They Were Divided (44 page)

She did not sleep for long. In barely half an hour she was awake again.

Her first glance was at her son who had sat there without
moving
, his hand imprisoned in hers, all the time she had been asleep. Again she smiled at him.

Perhaps subconsciously recalling what Balint had been telling her before she drifted off to sleep, Countess Roza’s first words were: ‘Let’s go … to the studfarm … to the stud …’

Balint did not at once understand what she was saying, so the old lady shook three times the hand she still held imprisoned in hers, repeating, ‘To the stud … with you … the stud!’ and when Balint tried to dissuade her some nervous energy so took
possession
of her that again she said: ‘… to the studfarm … I want … with you… to see the mares …’ and the veins stood out on her forehead.

The nurse ran to find the doctor, and when he came the three of them tried to calm her down and explain that it would be too tiring for her to visit the stud-farm straight away, too much for her. In the end they succeeded, possibly because by then she was too tired by her own eagerness to argue further, but it was only after they had promised that they would take her to see her beloved horses in the morning. Then she dozed off again.

The next day the country practitioner from Aranyos-Gyeres was called in early and the two doctors discussed whether they should allow the promised expedition. In the end they agreed that if the patient still wanted to go out she should be allowed to do so, for the weather was exceptionally fine and surely, if she were carried carefully downstairs and pushed gently along the smoothest paths, no harm could come of it. On the contrary it might help renew her will to live, that will which until the
previous
day’s miraculous revival had so noticeably declined.

Balint was still somewhat anxious, but felt unable to forbid it; all the more so because the previous evening, when he had gone to visit his mother in bed, and early that morning when he had looked in to see how she was, he saw in her such happy expectation and joy that he did not have the heart to disappoint her.

With a contented smile she had welcomed him to her side;
and each time she had again called him by his father’s name. Filled with renewed joy she told her maids, in his presence, which dress and which bonnet she would wear that day … and what she chose was her finest.

As might have been expected the news had spread early that the old countess was going to visit the mares and so all the Denestornya employees gathered below the castle hill just where the great avenue of tall Hungarian oaks began.

The wheelchair was carried down the stairs by Simon Jäger and Balint. At the bottom of the steps that led up to the castle’s main entrance old Gergely Szakacs was waiting to ask for the honour of wheeling his old mistress along the paths of the garden and park.

So a procession was formed.

Balint took his place to the left of the wheelchair, his hand still held by his mother’s. On her right was the nurse Hedwig and behind Gergely Szakacs walked the two physicians and the
second
nurse. These were followed by Peter the butler, holding a big box of sugar-lumps, and Countess Roza’s elderly maid Terka. Behind the group tottered the two housekeepers, Mrs Baczo and Mrs Tothy, overweight and struggling to keep up with the others. Breathless and flatfooted, these two were forced to give up before they were half-way to wherever their mistress was going.

On each side of the alley that ran between the great oak-trees stood a line of the entire staff, indoor and outdoor, of the castle and estate of Denestornya. Everyone was there, even two of the park game-keepers who, hearing that there was a chance to catch a glimpse of their mistress, had come to be there with the others. All the men held their caps in their hands and saluted silently as Countess Roza’s chair was pushed slowly past.

Sitting almost upright, her slipper-shod feet placed on the footrest as if it were a footstool, the old countess passed between the two lines of her employees like a queen on a slow-moving throne. Even now, old and ailing and very, very weak, she was still the ruler. She was wearing the same lace-trimmed bonnet that she had put on to hand out the presents the previous Christmas. The wide ribbon was tied tightly with a large bow beneath her chin – for she did not want anyone to see how
distorted
her features had become – and as she passed she inclined her head slightly to left and to right and did her best to smile.

And in fact she did smile, a smile irradiated with happiness and triumph … for she was thinking that all these dear people
had gathered there not only for her but also to greet that beloved husband who somehow had come home at last and who was now walking at her side, and holding her hand, as he had done so long ago when they were both young.

The procession went on its way until it reached the bank of the millstream. There Balint took the box of sugar from old Peter and, alone with his mother and the nurse, and of course Gergely Szakacs pushing the chair, they made their way along the path that led across the great meadow. The others all stayed behind at the end of the oak avenue, while Simon Jäger and the
stable-lads
ran off towards the bridge over the river.

‘Where are they going?’ asked Countess Roza, smiling up at Balint.

‘They’re going to drive the mares over here.’

‘Good! That’s good!’ the old lady agreed happily.

As they waited she looked to the right, towards a stand of tall poplars whose silver buds were just beginning to unfold, and to the undergrowth beneath them where the hawthorn bushes were covered with creamy white flowers. Then she turned her head to the left to look along the lines of lime-trees and wide-spreading horse-chestnuts whose great trunks were outlined by the morning sun. From where they stood the view extended into the far
distance
, which was why the meadow was known as the Meadow of the Great View – and now Countess Roza, her slightly
protruding
eyes opened wide, gazed over the vast extent of her domains before again looking up at her son, and saying, as she squeezed his fingers in hers, ‘You see how beautiful, how beautiful it all is … how beautiful!’

Balint could not reply. His eyes were full of tears and all he could do was to give her hand an answering squeeze.

Far in the distance the mares could now be seen coming towards them, galloping because the stable-lads were cracking their whips behind them and this was something to which they were not accustomed. On they came, at a fast gallop, and only stopped about fifty paces away from the little group. There they stood, heads lifted high, with ears cocked as if asking who these people were who had strayed onto their meadow and wondering what was this strange little carriage they had never seen before. For a moment they stood in amazement, almost motionless, with nostrils distended … but only for a moment, for suddenly one of the older mares came forward and advanced towards Countess Roza. Then came another, and another, and then, again another,
until it was clear that they had all recognized their beloved
mistress
and were hurrying to her side.

In a few moments her wheelchair was surrounded. So close they came that their soft muzzles searched her face and rested on her shoulder, asking for the familiar lump of sugar. Balint and Szakacs had a hard time keeping them in order, but Countess Abady was laughing happily, ‘See? This is Csujtar … and Menyet … and here is Borostyan…’ and with her left hand she gave them lump after lump of sugar. She gave and gave and gave; until at last her arm tired and fell into her lap. Then she closed her eyes and leaned back in the cushions murmuring, ‘I’m so happy, so happy!’

She said it so softly that it was barely more than a breath. She did not move. Her head was inclined towards her shoulder.

‘She’s tired,’ said the nurse. ‘We should wait a little.’

Balint, helped by Gergely Szakacs, succeeded in driving the mares a little further away. Then they returned to his mother.

She was still in the same position, quite motionless, a smile upon her lips. For a few moments her son waited. Then he took her hand in his. It was already cold and she had no pulse. The two physicians hurried to her, but all they could do was to
confirm
that she had just died. The younger doctor suggested trying to resuscitate her by an injection, but Balint and the other doctor would not allow it, believing it a dreadful idea, just for few hours, to bring the dying back from other shores only to suffer again before finally letting go. Why should they trouble her now, she who had died so beautifully and in such happiness?

Gently they lowered the chair’s back. Then they raised the footrest until Countess Roza lay almost horizontally, her chin still supported by the bonnet’s wide ribbon.

Slowly they started back.

Once again they passed under the great flower-laden trees where the birds were all singing their joy in this resplendent return of spring. Behind them the same procession reformed, but it was now a funeral cortège.

Further back, just a few paces away, the whole stud followed, all of them, close to each other, their heads lowered as if in sorrow for the dead mistress who had loved them so much. It was as if they too wished to honour her last journey.

At the bridge over the millstream they were held back by the stable lads. Then one of them neighed. They remained there a long time.

W
HEN THE BALKAN WAR
finally came to an end,  leopold berchtold, foreign minister of the dual  monarchy, summoned a delegation of both houses of parliament  to meet him on november 19th, 1913. the delegation included  members of both the government and the opposition parties in  proportion to their strength in the house. 

In the previous year Berchtold had sent for a similar delegation so as to give the representatives of the Hungarian Parliament a resumé of the Ballplatz’s view of the state of foreign affairs. This had not been easy the year before; in the autumn of 1913 it was even more difficult.

A year and a half had passed since Berchtold had first taken charge of the Viennese Foreign Office, and in this time all his efforts at diplomacy had ended in failure. When the Balkan War had started Berchtold had been so confident of a Turkish victory that he had then declared that, no matter what happened at the front, the
status
quo
in the Balkans would remain unchanged. He had spoken recklessly, and too soon, for almost at once the rebels in the Turkish provinces had chased the Ottoman armies from the field, and so there had been no question, after such dizzying triumphs, of ordering the victorious insurgents to withdraw behind their former frontiers. Berchtold had then found himself in the unenviable position of having to go cap in hand to the London Conference, defend his now untenable former
convictions
and somehow save what he could from the débacle he had failed to foresee. His task had been to evict Nikita from Scutari and prevent the Serbs from obtaining such influence in Albania that they would acquire the use of an Adriatic port. His aims therefore had been entirely negative.

All this had formed the theme of Berchtold’s address the
previous
year; and, because then the situation in the Balkans was still far from being settled, and also because the Dual Monarchy’s
relations
with Russia had been particularly strained, he had managed to set forth his exposé without encountering undue criticism.

A year later the situation was very different. At the end of August the Bucharest peace treaty had been signed and so what
had previously remained uncertain now had somehow to be explained away. As far as Austria-Hungary was concerned the profit-and-loss account showed a deficit, and Berchtold had the pitiful task of trying to make the best of it.

The truth was that the Dual Monarchy had everywhere been the loser, and furthermore the Balkan states had acted as if she did not exist. In May an agreement between Bulgaria and Romania had handed Silistria to the latter in return for Romania’s neutrality during the hostilities; and it seemed that this must have been planned by a former secret agreement inspired by St Petersburg. Already, despite Romania being a party to the Threefold Agreement, Bulgaria, which with the help of the Ballplatz and Aerenthal had finally become independent of Turkish suzerainty three years before, had also annexed Rumelia. As soon as these moves were made relations between the different Balkan states became soured, for they all aspired to a share of the disintegrating Ottoman empire, and promptly
quarrelled
among themselves as to who should get what. Russia was asked to arbitrate, but when, encouraged once more by Vienna, Bulgaria refused to accept the Tsar’s verdict, war again broke out. This time Russia encouraged the other Balkan states, now also including Romania, to turn against her disobedient former protégé Bulgaria.

The war was over in ten days.

On July 1st the Serbian army defeated the Bulgarians. On July 3rd the Romanian army marched south and by July 10th stood before Sofia. Meanwhile the Greeks chased the Bulgarians from the Aegean coast while the Turkish Enver Pasha advanced upon Adrianople, over which much blood had already been spilt, and reconquered it with almost no casualties.

In these ten days Austria-Hungary lost her last vestiges of respect in the Balkans. Something might have been saved, even at the last minute, if she had seen fit to intervene, but the Dual Monarchy made no move. This may have been wise, in that her intervention could well have provoked a war with Russia, but the real reason for this inactivity was that, after all the internal
confusions
which had obstructed the modernization of the army, Austria-Hungary was then even more unprepared for war than she was to be in 1914.

So, though she could hardly have done anything else, the end result was that in the eyes of Europe these Balkan wars were lost, not by Turkey but by the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy.

Up to the last minute the Austrian Foreign Office did its best to camouflage the truth. Firstly the Ballplatz declared that, along with the other great powers, Austria reserved the right to approve the terms of the forthcoming peace treaty. It is probable that she imagined the London Conference would stand firmly behind her and thereby do something to save her good name. Unfortunately the great powers, including Germany, did nothing of the sort: they all approved the peace terms unreservedly.

This produced a new dilemma. Either Austria could pursue her aims unilaterally, which might lead her into war without the support of either Germany or Italy, or she had to renounce her claim to revise the peace terms in the way that best suited her. Faced with this impasse the Dual Monarchy withdrew from the London Conference.

From the beginning Austria had put herself in a false position. Her diplomacy was ill thought-out and badly prepared; and it showed the world how many cracks there were in the Threefold Alliance of Austria, Germany and Italy. Above all it antagonized Romania, who in the end received more from the Bucharest Agreement than she would have been allowed by St Petersburg only a few months previously. Austria’s claim to have the right to approve the peace terms therefore seemed to the Romanians to be an attempt to limit their share of the spoils, though that had never been Berchtold’s intention.

Romania’s revenge was to come in the following year.

The main result of this feckless muddling was that from the moment Austria-Hungary withdrew from the London Conference, the world got on quite well without her. Vienna no longer had any say in Balkan affairs. The Turkish-Bulgarian treaty, and that between Turkey and Greece, had both been settled and signed without anyone even asking the opinion of Austria. It was as if the Dual Monarchy did not exist. She did make one more attempt to retrieve her lost prestige by issuing an ultimatum to Serbia that Albania’s independence must be
preserved
; but the effect of this was lessened by the fact that it was also the policy of Italy and England – above all of England, who did not relish the possibility of having a Serbian (which meant Russian) fleet at large in the Mediterranean.

This was what Berchtold had somehow to explain to the
delegation
from Hungary. His presentation of the disagreeable facts was masterly.

Firstly he emphasized that Austria-Hungary’s foreign policy
was based on the need to preserve peace. He spoke of the ‘
harmony
’ which existed between the great powers, even including Russia – though he did admit that in the previous years there had been ‘some small differences of opinion’ which had later all been smoothed away. This had been a definite success for the Monarchy’s diplomacy.

He then spoke appreciatively of the Ottoman Empire. It had proved its continued power and vitality by the re-taking of Adrianople from the vanquished Bulgarians. That the Sultan had also lost two great provinces was, in one way, advantageous to Turkey for she was thereby relieved of some of her most unruly subjects …quite a happy result, in fact! It was, of course, true that when the war began Austria-Hungary’s principal aim had been the maintenance of the
status
quo,
but, as Berchtold’s predecessor, Gyula Andrassy, had said as early as 1878, ‘We mustn’t prop up a crumbling house until the day it collapses’. So it was with the
status
quo.
In this he took the same view as his great predecessor.

All this Berchtold told with great skill and authority. No one could have bettered his air of effortless superiority. His
distinguished
appearance, with high balding forehead, recalled a
stylized
figure from a magazine devoted to men’s fashions. He spoke as from a great distance, so
de
haut
en
bas
that he left no doubt in his hearers’ minds that he belonged to the inner circle of the Vienna ‘Olympus’, that social group so exclusive that only a few of its members were not born to the purple.

Indeed his exposé was masterly.

He represented the independence of Albania as a triumph of Viennese diplomacy and, as evidence of this, he announced that Austria had already found a suitable king for that new and still untamed country. This was the Prince of Wied, who until recently had served in a Prussian guards regiment, the so-called Yellow Uhlans.

There was also another extraordinary success to be told: it was the cession of the island of Adakaleh to Hungary. This, he felt sure, would please the Hungarians as it had figured so largely in the classical Magyar novel
The
Golden
Man.

With the account of these two great successes Berchtold brought his address to an end. The meeting was then terminated and all discussion postponed until the following day.

In this way the Austrian foreign minister had somehow
extricated
himself from a most awkward position, though this,
ultimately
, was not because of the brilliance of his exposition, nor
because of little Adakaleh, but because the whole affair was at once overshadowed by the unwise comportment of the opposition members of the Hungarian delegation who provoked a scandal by raising the matter of Tisza’s use of the parliamentary guards in Budapest – this when discussion of all internal matters was
forbidden
to them. It had long been agreed that the delegation could discuss only foreign affairs, matters concerning the joint Austro-Hungarian army, and the general state of the economy. The intervention was all the more unexpected because it was those very members of the delegation who had so defiantly affirmed that internal matters were taboo, who now brought them up to the scandal of all those in the public rooms of the palais in the Bankgasse where Berchtold had given his address.

It was only after half the time allocated for the discussion had been wasted in this way that the delegation was able to turn to those foreign affairs which were, after all, the sole
raison
d’être
of the meeting.

Now, finally, Berchtold found himself asked some very
awkward
questions. Was it true, someone asked, that Germany had abandoned the Dual Monarchy on the question of Austria’s claim to inspect and if necessary revise the terms of the Bucharest peace treaty? Why, asked another, had Berchtold not spoken in warmer terms of the role played by France?

This last question was raised by Mihaly Karolyi, who by then had become the acknowledged leader of the Independent Party. Karolyi praised the part played by Poincaré and asked why there had been no criticism of the totally passive role played by the Ballplatz throughout the whole Balkan crisis and the London Conference which had followed. This attitude was not entire
logical
, coming from the representative of those who had extended the hand of friendship to Serbia from the great height of the
pseudo
-parliament in the Hotel Royal’s ballroom: for how could someone who saw no wrong in aggression emanating from Belgrade condemn the passivity of Vienna?

The presence of the delegation brought quite a number of Hungarians to the Austrian capital.

It was also the reason why Balint found himself there. He had been appointed in the autumn by Tisza who wished to reward him for having given up his non-party stand and joining the
government
party when Tisza took office.

Abady had thought about this for some time and the move
had made things easier for him, especially in regard to his work for the Co-operatives. Now he no longer had to apply for an
audience
with the appropriate minister but could buttonhole him at any time in the party’s private rooms. Balint’s change of heart had had nothing to do with his political beliefs. It the past he had remained free of party allegiances only because of his innate
distaste
for any restraint on his freedom of action. Now he overcame this.

He had not come to Vienna from Budapest with the others, but from Switzerland where he had just spent a few days with Adrienne on the shores of Lac Léman near Nyon. From there Adrienne had gone on to Lausanne to visit her daughter while Balint returned to Vienna. In their little pension they had
registered
as man and wife – which in those days before passports posed no problems – and indeed this is what they now considered themselves.

That terrible unbreakable chain which had bound Adrienne to her incurably mad husband had shattered of its own accord in the autumn. On November 2nd Pal Uzdy died suddenly.