at that time there were few who had any feeling for the significance of events abroad. Most people read the foreign news as they would any amusing but transient tale, as two-
dimensional
and as trivial as a comedy on a movie screen. Neither Franz-Josef’s Speech from the Throne, nor Aehrenthal’s
explanations
– nor even the daily telegrams from London, Belgrade and St Petersburg – held the smallest interest for anyone in Budapest. With a yawn most readers turned to the next page where more was to be found about the death of the popular parliamentarian and journalist, Aladar Zboray, than there was about the Bosnian affair. Not that Zboray did not deserve the attention he got, for he was a most affable and loveable man and an opposition
speaker
whom everyone liked.

It was, of course, possible that the Press purposely honoured their departed colleague at such length as such paragraphs always seemed, at the very least, reassuring.

There were, nevertheless, other matters which merited attention.

On the day of the Speech from the Throne there was another armed demonstration which marched right into the centre of the city as far as Octagon Square. Much was made of this, as it was about the future role of Bosnia-Herzegovina in the
Austro-Hungarian
Empire. There was no lack of legal experts who harked right back to the time of the Angevin kings, stating that even then Bosnia had been Hungary’s vassal, just like Croatia and the long-disputed Dalmatia, without fully grasping that by doing so they were advocating that very Trialism they so hotly condemned elsewhere. In domestic matters the newspapers wrote excitedly about the proposed fusion of the great parties and a rumour spread, emanating apparently from Hollo’s supporters, that the real reason for all these public demonstrations was simply that they had been the result of collusion between Andrassy and the Socialists, and that he had gone to these lengths so as to create a climate in which his proposals for a Plural Vote were sure to get accepted!

It was, perhaps, hardly surprising that such petty parochial matters, rather than remote international events, should be the first to awaken general interest. After such a long period of peace there were few people who believed in the possibility of war, and it was, after all, only natural that people should take an interest in what seemed to affect their own lives. People had lived for so long in an atmosphere of party strife, and the need to remain within the bounds of legality, that their first attention was
automatically
directed at such matters. If is, after all, a generally accepted rule that only some cataclysmic event or terrible danger can wipe away the preoccupation with the joys, sorrows and
troubles
of everyday life. The news was mulled over when they read the morning newspapers, argued and discussed in the clubs and coffee-houses and possibly even discussed at the family meals but, while it was, everyday life went on as usual and most people only thought seriously about their work, their business interests, property, family and friends, their social activities, about love and sport and maybe a little about local politics and the myriad trifles that are and always have been everyone’s daily
preoccupation
. And how could it have been otherwise?

T
HE DAY PROMISED
to be fine and bright. Some morning mist veiled the tops of the low hills, making their outlines hazy and uncertain, while below them the meadows seemed to stretch to an infinite distance. The fine weather would certainly last until the afternoon.

It was November 3rd, an important day for the hunting
community
because on it was celebrated the Feast of St Hubert, the patron saint of huntsmen, and each year on this day there was a special meet of the Transylvanian Hunt which was almost as much a social occasion as it was an important day in the sporting calendar. The hounds would meet at noon and by that time many people, mostly gentlefolk from the nearby towns and their manor-houses in the neighbourhood, would have arrived at the chosen place. So that more people would be able to watch the hunt, the St Hubert’s Day meet was held in the lowlands of the Szamos river valley.

Even in Hungary the hunting vocabulary was largely composed of English words, such as ‘a meet’, the ‘Master’, ‘huntsman’, ‘whip’, ‘tally-ho’, ‘run’, ‘check’ and ‘casting’. As a result
dedicated
sportsmen were quite clear as to the meaning of a sentence in mixed Hungarian and English, such as ‘At the “check” after the first “run”, when the Master “cast back”, I was acting as “whipper-in” at the side and didn’t hear the “tally-ho” …’ but to the uninitiated it would mean nothing.

This year the Master had chosen a place for the meet that had room for a vast crowd of people. It was a meadow near Apahida, barely eight miles from Kolozsvar, where the road beside the Szamos turned suddenly northwards and where it was joined by a smaller road that served the city’s vineyards. The place was ideally suited to the meet, for broad meadows spread on both sides of the road and there was plenty of space both for the riders and for the multitude of carriages that would bring the spectators. And when the hounds set off up the valley searching for the scent of a hare the carriages would all be able to follow along the highway itself. It was even possible, in the unlikely event that the quarry ran straight, that they would be able to
follow
the chase until its end; though, as hares were all too apt to run uphill, there was not much chance of that.

At eleven o’clock it was still early and only one rider had already arrived and was walking his two mounts, both covered with splendid saddle-cloths, slowly round the meadow.

Then a four-horse carriage arrived from the direction of the
village
, raced across the bridge over the river and stopped at the edge of the meadow. It was a large open landau and in it were seated Adrienne and her aunt, the amiable Countess Laczok.

‘You see, Aunt Ida,’ said Adrienne, smiling, ‘we aren’t at all late, in spite of your worrying so!’

‘You were quite right, my dear, we needn’t have hurried!’ agreed Countess Laczok, laughing to herself as she remembered the fuss she had made so as to set off in time. ‘But I was so excited, you know, for it’s a great day when your two big sons go out for the first time; a great day indeed!’ And she clasped Adrienne’s hand in hers.

They had driven over in the Miloths’ carriage, that wide, deep-sprung landau so typical of the plains. It was drawn by four big-boned chestnuts which Adrienne had brought to Kolozsvar from Mezo-Varjas as there would be much coming and going this autumn with Margit’s approaching wedding and she had not wanted to make use of the Uzdy horses.

They were followed by two other carriages, one of which was quite ordinary and brought the two Laczok girls, Anna and Ida. This was driven by Pityu Kendy, who had Anna by his side, while Ida sat behind them with a new acquaintance, a young man called Garazda who was studying law at the University of Kolozsvar.

The other vehicle was riding high on its four wheels and was what used to be called an ‘American chariot’. It had just two seats in front while behind there was only a narrow bench just large enough for a stable-boy. This was driven by Adam Alvinczy, and beside him sat his fiancée, Margit Miloth.

Adam, as tall men are apt to do, looked very dignified. Now he had even more reason to do so; firstly because he was engaged and soon to be married – so he could almost already be counted among the ranks of the married, and therefore serious, men. He was even beginning to look down on his old drinking friends, most of whom were still bachelors, and indeed often discussed with Margit what a worthless lot they were.

This air of new-found dignity also stemmed from the fact that Adam had practically given up drink himself and now sipped only a bare glassful of wine at mealtimes. This had been his own decision and had needed no urging from Margit, though it is true that before he had made her that promise, she had, without
putting
any pressure on him, one day let slip how nice it would be if he did so.

Adam’s air of assurance came also from the fact that he was now independent. He had given up his share of his mother’s inheritance to his brothers in exchange for their settling the
substantial
debts he had acquired during his wild days as a bachelor. When he did this his father had handed over to him in advance the estate of Tohat. Though it was the least valuable of the Alvinczy holdings, the rest of which would eventually be divided between his brothers, Margit had said it was better to possess it absolutely now and not wait for the future. She had discussed the whole matter with her future father-in-law, had the papers made out under her own supervision, and in no time at all the property was theirs. As a result they no longer need be upset or worried whatever debts the other three young Alvinczys might incur. This is how Adam looked at it – and Margit, of course, agreed with him – and it was perhaps fortunate for the young couple, since Gabor was apparently gambling even more heavily than before while Farkas seemed to be throwing his money around in Budapest. It was fortunate, too, because
Margyar-Tohat
was not far from Mezo-Varjas and so, as Margit pointed out happily, Adam would be able to help her father with the
running
of the Mezo-Varjas estate, and that this would be a kindly act as, even though farming was the most fascinating occupation in the world, old Rattle Miloth had never learned the first thing about it. Until this moment Adam had never thought about it either, but naturally everything was now changed since he had become engaged and had somebody with whom to discuss the future.

He was also proud of his beautiful new chariot. This had
formerly
belonged to Dinora Malhuysen when her complaisant
husband
, the amiable Tihamer Abonyi, had driven it with his matched pair of Russian trotters. After the scandal and the Abonyis’ divorce the trotters been sold, and one day it had occurred to Margit that maybe the beautiful American chariot might be for sale too. She guessed right, and Adam was able to buy it for a ridiculously cheap price, even though it was still in marvellous condition. All they had to do was to paint over the Abonyi coat of arms on the sides, and it looked as if it had been made for them. Maybe it was not sufficiently sturdy to be driven over any but the best-made roads, but it was so beautiful that that was a small price to pay.

A little self-importance was no doubt justified if one was a mature young man who regulated his life in such a clever and independent fashion! That was how Adam saw himself, and who was to say him nay?

These three carriages, the first to arrive, were driven at a slow walk round the meadow until, about fifteen minutes later, a cloud of dust announced a new arrival. It was the egregious ‘Uncle’ Ambrus Kendy who sat back against the cushions of his carriage with the youngest Alvinczy, Akos, beside him. Both were smoking large cigars with a lordly air. Next to the driver sat a footman carrying a large basket of flowers which Ambrus had brought for Adrienne. Women like such gestures, he thought, even when they bring no reward. Nevertheless it looked good for everyone to see that he courted that ‘darling woman’ in such a way. There was the impression, for all to see, that surely these
public
attentions were not in vain and though this was unfortunately not true, well, it did no harm to let people think differently.

Ambrus’s carriage was followed by two hired fiacres into which were squeezed Laji Pongracz and half his gypsy band, while a third contained a table, chairs, cases of champagne and brandy, and a waiter. Next to the driver was the gypsy musicians’ servant anxiously clasping a giant double bass.

Ambrus swore loudly in his usual fashion, climbed down from his carriage and, followed by the man carrying the flowers, walked up to Adrienne’s landau.

‘Well, God-be-damned, you beautiful ladies get up early!’ he cried as he kissed their hands. ‘Here am I, rising before dawn, trundling along these dusty country roads, trying through thick and thin to be here to greet you with music and flowers, and what do I find? To my undying shame you’re here before me!
Ay-ay-ay
, that’s just my blo … bad luck!’ Then, bending double in mock humility, he turned round, stamped his feet and called out to the band-leader, ‘Get on with it, you dummy! Play that sad song; can’t you see my sorrow?’

‘You are a fool – but a very sweet one!’ laughed Countess Laczok who, of course, was Ambrus’s cousin and had always thought him a great charmer.

Adrienne was laughing too, though a trifle coldly and with a distant air. She knew that this new escapade of Ambrus’s was meant for her – for he claimed, in his fashion, to be in love with her – and was designed only to compromise her in front of other people. He wanted them to talk about her in connection with him, as they had after his exhibition at the charity bazaar, and that was the reason for this display of flowers and gypsy musicians who were never normally brought to a meet. Every tongue was sure to wag, which pleased him immensely and was not, as it
happened
, as displeasing to Adrienne as her manner suggested. The truth was that she rather encouraged these attentions and the rumours to which they gave rise.

Of course it was all false. The rumours had no foundation but they served to draw attention away from the truth; and while people talked about her and Ambrus they were unlikely to gossip about the fact that the day before Balint had returned from Budapest, had already called to see her that afternoon, and again later … at night!

Adrienne knew that she could only play this dangerous game – which was now her whole life – if everyone’s attention was somehow drawn away from her real lover; and so she laughed coolly at Ambrus’s antics and stuck a flower from his huge
bouquet
in her bosom.

By now more and more carriages were arriving from the town and from the surrounding countryside. Some were aged vehicles dating from the time of their grandmothers, others were
ramshackle
country
tarantas
which were usually found only on the remoter farms. As each new vehicle arrived the men would get down and wander off to greet friends, while the ladies would remain seated and wave to each other from a distance. Ambrus’s wine-carriage had an immediate success, as did the gypsy music, even though everyone knew that the choleric old Master would explode with anger at such an unheard-of innovation. All the same, however unsporting it might be to bring gypsies and a
running
bar to a meet, everyone admitted that it gave a special
flavour
to the occasion especially as in Transylvania the moment someone started to disapprove everyone else would gang together and teasingly mock the other’s discomfiture.

Some riders came on their own, others in groups. Opposite the railway station of Apahida stood the hunt’s own headquarters and residence, the Hubertus House. There also were the kennels, the club-rooms and a vast range of stables for the visitors’ horses, and from there most of the day’s riders now trotted up to join those who were already at the meadow.

Among those who had already arrived were some of the older men like Stanislo Gyeroffy, Laszlo’s former guardian, on a
large-boned
shining black horse; the other Sandor Kendy, who was nicknamed ‘Zindi’ to distinguish him from Crookface, and, mounted on a powerful light chestnut, Major Bogacsy who, since retiring from the army, had been president of the Chancery Court which looked after the interests of orphans. The younger riders included Farkas Alvinczy, Isti Kamuthy, Pityu Kendy and Balint. Most of these last clustered round Adrienne’s carriage; but Balint merely waved to her from afar.

The retired major curvetted around the Miloth carriage. He had been one of Countess Laczok’s dancing partners when she had still been the young Ida Kendy, and now for more than twenty years he had always fancied that she would have married him if he had ever asked her. Today, therefore, he smiled at her from beneath his huge tomcat moustaches and flashing monocle, trying hard to suggest the intimacy of a shared past. For once his expression was pacific, indeed almost endearing; normally, as befitted the great if self-appointed expert on all matters affecting duels and the code of honour, he was all too apt to pull hideous and, he hoped, ferocious faces. Today, too, his stocky figure was to be seen at its best under great loops of gold braid for, so as to show everyone what a brave warrior lurked behind the mildness of the civilian, he had once again put on his uniform.