Miklós Bánffy - They Were Found Wanting

Sitting back in his carriage, his eyes glittering behind the thick lenses of his spectacles, Slawata responded to the men’s greetings with genuine satisfaction; and it was for more reasons than the killing of the fox. He was pleased at the thought of a day well spent. Often, as the drive had halted while it was being reformed, or if there had been some obstacle to be overcome before everyone lined up again before once more moving forward, or if someone had lagged behind, Slawata had found time to talk politics with some of the local men and, while not concealing his subversive ideas, what he had mostly discussed were the effects of the Rozsahegy case.

This had been a particularly disagreeable affair which had upset many people. Since the last elections to the Parliament in Budapest, during which for the first time there had been many candidates of Czecho-Slovak blood for this predominantly Czecho-Slovak province, there had been growing political unrest, resulting in that year alone in 33 prosecutions for sedition. Most of these had been, juridically speaking, justified. Politically, however, they had been disastrous, for their principal effect had been to create martyrs for the cause of the ethnic majority. The government’s policy was far from clever for, though each condemned man spent a few months in a not uncomfortable state prison, everyone felt he had earned a martyr’s crown on his release. The government, having once embarked on this campaign of repression, found itself hoist on its own petard, helpless in the face of an ever-growing political movement of opposition, fostered and encouraged from where no one knew.

It was when this impassioned situation was at its height that there occurred the uprising at Chernova.

A priest named Hlinka had been suspended by his bishop from the care of the parish of Rozsahegy and a local tribunal had found him guilty of making treasonable statements in public. Hlinka’s birthplace was the neighbouring village of Chernova where he had built a church out of his own money. This he wanted to consecrate himself, but he now found himself forbidden by the bishop to do so, while other priests were sent to Rozsahegy to do this office for him. The people of Chernova were at once up in arms, hid the sacred vessels of their church and sent furious threatening letters to the bishop, whose chosen priests took fright and asked for an escort of gendarmes, even though the local sheriff had told them that this was not wise. What happened was that, when the priests arrived to consecrate the church, they and their escort were met with a hail of stones. The gendarmes, to defend themselves as well as the priests, opened fire. Nine men fell dead and many others were wounded, of which several died later. It was a sad, unnecessary and bloody affair.

Sad it certainly was, and nothing to smile about; but Slawata saw it in a different light. He knew only too well the secret links between this sort of commotion and the planning office of the Archduke Franz-Ferdinand, the so-called ‘ Werkstatt — Workshop’, as the followers of the Heir called it. This sort of thing was just what they wanted, the more trouble there was the better! And when the new ruler ascended the throne and this must be soon now — he would spread joy everywhere by putting all such matters to rights, after his own fashion, of course. It was just as well that the Hungarian government had not intervened between the bishop and his parishioners, for this was just one more problem they must work out for themselves. So, as Slawata reclined comfortably against the cushions of his well-sprung carriage, which swung gently from side to side as it progressed in stately fashion along the winding road, he thought of the words of Goethe: ‘ Blut ist ein ganz besonder Saft — Blood is a very strange liquid!’, for Slawata was nothing if not well-read.

IN THE LAST CARRIAGE were Countess Beredy and the host. Though the short journey to the castle only took just over a quarter of an hour there was plenty of time for Fanny to outline her plan. She spoke in English so that they would not be understood by the coachman.

She had made a survey, she explained. Using the little side-stair she would easily be able to come down to his room that night — no one would see her, for she would wait until everyone was already asleep — really, it was quite simple, she never caught cold anyway and of course she’d wear a well-lined kimono — it would be so amusing, far better than his coming to her — such fun and much more enjoyable too! So she chatted on, showing him every reason why it would really be so much better and of course she had quite understood, the previous night when he had not come to her, that he had been afraid of catching cold and didn’t like to admit the real reason …

Count Antal’s lean greyhound face never moved a muscle. He looked straight ahead, his expression oddly cold if not icy as he said, like her in English, ‘Oh no! That would not do at all!’ and he gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

‘But why not?’ she asked, astonished, and started once again to explain how she had looked carefully at the layout of the rooms and the corridor and the stairway just next to their bathrooms. It would only take a moment, and she’d be very, very careful.

‘No!’ he repeated. ‘No!’ and when Fanny, in an attempt to arouse his desire, told him how she had watched him at the end of the drive and had admired him so much that she had wanted to take him in her arms right then, he turned towards her with an unusually stern expression on his face and said‚ ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing! Here, in my own house, my wife’s house. This is my home, this is not …’ and he broke off leaving the word unspoken.

‘No!’ he said again. ‘This is not the right place!’ and perhaps to soften a little the effect of what he had just said he gave a little almost apologetic laugh: but his voice had lost none of its decisiveness when he added, ‘I’m such a fool, you know. I have principles!’

The eyes of the beautiful Countess Beredy narrowed until only two long narrow slits could be seen, catlike, between her lashes. Then, her mouth a thin line too, she made an effort to chatter on as if nothing had occurred. ‘Oh dear! What a charming fool you are!’ she said in English; but inside she knew immediately that she would lose no time in finding a way to be avenged of that barely veiled insult.

When the carriages arrived at the castle they were driven one by one through the giant gateway and into the courtyard, drawing up at the foot of the great stair to discharge the guests and then turning and backing up to stand in line facing the entrance. They waited there until all the sixteen horses were standing in line apparently quite motionless except for the occasional soft rattle of a curb-chain. They remained like this for a few moments and then, one by one, starting on the left of the line, they moved slowly off, out through the gates and down the hill to the stables.

No one, alas, saw this elegant and precise manoeuvre which was performed with all the precision of clockwork. The guests hurried up the stairs to their rooms while the accompanying throng, loaders, game carriers, keepers and forest guards, all heavily laden, streamed away through doors at the rear of the courtyard which led to kitchens, game larders, gun-rooms and servants’ living quarters.

The hostess and her widowed sister-in-law, Countess Illesvary, received the returning guests in a small corner room which was the only one of the castle’s drawing-rooms to be furnished in a style later than that of the Empress Maria Theresia. While all the others were decorated in the delicate rococo popular in Vienna in the second half of the eighteenth century, this little room had been completely refurbished from Paris at the time of the Szent-Gyorgyis’ marriage. It bore the unmistakable hallmarks of the Second Empire.