Miklós Bánffy - They Were Counted

‘Welcome, my boy! Welcome!’ said Count Jeno, extending his hand but not otherwise moving, as neither rising nor turning was easy for him.

After greeting his host, Balint introduced himself to the guests he did not already know and went to sit down beside Laszlo Gyeroffy.

‘ Your Member, my dear prefect?’ quietly asked Sheriff Ordung from the other side of the table, in a mocking tone that barely concealed his underlying animosity. Ordung had two reasons to resent the Prefect: firstly because, unlike Peter Kis whose father was a middle-class merchant from far-away Gyergyo, the sheriff came from an ancient noble family of Maros-Torda and secondly, because they belonged to different political parties. As a result they were on worse terms than were usual between elected sheriffs — who could hold office for as long as they retained the confidence of the voters — and the prefects who, as appointees of the government, were apt to come and go with every political upheaval in the capital.

‘Well, Lelbanya is in my country,’ the Prefect replied heartily, but somewhat on the defensive.

‘Elected members belong to the people who have elected them,’ cried Zoltan Varju.

‘… or to the town or country,’ added old Count Bartokfay.

The Prefect, finding himself cornered, took refuge in evasion. ‘I only said “my” because I like him so much!’

Even this did not satisfy the demagogue Varju.

‘Sheer absolutism! Just as if he were appointed by the government,’ went on Varju. ‘It’s not as if it hasn’t happened before.’

‘But he supports the ’67 Compromise.’

‘He’s not a member of any party … and this means he disapproves of the government and the Tisza party,’ intervened Peter Varju who, turning to Balint, went on: ‘Am I right, Count?’

‘I am far too much of a beginner to give an opinion,’ answered Balint, who was not at all sure what to say and felt he was getting into rather deep water.

Now the host thought it was time he intervened.

‘Well spoken, son! That’s the way to defend yourself. I keep clear of opinions too and keep my mouth shut. It’s the only way not to be torn to pieces either by the dogs,’ and he waved at the politicians on his right, ‘… or by the wolves,’ indicating their opponents. ‘Frankly, gentlemen, I don’t see why you all growl at each other so much. The peace has been made by old Thaly, the Hungarian curse has been laid to rest, and all should be friends!’

While saying this, Count Laczok spread his arms wide and then brought them together again, hugging his own huge bulk as if it were the whole world. ‘Be friends, my good fellows, be friends!’ And bursting into loud derisive laughter, he reached for his wineglass, refilled it to the brim, and raising it high, said:

‘Long life to this clever and excellent peace! Drink up, my friends. Vivat! Vivat! ’

And with this ironic toast to the uneasy parliamentary truce, the floodgates of party discussion were opened again.

The bitter battle in Parliament about responsibility for national defence, which had begun a year and a half before and which had brought into the open many old grievances about the complicated legal relationship between Hungary and Austria, had dwindled into an uneasy peace in the previous spring. Though the party leaders in power had managed to overcome some of the technical objections to the integration of the Austrian and Hungarian armies — and indeed had isolated the small group of those politicians who clung to the 1848 policy of complete independence — they still needed, so as not to lose votes, to brandish patriotic slogans that demanded, if not the separation into two of the monarchy’s armies, at least the appointment of Hungarian senior officers. Without such token signs of resistance — and some even thought the national colours woven into Hungarian officers’ insignia would be enough — they were defenceless against the persistent stubbornness of the little group headed by Ugron and Samuel Barra which, though in the minority, took every advantage of the absurd anomalies in the old Hungarian parliamentary rules of procedure to block the passing of budgets, and the approval of foreign contracts, all essential if the business of government was to continue.

By forced votes, all-night sittings, by referring all important issues to rediscussion in closed committees, this little group had done its utmost to outlaw the government itself. To anyone outside politics it seemed inconceivable that such a tiny minority could even attempt to force its will not only on the large majority in Parliament who supported the government but also on the entire monarchy including the Emperor himself. Only those students of history who knew how effectively the Hungarians had used this sort of legalistic quibbling in their centuries-old struggle with the Habsburgs could see what the minority were up to and where they had learned their methods. To this dissident minority, whose heads and hearts were always ruled by patriotic resistance, the achievements of 1790 and 1867 owed nothing to historic circumstances and everything to this sort of delaying tactic.

The precarious armistice between the government and the opposition that had been agreed six months before had only come about because old Kalman Thaly intervened to support the Minister President, Istvan Tisza, when he threatened to reform the Standing Orders by force but let it be known that if peace were made concessions would follow. And both contending parties had become so impatient of the stalemate, and so bored, that they had reluctantly agreed.

Many greeted the parliamentary peace with relief and joy; but there were still those who, sitting at home smoking their pipes, brooded in rebellious discontent and accused even the extremists of being fainthearted and infirm of purpose.

One of those armchair politicians was the elderly Count Bartokfay who, at Var-Siklod that afternoon, had ensconced himself comfortably close to the wine table.

‘That wicked old Master Tisza wouldn’t have got away with it if I’d still been in the House,’ said Bartokfay in his old fashioned country drawl. ‘I’d have had him impeached for breaking the law!’

‘What law? You can’t say he broke any law.’ The prefect Kis was always on the side of authority.

‘He collected taxes that hadn’t been voted!’

‘Come, come! Voluntary contributions aren’t taxes,’ said the notary, who was also known for supporting the government. ‘No one had to pay. Those aren’t taxes!’

But nothing would stop Bartokfay. ‘I’ll keep off the army question then. Maybe that was necessary. But the government started discussing international commercial contracts — and that is a constitutional offence! Yes, a con-sti-tu-tional offence! Even according to the Compromise!’

‘I beg your pardon!’ parried the Prefect, ‘but there’s nothing illegal about discussion. The matter had to be discussed and they were free to do so. Now I agree that a settlement would have to have been stopped … I say it myself, but…’

‘Then all discussion is pointless! Absurd!’

‘All this discussion is absurd!’ shouted Peter Kis, completely losing his temper.

For a moment there was silence. Then a rich deep baritone voice, with melodious depths to it like organ notes, spoke up from the background: it was Zsigmond Boros, the lawyer whom everyone respected.