They Were Divided (29 page)

Franz-Josef’s threat of abdication came like a thunderbolt from a clear sky. He had ruled so long, become so associated with the very idea of monarchy, that it seemed that the man himself, and only he, was in fact the institution. Perhaps some people realized that one day a change would come, but few could imagine what it would be like. In Hungary some of the political leaders such as Justh and his followers had, through the turncoat Kristoffy, maintained some sort of contact with the so-called ‘workshop’ of Franz-Josef’s heir, the Archduke Franz-Ferdinand, at the Belvedere Palace in Vienna, but it must be admitted that this was mainly a matter of political tactics, one of the backstairs routes to power. Such men hoped that by exerting pressure on the Heir they might finally not only gain some of their vote-catching aims (such as, for instance, the introduction of universal suffrage) but also that this would enable them to ride into office; but they never really grasped that a change of ruler might also involve other changes too. Some there were, ambitious men who felt their talents had not been sufficiently appreciated, who offered
themselves
to the Belvedere with much the same desperation as a
bankrupt
foolishly spending his last penny on a lottery ticket expecting thereby to win a fortune! But it would have been
difficult
, among all the thousands of other politically-minded
inhabitants
of Budapest, to find one who had really considered either the effects of change or indeed that change might come at any time, maybe today, maybe tomorrow.

Now, suddenly, this horrid prospect was upon them; and it had appeared in its most unexpected form, the possible
abdication
of the monarch.

While the Minister-President conferred with his colleagues behind the closed doors of the Deak Room, and while Count Berchtold, accompanied by a small group of old friends, strolled with insouciant elegance through the galleries of the club, more
and more people came thronging into the public rooms. In little groups they discussed the terrible news in hushed voices and, at the bottom of the stairs, the newspaper men waited for definite news, and cross-questioned each other to find out if anyone knew more than they did. The telephone never stopped ringing,
sounding
as loud as a fireman’s bell in the general hush.

Everyone was upset and worried, for to most of them the Heir represented the Unknown. Only one thing was sure, and that was that Franz-Ferdinand hated the Hungarians. Only that was
certain
, everything else was a mere question-mark.

The government’s supporters were filled with anxiety, but the opposition’s reaction was one of anger. No one dared say openly what they felt, but the unspoken thought was there behind their words and what they felt was anger, anger with the old monarch who seemed to have stolen a march upon them all by being so ungentlemanly as to make such a threat at such a time. Why, it was as if two men had been playing a friendly game of chess – only it happened to be the game of government – when suddenly one of them got up and walked away!

Indeed it was all a little like chess where the accepted rules make sure that bishops only move diagonally, knights can jump a square or two, and pawns, while they can be taken from the side, can only move forwards and then only one pace at a time; and every move has only one aim, to checkmate the opponent’s king. For as long as anyone could remember politics in Budapest had been like that. By strictly interpreting the House Rules, by reviving forgotten procedures, by shifting loyalty and by endless declarations of vote-catching slogans, the opposition had for more than ten years obstructed all progress, especially delaying the modernization of the army, until they thought they had got the king surrounded and defenceless. This was how they
themselves
saw the situation in 1912. Their reasoning was thus: who needs an army? The country? Not at all: only the king needed an army. Who needs a navy? Well, the king needed a navy; and if he wanted it all that much then he must be made to pay for it and pay for it by conceding the opposition’s just demands. Of course he would give in because the pressure of world affairs would make it imperative for him. The worse the international situation became, the more they would insist on their demands being met, and they would squeeze the old sovereign until he would be forced to concede all they asked. Now, just as they had come to believe that this policy was working and that the government was
preparing to surrender, what happens? The king announces that he is going to quit the game and let his successor take his place at the chessboard. It was a hard blow; and as unfair and as
unsporting
as the player who slams his fist down on the table. It was more: it was not the act of a gentleman.

Though that is what everyone thought, no one said it openly.

Fredi Wuelffenstein came as close as any to saying frankly what was in his mind. He was standing in the doorway of the Szechenyi Room holding forth to a group of younger men in the belief, not entirely justified, that they admired him. Noisily advancing the left-wing view, he said, ‘We mustn’t fall for this! The King is only bluffing. He just wants to scare us, which isn’t at all what we might expect of him. Of course he won’t abdicate! Never! Not he! It’s bluff, nothing but bluff! He believes we’ll all be so scared of what the Heir’ll do that we’ll just give in; but we won’t. Anyhow, what would happen if Franz-Ferdinand did become King? All he could do would be to come to some
arrangement
with us. We wouldn’t crown him if he didn’t; and without a coronation there’d be no King! Even the Belvedere must accept that. It’s one of Hungary’s most sacred traditions…’ and he went on, ever more loudly and brashly, and always repeating himself, as people do who have only a meagre vocabulary at their command. Each time he said the same thing again he beat his fist like a hammer as if this would serve to convince his audience.

Then Niki Kollonich intervened. At the last elections he had come into the house on the Popular Party ticket. He was just as prying, insolent and insincere a man as he had been a boy; and he loved to stir up trouble. Now, he asked mildly: ‘Surely I
remember
you saying last autumn that we ought to pay court to the Heir, to His Highness the Archduke Franz-Ferdinand?’

Wuelffenstein nearly exploded with rage because what Niki had said was only too true. Not long before, through his sister the beautiful Countess Breezy, he had managed to wangle an
invitation
to shoot at the Archduke’s place at More; and all that had happened had been that his host had completely ignored him, failed even to give him the time of day and indeed had not appeared even to notice his presence despite the smart English clothes he wore each day. This had continued for the whole three days of the shooting party – not a word, not even a glance. The only result of the whole expedition had been that back in Budapest, where the news of his presence in the enemy’s camp
had been widely trumpeted, poor Fredi now found himself an object of suspicion in his own party.

‘I never said any such thing!’ he shouted. ‘All I said was that the Heir should be kept informed, that we should see that he knew what we wanted. Someone ought to tell him that we’ll never give in, and that we won’t yield an inch. He’s got to know that without our co-operation the Crown gets nothing! That’s what I said. Without us there’ll be nothing, no army, nothing, just nothing!’

Niki then added, in admiring tones, ‘Of course you told him that when you were shooting together, didn’t you?’

‘I’ve always said it, and to him too … at least I would have done if the occasion had arisen … but he doesn’t impress me, I can tell you that! Nor anyone else either for that matter. And as for the Archduke, well, he has no say in the matter until he becomes King; and when that time comes he can only rule if we want him to!’

Even Fredi might not have argued so passionately, nor uttered such idiotic remarks, had he seen who was standing behind him.

It was Slawata, adviser to the Austrian Foreign Office and an intimate of Franz-Ferdinand. Behind his thick glasses his eyes seemed to gaze into the distance and the bland expression on his face gave away nothing of what he might be thinking. He stood there, apparently somewhat bored, as if he had simply strayed there by chance. After a moment or two he wandered off to see what he might overhear elsewhere.

At that moment Abady arrived at the club and almost collided with Slawata at the door. The latter at once brightened up as if thankful at last to meet someone he knew.

‘
Komm!
Ich
muss
mit
dir
reden!
– come with me, I want a word with you. At last I’ve found somebody I can talk to. Let’s find a quiet spot!’ And so saying he took Balint’s arm and led him away.

For some time Balint had tried to avoid Jan Slawata’s
confidences
, because Slawata frequently said things that offended Balint’s patriotic feelings. Yet it was difficult to avoid meeting this old colleague – for they had both started their careers in the Ministry for Foreign Affairs in Vienna – and there was something about having worked in the Ballplatz that formed a bond
between
its alumni that often lasted a lifetime. So it was with Slawata and Abady. Whatever their differences there always remained this old link, which was something more than mere friendship for it was based less on mutual attraction and more on
the fact that, diplomatically speaking, they spoke the same
language
. Usually Abady’s reluctance to listen to Slawata’s often tactless opinions had led to his avoiding the diplomat’s company, but on this day he welcomed it, for he was anxious to hear
something
more authoritative than the gossip and rumour that were flooding the Casino at that moment.

‘You can imagine,’ said the friend and confidant of
Franz-Ferdinand
, ‘the emotions produced by the Old Man’s
announcement
. For years we have been waiting for our turn to come and now we are not even ready for it! Nothing is prepared, we have no definite programme and no men trained and ready to take over the reins of government. Of course His Highness knows what he wants, but the details still have to be worked out. The “
workshop
” is feverishly busy, but I can tell you it’s chaos, absolute chaos! Personally I could wish for some other solution to this
crisis
… we’re simply not ready! I’ve been sent to see how the land lies, find out what people are thinking, judge everyone’s reactions, their moods, what their reactions are … It’s not a nice job, and I don’t like it one bit. And it’s a dreadful responsibility. If
anything
goes wrong then I’ll get the blame and His Highness, as you know, can be pretty ruthless. He doesn’t play games, that one!’

‘Well, I for one don’t think there’ll be any change,’ said Abady. ‘As I see it Khuen-Hedervary will resign and whoever succeeds will simply back down and withdraw the resolution. After all the government only adopted it as a means to stop all this obstruction.’

‘That might be so had Tisza not accepted it too; but with him involved things are much more serious. The resolution is now his baby. Of course I now see what a mistake we made in telling our defence minister Auffenburg to protest to the Hungarian
government
. That’s what has made Tisza so angry; you know how touchy he can be about anything that seems like an infringement of Hungary’s independence. Anyhow we think Tisza has an
ulterior
motive in supporting the resolution: he wants to use it against us as soon as there is a change of ruler. The theory at the Belvedere is that Tisza believes that when this happens there won’t be any more bargaining; just a clean break with the
resolution
remaining but with the obstructionists removed. If, when the Heir ascends the throne, he finds himself opposed by a
majority
in the Hungarian Parliament, then he’ll find himself up against the Constitution. In our view Tisza is the true enemy, not
those loud-mouthed demagogues in opposition. He is a far more serious opponent than the others, much stronger – a real hard Hungarian, that one!’

Slawata could not leave the subject of the dangers he saw in Tisza’s surprising support of the resolution; neither could he
conceal
his deep anxiety. He was clearly worried by what Tisza might obtain in a private audience with Franz-Josef. Indeed he might even persuade the old monarch, who had always
appreciated
his brilliance and charm of manner, to give way, especially if he could convince Franz-Josef that Auffenberg’s unfortunate intervention in Hungary’s parliamentary affairs had been
instigated
by the Heir, which, of course, it had been. If Tisza was able to make it seem that the resolution was the logical outcome of Franz-Josef’s own work, and was designed to protect the 1867 Compromise against the destructive plots of the Heir, then it was by no means unlikely that the monarch would withdraw his threat of abdication. ‘And then,’ went on Slawata, ‘we shall really find ourselves in difficulties; and we’ve already got enough as it is.’