They Were Divided (28 page)

It was dark when Abady finally took his leave. Tamas
accompanied
him to the door, saying, ‘Wait a moment! There’s a little path round the side of the house. It’ll get you down dry-shod,’ and he called through to the kitchen, ‘Lajko! Lajko! Come out here!’

A slender gypsy boy, about seventeen years old, came running out. His beard had hardly sprouted and he wore an assortment of discarded gentleman’s clothes – a shabby smoking-jacket and a patched pair of striped trousers – and his feet were thrust into an old pair of tennis shoes. Under the jacket his chest was bare. And on his finely carved Egyptian features was a sly smile of mock humility.

‘At your service?’ It was a question.

‘You can show this gentleman down the side path.’

The youth started off but, noticing that Balint was not
following
him, stopped a few paces away.

Laczok, seeing the surprise in Balint’s face, gave a roar of
cynical
laughter.

‘
Elle
a
ffirme
que
c’est
son frère,
mais je
ne
le
crois
pas
–
she says he is her brother, but I don’t believe it!’

He gave a hefty slap to Abady’s shoulder, and then bade him goodbye.

Abady and the gypsy descended the hill, the lad leading the way. He had all the litheness and grace of a panther and the quick, neat movements of his nomadic forebears. After swiftly taking five or six paces he stopped and looked back and waited for Abady to catch up. For a moment his white eyeballs gleamed in the smooth dark face and then he turned and went on down as if barely able to curb his youthful impatience.

Abady descended the path at his own pace. The city’s myriad lights glowed down in the valley and for a moment Abady found himself almost blinded by the arc-lights of the station at the foot of the hill. For a moment or two he paused to gaze at the beauty of the great spread of tiny lights in the dark night; and, as he stopped, he was thinking what a strange man Tamas Laczok was. He knew so much, he was filled with esoteric knowledge, he had gazed at wide horizons and not been dazzled, and he was also a man of culture and refinement. But he had used none of it: he had just let it go to waste, burying himself here in a ramshackle
cottage
with a little gypsy whore, and yet he showed all the signs of being a happy man.

Balint thought of poor Gazsi Kadacsay, who had killed himself in despair because he could not acquire what Count Tamas had carelessly tossed away. He wondered if Gazsi’s fate would have been different if he had managed to learn all that Tamas had learned; and would Laczok be so carefree and merry if, with all his knowledge, he had not abandoned his origins and turned his back on power and worldly success? Was it some inborn wisdom that had given him the strength to throw all that away, or would he have been just as happy if fate had not made him leave his own country and go away to learn about the world elsewhere? Would he have been as jovial and contented if he had merely stayed at home, living in idleness and easy ignorance?

Was a man formed by his experience or by his natural talents? Can a man only give up calmly what he is already sure of
possessing
, and never what he has vainly longed to acquire?

L
ATE
IN THE AFTERNOON
of March 7th, 1912, there was an exceptionally large crowd of people milling about in the spacious reception rooms of the National Casino Club in Budapest. As well as the familiar group of card-players and all those so-called ‘
szkupcsina
’
–
the disgruntled old armchair
politicians
who were forever complaining – on this day there was an almost complete gathering of the ruling party’s political leaders. They were all waiting for the return from Vienna of the
Minister-President
, Khuen-Hedervary, who had let it be known that he was bringing important news and wished everyone to be present so that he could discuss it with them in confidence.

In those days the Casino Club was always being used for such meetings because anyone who was a member could go in and out without anyone else wondering what they were doing there and, furthermore, since those who were not members were permitted to use one of the restaurant rooms on the ground floor, anyone could be seen coming in without the press guessing that
something
was up and broadcasting the news to the general public.

Everyone realized the news must be exceptionally important; it was known that Count Berchtold, Austria’s foreign minister since the death of Aehrenthal a few months before, was also
coming
from Vienna and would see Khuen-Hedervary that night.

And very important it was – sudden, unexpected, serious and astonishing. It was also alarming and seemed fraught with
danger
. It was simply that at the previous day’s audience,
Franz-Josef
had instructed Khuen-Hedervary to inform the political leaders of Hungary that after more than half a century on the throne he was seriously considering abdication. He had informed the Minister-President that ever since 1867 he had faithfully and honestly respected the agreement drawn up in that year between the governments of Austria and Hungary, that he had done everything he could to humour the leaders of Hungary, always promoting Hungarian interests and honouring that country’s great families and now, or so it seemed to him, it was the
descendants
of those very people who had turned away from him and left it to him alone to preserve the terms of that agreement.

‘In these circumstances,’ the monarch had continued, ‘we authorize you to explain confidentially to your colleagues that if the Party of 1867 now in power decides to ally themselves with those who wish to erode our most important governing powers, then we are ready to abdicate at once and hand the throne over to our successor!’ He had then added, with conscious irony: ‘Then they’ll see what they are in for!’

The King’s words were a direct reference to the proposal put forward by Ferenc Kossuth which, if accepted, would have put an end to the Commander-in-Chief’s right to mobilize the reserves should the politicians’ obstructive tactics prevent the annual recruiting law being passed in Parliament. This proposal, after much debate, had been accepted not only by Andrassy, but also, and most unexpectedly, by Tisza and by
Khuen-Hedervary
himself – in other words by the majority of the 1867 Party. The reason was that the opposition’s obstruction of the passing of the defence estimates had already kept going since the previous July, and Kossuth had made it clear that acceptance of his terms was the price that had to be paid if the obstruction was to come to an end.

Tisza and Khuen-Hedervary had been almost alone in
realizing
that, in the present deteriorating situation in Europe, the
primary
consideration must be the building up of the armed forces. Tisza also did not think the diminution of the Commander-in-Chief’s prerogatives – which in any case he had planned to bring about in due course – anything like as important as bringing to an end the stalemate in Parliament. For them both the over-
riding
priority was to modernize the army.

Since the previous July the European situation had grown worse and worse.

The revolt in Albania had spread alarmingly. The rebels had been joined by several more tribes and even by officers from the Sultan’s army. Everywhere Turks were being assassinated and the government in Istanbul had ordered up reinforcements to control the borders with Montenegro. Nikita had at once replied by mobilizing the Montenegrin reserves while at the same time cynically offering peace negotiations – this from the man who had aided the Albanian rebels with sanctuary and supplies of arms! In this he had not been alone, for it was known that aid also came, if clandestinely, from Italy, for many resident Albanians had re-crossed the Adriatic and joined their compatriots in
fighting the Turks. No one believed that this was done without the connivance and active help of the government in Rome and indeed it was the first tangible sign of Italy’s going her own way regardless of the official policy of her allies in the Triple Alliance, Austria-Hungary and Germany, whose Balkan policy was firmly based on maintaining the
status
quo
of the Turkish empire.

All these developments were but a foretaste of what was to come, a curtain-raiser, as it were, to events elsewhere.

At Agadir in Morocco a few German citizens were subjected to some insignificant barbarity, whereupon Berlin despatched a destroyer, the ‘Panther’, to demand satisfaction and, if necessary, to exact retribution. Making a show of force with no preliminary negotiations was in itself sufficiently provocative, but matters were made worse when the Kaiser Wilhelm, who was given to such over-hasty actions, sent a telegram to the German
commanding
officer: ‘
Panther!
Fass
!
– Panther! Catch ’em!’

The European powers, who had between them settled Morocco’s fate at the Algeciras Conference in 1906, protested loudly at this arrogance on Germany’s part, especially when Berlin declared it a matter which concerned France and Germany alone. At once the French and English standpoints were made clear to the world; France protested strongly and London declared it stood firmly behind Paris. In a few days,
tension
mounted so high that war seemed inevitable and, even though Reuters announced that Great Britain had no wish to be involved, the Atlantic Fleet was put in readiness and a flotilla of torpedo-boats left Portland with sealed orders. Some saw all this as a God-given opportunity to destroy the German fleet whose recent build-up had been worrying England for some time. Had this been allowed to happen a general European war would have been inevitable.

As it happened the German chancellor, Bethman-Holweg, found himself forced to come to an agreement with the French. This was not easy, but after prolonged negotiations, during which the German demands grew progressively weaker, Bethman-Holweg was obliged to accept compensation in the form of a slice of the Congo which was riddled with yellow fever.

It was an ignominious ending to an enterprise which had started with such a high-handed flourish; but for all its comedy the affair had its serious side. Before the Agadir incident the open-door policy as regards Morocco had been generally accepted. Now it was clear that Germany had bought peace by
abandoning a policy that was in everybody’s interest. And this she had done by selling her commercial rights in Morocco in exchange for a dish of lentils, which is what her newly acquired colony in Africa was derisively named by the other powers. Germany’s action in almost breaking the peace and then
descending
to diplomatic blackmail (even though it was clear to everyone that what she had given up in Morocco was far more valuable than what she received elsewhere) served as Bethman-Holweg’s introduction to the stage of world politics – and it was also the first significant dent in Germany’s prestige abroad.

The Moroccan crisis had lasted from July 5th, 1911 until the end of September in the same year, and coincided with the
general
mobilization in Montenegro. This marked the start, in Budapest, of the parliamentary obstruction of the Hungarian army estimates. On July 9th Asquith announced Britain’s
solidarity
with France, and on July 11th Kossuth declared that he would fight the Hungarian government’s defence proposals with all the means in his power: and it was on the following day that he put into effect the obstructive tactics designed to prevent the modernization of the Hungarian army.

On July 26th the British fleet was put in a state of readiness and on the 30th Gyula Justh held a public meeting at which he brandished the slogan of universal suffrage as infinitely more important to Hungary than the nation’s ability to defend itself. The rabble, roused by this irresponsible speechifying, streamed wildly down Rakoczy Street and was only halted at the corner of the Karolyi Ring. This occurred on the same afternoon that the British torpedo-boat flotilla left Portland Harbour for an ‘unknown destination’, and when the prospect of a European war had been at its most menacing.

And so it went on. Parallel to every event of world importance was some manifestation of purely parochial interest in Budapest; and when the Agadir incident was closed and the revolt in Albania came to a temporary halt, then other sinister happenings disturbed the peace of Europe, many of them close to the borders of Hungary, matters so dangerous and so close to home that one would have thought someone in Budapest would have noticed.

The next move was once again in the Balkans, close to the Hungarian border.

The Franco-German agreement was signed on September 28th. Two days earlier two Italian fleets sailed from Syracuse, one to conquer Tripoli, the other to attack the Turkish empire.

Both of these moves were unexpected and came as a surprise to Vienna as to Berlin. It had been long recognized that France had agreed to Tripoli being in Italy’s sphere of influence, even after that country had seized upon Tunis; but no one had thought of it as being anything more than a sop to Italian sensibilities, a sort of consolation-plaster to be applied to the Italian public’s wounded heart, and of little importance as there were so few Italians living in that part of North Africa. And indeed few people had given it a thought for some time past.

Now, all of a sudden, Rome remembered she was short of
colonies
and declared war on the Sublime Porte. Of course, when Germany had seen fit to ignore the international agreements settled at Algeciras and took her own individual line at Agadir, a proceeding whose negotiated settlement effectively closed the old open-door to Morocco, she did irreparable harm to Italy’s trading interests. At much the same time Aehrenthal’s sudden announcement of the annexation of Bosnia-Herzegovina had encouraged Italy to enter, even if somewhat belatedly, the European powers’ race to acquire colonies. And this she did, independently of her allies and, as Austria had done with Bosnia in 1908, keeping her intentions secret until the last minute. Once again those international agreements, on which the peace of Europe had so long depended, were ignored.

This had happened in October, but despite the inevitable
international
repercussions, in Budapest no one seemed to notice and in public life nothing was changed. Political argument and obstruction went on as before, with the political leaders all
claiming
to be acting in the nation’s best interests. Public opinion remained unawakened to the implications of what was happening abroad; and though Apponyi asked the House to consider what would happen if the Turko-Italian conflict spread to the Balkans, in the very same session all that seemed to interest Mihaly Karolyi, one of the leading opponents of the government, was the possibility of obtaining cheap meat from the Argentine.

The Speaker, Berzeviczy, tried to arrange a meeting between the government and the opposition in the Karolyi palace … but only three ministers turned up, and the negotiations and the obstruction continued for a whole month until Berzeviczy resigned. There was then a short truce so that the Budget could be passed, during which time matters of defence were put on the shelf until, three weeks later, they were brought up again only to be the object of renewed obstruction.

By this time it had become obvious that the ‘
Entente
cordiale
’ – Britain, France and Russia – which had brought Germany to her knees over the Moroccan question, would present a solid front whatever happened and that Italy’s war in Tripolitania was being backed by Britain and France: the proof, if proof were needed, was the occupation by Britain of the Egyptian port of Solum.

And in Hungary all went on as before. As the world situation got worse and worse so the politicians in Budapest buried their heads deeper in the sand and went to war only with each other.