They Were Divided (7 page)

‘I’ve got this bag of chestnuts, but they’re stone cold. Perhaps we could warm them up?’

‘That’d take far too long, the fire’s been out for ages,’ said Adrienne, laughing. ‘I’m so hungry! Let’s have them as they are! They’ll taste every bit as good.’

So as not to soil Adrienne’s sheets with the chestnut peelings they used the newspaper as a tablecloth in the centre of the bed and leaning over from each side they tackled the long-cold nuts with gusto. As they did so Balint told how he had nearly knocked over the old woman who was roasting the chestnuts and how, automatically, he had bought the paper from the news-vendor in the station square; and he related both tales as if they were unreal amusing anecdotes from a remote past which now hardly
concerned
them, indeed as if they had never really happened.

It was the same with all the suffering they had both endured during the past year and a half. The pain and bitterness and the torment they had both gone through all those months when Uzdy’s incipient madness was slowly growing to its climax; the ultimate catastrophe of his complete breakdown; Adrienne’s renunciation of their love and her decree that they must not see each other; and the seemingly endless days and nights of sorrow
and self-recrimination that they had both suffered; all these things now vanished from their minds like the mists of early morning. Not only did they not think about it but they barely even wondered if there had ever really been any reason for the torture they had endured. They did not remember it because it no longer existed, because they were together again and at home in each other’s arms, because they belonged to each other, a real couple, male and female of the same species, and because
anything
which did not concern them now was as unreal as a mere phantom.

So, together on the wide bed, he in her silken wrap and she with her night-dress slightly torn and slipping down over one shoulder, they fell on the sooty chestnuts with hungry delight.

‘Wasn’t it lucky you bought them!’ said Addy.

W
HEN KAROLY KHUEN-HEDERVARY
formed a new
government
in January, 1910, few people, and especially those who had been immersed in the fantasy world of Coalition politics, believed it would achieve any more than had its predecessors. Everywhere it was said that the new government would soon
suffer
the same fate as that of General Fejervary five years before for it was still believed that a government made up of people not in Parliament had no solid base and therefore would not stand the pace. Indeed so frosty was the lack of welcome with which it was received that when Khuen-Hedervary announced that Parliament was to be adjourned he was met with an immediate motion of ‘No Confidence’.

But things had changed and the political climate in 1910 was not at all what it had been five years before. The public had become disillusioned and now there were not many who bothered themselves with anything so trivial as a change of government.

In 1905 such had been the general optimism that people had really believed that Hungary stood on the threshold of a new golden age. The resounding promises of reform and improvement which had been brandished as the election slogans of the parties forming the Coalition – as, for example, the separation of the army commands and the establishment of an independent Customs service – had everywhere been taken as if these goals
had already been achieved or, if not exactly achieved, at the very least only temporarily delayed by the unpatriotic plots of their political opponents, that wicked
camarilla
whose sinister influence would be swept away as soon as the Coalition came to power. Few people had then paused to reflect that the
trade-unionists
would never really co-operate with any other group and had only joined in the call to overthrow the existing government because they themselves had never expected to be called upon to face the realities of political power; nor that there were forces in the running of a great nation far greater and more complicated than were admitted in the seductive paragraphs of the radical press. It never occurred to the majority that the real national interest lay in the sound administration of agriculture, industry and commerce, in the defence of the realm and the maintenance of law and order; and in fair treatment of the ethnic minorities and the under-privileged. It was on how such matters were handled that the prestige of the Dual Monarchy and its position as a great power rested; and it was on Austria-Hungary’s position as a great power that the continued prosperity of the individual depended. And yet, simple and logical as this proposition might have appeared, it still seemed beyond the grasp of the general public.

During the period of Fejervary’s government the leaders of the Coalition began to grasp that their fight was hopeless because they had argued themselves into a totally false position. It was this that led to the famous
Pactum
between the radical coalitionists and the Emperor.

And now they made their first great irremediable mistake: they declared publicly that the compromise was a triumph. This bare-faced lie, like the principle of original sin, bedevilled the five years of their reign until, totally divided, quarrelling over every issue, accusing each other of ineptitude and incapacity, the Coalition ended in total fiasco. The general public, for once, grasped what had happened and withdrew its support, turning away with bored contempt. Khuen-Hedervary quickly grasped what was happening and cleverly turned the situation to his own advantage.

The new government’s initial programme was intentionally, and wisely, colourless and confined itself to generalities. The only exception was a declaration of support for the idea of introducing universal suffrage, expressed only in the vaguest terms. Indeed the whole document was so imprecise that everyone, conservative
or radical, could read into it support for anything they themselves desired.

The first real action taken was to correct some of the most
glaring
of the Coalition’s mistakes. Rauch, the Ban of Croatia, whose rule had been so disastrous, was dismissed and the
judgements
in the Zagreb treason trial set aside. All prosecutions for sedition that were pending against representatives of the ethnic minorities were immediately abandoned.

The country started to breathe more easily as the consequences of the rash measures of the recent past were gently swept aside. It was all somewhat grey and colourless, but it was obvious that
matters
were being handled with simple common sense and so
everyone
began eagerly to prepare themselves for the inevitable general election. Such was the mood when Parliament was adjourned.

Everyone was content except for some members of the Independence Party who had brought forward a bizarre theory that as they had been elected to office and as the Budget had not yet been voted, there could be no new elections. When
Khuen-Hedervary
rose to move the adjournment they made such a noise that no one could hear a word he said.

Khuen remained standing at his desk and waited until the uproar died down, but as soon as he opened his mouth again the commotion raged once more. At last seeing no other solution, as this was likely to go on indefinitely, he decided to move closer to the stenographers so that they at least would be able to hear and take down a record of his words. Hardly had he stepped down from his place when some rebellious members sitting on the extreme left jumped up and started bombarding him with
anything
they could lay their hands on such as books, inkpots and paperknives. A heavy inkpot struck him on the forehead and blood poured down his face. Despite it all, and throughout this unexpected tempest, Khuen-Hedervary maintained his usual good-humoured calm.

This appalling scene scandalized the public, and even the party leaders of those who had behaved so badly condemned what had happened. The unruly members’ excuse, which was published on the following day – namely that they had thought the Minister-President was moving from his rostrum to insult them personally – was believed by no one. It was indeed absurd to imagine that one frail elderly man was about to tackle
physically
a group of several hundred able-bodied members sitting together on the benches at the extreme left-hand side of the
Chamber. When, on December 13th, 1904, the same group, more or less, had attacked the security guards in the Chamber, the public had believed their tale not knowing, though the
members
had, that the guards had been expressly ordered not to
retaliate
if provoked. Now no one credited this kind of fantasy. Everyone thought that, rather than try to excuse themselves, it would have been better and more dignified if they had admitted the fault and merely explained that they had been carried away in the passion of the moment. That at least would have been
honest
, or could have been taken as such, and might have suggested extenuating circumstances. As it was, all that happened was that the riotous members and their parties lost all respect; and the incident was not forgotten when the time came for the elections and the voters started to weigh up the Coalition’s record.

The result was soon seen: barely a hundred candidates from the three main parties of the Coalition were elected to the new Parliament. On the other hand Khuen-Hedervary’s supporters got a huge majority, and it was generally thought that now some constructive work could be begun.

Begun? Yes; but whether he would be able to achieve anything was another matter.

Obstruction, that cancer at the heart of all attempts to put through progressive measures in the Hungarian Parliament, which had paralysed successive administrations for the previous ten years and which had now become the habitual weapon used by the insubordinate left wing even against its own leadership, might well be used again to frustrate the new government. It could rise at any time, brandishing no matter what popular
slogan
, and it would always find support in that section of the press whose only allegiance seemed to be to the trouble-makers. There were also other sources of possible weakness, less obvious, less familiar, but these lay hidden for the present from both the government’s supporters and their political opponents.

The government announced that its first aim would be
electoral
reform. As this was only mentioned in outline everyone could declare their support, whether they wanted only minor changes or radical reform of the suffrage qualifications. Thus a substantial majority declared its support for the cabinet without anyone knowing which standpoint was the stronger even inside the
government
party. The Independence Party, as it had been for some time, was split in two. Kossuth and his followers took up a
moderate
stance while Justh led his splinter group so far to the left that
a few months later they joined up with the socialists. It was this later move which led to that surprising situation when Tisza and Kossuth stood together on the same platform while the other wing of the government party, led by Laszlo Lukacs, made approaches to Justh and the left-wingers.

All this proved the old adage that where elections were
concerned
it was best to leave such important issues in as much uncertainty as possible.

It was also clear to some observers that one reason for Khuen not making any more precise declaration of his policy was that he had no wish to antagonize Tisza, for without him and his liberal party followers’ support he would be bound to fail to obtain any reform at all. Khuen’s over-riding purpose was to re-establish harmony between the King and the Parliament, the twin pillars of the Constitution, and to this end he subordinated any other consideration and welcomed to his side anyone who would serve his purpose, even if he was not otherwise an ally or supporter. And so was formed the 1910 Parliament which was the first one in many years not to be composed entirely of blinkered politicians blinded by their own unthinking allegiance either to the 1867 Compromise or to the independence principles of the Men of 1848; and which consequently was also the first Parliament to take notice of what was going on outside the Kingdom.

As the traditional party slogans had become anathema to many people a surprisingly large number of districts – thirty-one in all – voted for candidates free of any party commitments. This had never happened before. Another side effect was that many of the new members, though they belonged officially to one party or another, by no means always followed slavishly that
party
’s official line. This was clear for all to see when it came to
dealing
with the project for electoral reform. It began at a conference of conservatives held in the Vigado building where Istvan Tisza and the extreme Independent Mihaly Karolyi were shown to hold the same opinions. On the same day the former Minister-President and Protestant leader, Dezso Banffy, met at the town hall with two pillars of the conservative party, Pal Sandor and Gyula Lanczy, and also with the Christian Democrat Giesswein and the democrats Vazsonyi and Jaszi, to agree their joint programme for a radical revision of the right to vote.

There was at this time another issue which transcended
traditional
party lines: this was the Transylvanian Movement.

This had come into being as a result of a widespread feeling in
Transylvania that its individual traditions and history, as well as its own very special spirit, had become less and less recognized, let alone respected, by the central government in Budapest, who were all too apt to think of Transylvania as just one of a string of otherwise insignificant provinces. Nothing of its riches, either of historical achievement or individual culture, nor of its real
problems
, was accorded any real importance in the capital. The Transylvanian spirit was slowly being drained away in the maw of Hungarian self-sufficiency and at best was ignored. So delicate, so subtle were Transylvania’s real problems that it needed much knowledge and experience to know how to handle them. When the central government did interfere it did so with brutal
indifference
, usually doing more harm than good.

Balint Abady had seen this with growing concern and so was one of the founders of the movement whose aim was to encourage a better understanding and a more just treatment of his beloved homeland. He first drafted a programme and then in March started canvassing his ideas and whipping up support from his
fellow
Transylvanians, starting with Tisza himself in Budapest. Through the lawyer Timisan he tried to interest the Romanian minorities. In all this he deluded himself that he was only doing his duty, but the reality was, of course, that this plunging into work on behalf of Transylvania and immersing himself once more in the development of the Co-operative movements, was really for him little more than a narcotic taken to relieve the pain of his sorrow and self-torment.

Tisza, though sympathetic to Balint’s ideas, still ordered his followers to hold aloof from the movement because it smacked too much of particularism. Tisza listened politely with his
habitual
quiet, somewhat derisive smile. He told Balint it was all very interesting … but he didn’t offer any support.