They Were Counted (8 page)

 

All this was happening while Balint was washing in the guest cloak room. As he stepped out into the hall he met again the
butler
Kadar carrying a large tray of glasses.

‘Where can I find Countess Laczok?’ he asked.

‘The Count should leave her be,’ replied the old man testily, ‘and go on out into the garden. That’s where all the gentlemen are.’ And without waiting for an answer, he marched on
breathing
heavily.

So Balint went out through the front door again. About a
hundred
yards away on the edge of the old moat was a gaunt old lime tree under which the men were gathered. Some of them had come from the races, while others were husbands of the ladies upstairs who had come from Vasarhely and the country around
Var-Siklod
to call upon the hostess. Under the tree was a round table made from an ancient mill-stone, on which had been placed
decanters
of wine, bottles of lemonade and mineral waters and
several
trays of glasses. Directly under the tree sat the host, Count Jeno Laczok. The visitors, on benches and garden chairs – and some standing – had grouped themselves according to their
political
allegiance; one party on his left, the other on his right.

Next to the host, on his right, sat Crookface, who had been Prefect for fifteen years during the Kalman Tisza régime, and
beside
him the present Prefect, Peter Kis, with Soma Weissfeld, the banker who was also a State Counsellor. This last honorary title had been obtained for Weissfeld by Jeno Laczok as a reward for having helped him run the private company which had been formed to manage the combined forestry interests of the different branches of the Laczok family. Nearby sat Beno Balogh Peter, the ambitious notary who was always being wooed by the
opposition
; Uncle Ambrus who, though he secretly inclined away from the party in power, gave outward allegiance to whichever policy was supported by his cousin Crookface; Adam and Zoltan Alvinczy, who followed Uncle Ambrus in everything; and,
finally
, Joska Kendy, who sat silently smoking his pipe. Joska never discussed politics but he had placed himself there because he had two horses to sell and planned to palm them off on the Prefect.

Here the party line was broken by a large and hairy man with a black beard, Zoltan Varju, a neighbour of the Laczoks, who was generally regarded as an irresponsible and dangerous
demagogue
, and who sat facing the host.

On Count Laczok’s other side sat Ordung, the County Sheriff, whose dealings with the opposition were by no means as discreet as he believed; his friend the Deputy Sheriff Gaalffy, and an
elderly
man, Count Peter Bartokfay, in Hungarian dress and boots, who had been Member for Maros-Torda for many years in the past. Beside the old politician sat Zsigmond Boros, an eminent lawyer in the district and one of the leading political figures in Vasarhely; and a round-faced, puffy young man, Isti Kamuthy, who was politically ambitious and so liked to keep in with anyone important.

Between Kamuthy and Varju sat old Daniel Kendy who had no political ideas of any sort, but who had chosen that place
because
there he was nearest to the wine. He never spoke, but just sat quietly drinking, refilling his glass the moment it was empty.

A little further away, outside the main circle, stood and sat the young men who had been asked to the ball, together with a few others who had not found places nearer the host. Among these last was Tihamer Abonyi who had placed himself beside Laszlo Gyeroffy, partly because they came from the same district and partly because of Laszlo’s grand Hungarian connections. Balint went at once towards Laszlo, his friend and cousin,
rejoicing
to see a kindred spirit. As he did so he recalled the words of Schiller ‘
Unter
Larven
die
einzig
’
f
ü
hlende
Brust
– in all these grubs just one faithful heart’, but even as he quoted the words to himself he was seized by the Prefect, Peter Kis, who greeted him with as much warmth as if he had been the prodigal son.

Balint, who had met only the Countess Laczok, asked him: ‘Which is the host?’

‘I’ll introduce you at once, my dear friend,’ replied the Prefect, putting an arm round Balint’s shoulders and propelling him
forward
as if Balint were his special responsibility. They had to stoop to pass under the low spreading branches of the tree to reach the wide pine bench on which Count Jeno was sitting.

The host was a heavy-set man, fat and almost completely bald. A single lock of hair was combed over his forehead, like a small brown island in the yellow sea of his smooth shining hairless skull. There were two ridges offat at the nape of his neck and he had three double chins, and his large pale face was given distinction only by an impressive black drooping moustache and the upward
sweeping
eyebrows that peered out from the layers of fat. Count Laczok sat rigidly upright, neither leaning on the arms of the bench nor against the tree behind him. One of his short legs reached the ground, the other was drawn up under him, and he held his hands spread on his knees. Balint at once thought of those squat Chinese soapstone figures displayed in oriental bazaars. The Lord of Siklod, sitting hieratically under the old lime tree, seemed a
reincarnation
of some Szekler-hun ancestor from the distant past.

‘May I present Count Balint Abady, my latest and dearest Member?’ said Peter Kis, pushing Balint forward with a special squeeze on his shoulder as if he were thus sealing their friendship.

‘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.