Miklos Banffy - They Were Divided

Tisza’s real views only became known years after his death when the secret files in Vienna were made public. At the time therefore the resentment of the party’s rank and file at their leader’s refusal to speak was only to be expected.

There was nothing to be done. They had to let the crowd go, explaining, with a lie, that the Minister-President wasn’t there, that he had had to be absent on some urgent business.

Morose and disappointed the great crowd melted away. Many of the party members also went home. Darkness fell and few people were left in the party headquarters.

Balint, who had been every bit as irritated by Tisza’s intransigence as the others, saw that the number of those surrounding him had diminished and decided he would try to speak to him. He started to move across the hall, but halfway across he caught sight of Tisza’s face and stopped in his tracks.

There the man sat, in a deep armchair, not speaking to anyone, with a dark expression on his face and teeth clenched. What a tragic face the man had! Abady was startled and he sensed at once that there must have been some deep compulsion to explain why he had refused to speak, why he had rejected all appeals from his followers, why he could not allow himself to go out and make a speech and allow himself to be cheered — at least not that, never that!

Balint knew he could not intrude, so he turned away and went home. But he never forgot the moment when he had seen him there, sitting in silence in the deep armchair with his legs crossed, his thick-lensed glasses making his eyes seem so much larger, a bitter crease on his forehead and even more bitter lines reaching down each side of his face. He had sat there motionless, staring ahead of him as if all he could see was the fate of his country. Silent. Chewing a cigar.

Balint stayed only a day or two in Budapest, just long enough to buy a uniform and some other equipment he would need, and clear up some unfinished business in the head office of the Co-operative Movement before enlisting in the army.

Then he left for Kolozsvar.

In Transylvania too everyone was happy and full of confidence, even though by then it had become clear that their real enemy was Russia, while France and England had both declared war on Austria’s ally Germany. It was also fairly sure that their other ally, Italy, could not be relied upon and that Romania would remain neutral. Nevertheless euphoria was in the air and among the gayest were the young men, all reserve officers, who were eagerly preparing to rejoin their regiments. Only the women were anxious, the mothers and sisters.

Balint found a number of his old friends who were making the most of their last days carousing with gypsy music and revelling in the joys of saying farewell. At that moment life was suddenly freer — and the girls more complaisant. Some of the men were still dressed in everyday clothes, but most were already sporting their uniforms.

He saw the Laczok boys and young Zoltan Miloth, Adrienne’s brother. There also were Pityu Kendy, Joska Kendy, Aron Kozma with three of his cousins, Isti Kamuthy, Adam Alvinczy and his young brother, and even the eldest Alvinczy, Farkas, who had abandoned his vicarious travels and, though it was now rather tight for him, had donned his old sky-blue hussar’s tunic.

In Monostor Street Balint met the kind Ida Kendy, Countess Laczok, who had come in from Var-Siklod to see that her sons were well provided with a host of things they would not need, scarves to keep out the cold and other oddments so that they would not get wet at the front. She was out shopping when Balint met her and though filled with anxiety she did her best to hide it and smiled gaily when Balint greeted her.

The smile faded as soon as she looked closely at him. ‘Have you been ill?’ she asked. ‘You look so pale!’

Balint parried the question and they walked on together. This was when he encountered the three Alvinczys. Those tall, fair, good-looking and broad-shouldered young men were walking along arm-in-arm and keeping step, their heels tapping in true military fashion and spurs clinking as they went. They kissed Aunt Ida’s hand and shook Abady’s and talked loudly in high good humour.

Farkas gave Abady several hearty claps on the shoulder, as befitted a military man, for there was now no trace of the world-weary melancholic that Balint had last seen at Magyarokerek. Now he was all merry and extrovert. The Alvinczy brothers were as happy and confident of success as if they were just setting off for a ball. ‘We’ll be back by Christmas!’ they cried, for had not the German Emperor said the same and he, of all people, should know. ‘It’s carnival time!’ they shouted. ‘Hurrah! Hurrah! The hussars are coming!’

‘Seeing you three,’ smiled Aunt Ida, ‘anyone’d believe we’ll beat the Russians in no time!’

‘We three?’ replied Farkas. ‘We won’t only be three. We’ve just had news from Fiume that Akos has escaped from the Foreign Legion. He ran off the moment he heard about the war and gets here the day after tomorrow. Then there’ll be four of us!’

Balint and Countess Laczok were fascinated by the news and at once asked how it had happened and how they had heard. The brothers did not know very much. It seemed that Akos had arrived at Fiume on one of the Austria-Lloyd steamers. At Casablanca he had swum halfway across the harbour, discreetly boarded a ship and stowed away until after she had sailed. Then he had worked his passage as a stoker. At Fiume he had been arrested as he had no papers, but the Governor of Fiume, who had known Farkas Alvinczy when he had been in Parliament, had believed Akos’s story and wired to Farkas for confirmation. So all was well.

Standing at strict attention the brothers said their goodbyes and clattered off as if they had been soldiers all their lives.

Abady said goodbye to Aunt Ida when they reached a shop she wanted to visit.

He had just turned homewards when Aurel Timisan spoke to him: ‘Well, well, my Lord! And what do you think of this turn of events?’ There was a mocking tone in his voice and a smile lurked behind his thick white moustache.

Balint did not care for the undoubted irony in the question and so answered only with some mild generality. Then he asked: ‘Tell me, why did the Romanian minority, through your new parliamentary lobby, refuse Tisza’s overtures? As a first step to national co-operation it seemed to me a most remarkable move for the government to have made.’

‘A first step? We’re a long way from that now! We, my dear Count, are realists. Before the Balkan War, even before the peace, we might have considered it. But now? That is all history now, and all around us the old Monarchy is breaking up!’ He waved two fingers lightly in the air, and went on: ‘Today the Heir to the throne, the only man who might have brought us together, is dead. Perhaps he …?’

‘I’ll never believe that. His ideas were crazy. A Triple Monarchy? Habsburg imperialism taking in all the southern Slavs as far as Salonika? Why, Franz-Ferdinand’s programme was sheer fantasy!’

‘Perhaps. I don’t deny it; but there was an idea there,’ replied the old Timisan pensively. Then, with a flash of sincerity, he said: ‘Fate has a macabre sense of humour, has she not? Our poor Archduke was murdered by the Slavs whom he loved and wanted to make great; and now the Hungarians, whom he hated, are making war to avenge him. It is amusing, is it not? Really very funny indeed!’