They Were Found Wanting (Writing on the Wall: The Transylvania Trilogy)

by Bánffy, Miklós

  It flashed through Balint’s mind that maybe she was referring to Adrienne, but Lili’s fine eyes shone with such genuine pleasure and candour that no one could imagine there was a grain of malice in what she said. Then she continued ‘… and then there’s always such a crush that all you can do is say hello to each other and dance away … like a machine!’

  ‘But you like to dance, don’t you?’ said Balint.

  ‘Oh yes, of course. But you, er, Count Balint …’ and he could hear in the hesitation that she was trying to decide if she should use his family name rather than the more familiar ‘Balint’. ‘You talked to me once or twice at Jablanka; and, you know, those are the memories that stay with you … the person with whom one seemed to hit it off.’

  ‘Of course. It was at the big shoot!’

  ‘Yes, then too, but also afterwards, when we were talking about Uncle Antal’s horses and you told me that you had a stud too. You said that all the mares had old Hungarian names.’

  ‘How well you remember it all!’

  ‘Of course I do. I could even tell you their names. If you like I’ll recite them all! You have no idea’, she said, taking him into her confidence, ‘how wonderful it is to be treated as a grown-up when you’re still really in the schoolroom.’ She said ‘schoolroom’ with as much disdain as if it had been decades since she had been anywhere near it. ‘Anyway, one always takes note of what people tell one.’

  They went on chatting for a little time. The music stopped and though most people started to leave the room they went on talking. Then Lili looked around and saw that they were quite alone.

  ‘I’m sure they want to air the room,’ she said. ‘Would you like to take me to the buffet?’

  They walked slowly back through the large dining-room, the drawing-room beside it, and the card-room; and, as they went, Balint looked hard at Lili and thought how amazing it was what effect a single season could have on a young woman. Barely a year before Lili had been still in her teens, awkward, gauche and unformed. Now, in the way she moved, spoke, looked around her, she had all the elegance and quiet dignity of an experienced woman. It would have taken years for a young man to have acquired such poise.

  Lili had learned her lessons so well that it was with perfect self-confidence that she made her way through the crowded room, fan in hand and elbows held closely to her sides. Neither too fast nor too slow, she moved lightly between the groups of people gossiping or talking politics, between the couples engaged in flirting and behind the fat backs of elderly people sitting at cards. She never seemed to look where she was going but somehow skirted all obstacles without for a moment deviating from her course.

  ‘Shall I tell you a secret?’ she asked when they were standing beside the buffet table. ‘I think you’re going to be asked to Jablanka again this year. You mustn’t know anything about it, of course, but I’m telling you now so that you don’t go and accept any invitations for the first week in December.’

  ‘Thank you, Countess Lili. Did Uncle Antal say something about it?’

  ‘No! Nothing positive, but …’ and she turned away as if reaching for a cream cake. As she did so Balint just had time to notice that she was blushing. Blushing? Why should she blush at saying ‘nothing positive’?

  There was, of course, a very good reason. Lili had just remembered the cunning she had had to employ to get Abady invited.

  She had never herself said anything positive either; but every time she had been at Jablanka she had lost no opportunity of somehow inducing others to say something nice and complimentary about Balint Abady. The head Jäger – amazingly enough, for it was quite unjustified – had somehow been led into praising Balint’s skill with a gun; the stud groom had been slyly reminded how Count Abady had immediately recognized the best among the innumerable foals; and she herself, having cross-questioned Pfaffulus about Abady’s ancestors, had brought up the subject of his family tree in front of her uncle, knowing well that Count Antal set great store by such things and that noble birth and a long line of distinguished forebears were important elements in his approval or disapproval of other people.

  In this way Balint’s name somehow kept on being mentioned at Jablanka, and often in Antal Szent-Gyorgyi’s hearing.

  Only recently Lili had decided that the time had come to take more definite action. One day she talked to her cousin Magda and told her that she ought to lose no time in seeing that this year her beloved Peter Kollonich should be invited. Magda swallowed the bait and so was herself responsible for killing off Peter’s chances. Unwisely, not being a subtle or wise girl, Magda saw fit to ask her father outright and in this way Lili obtained what she wanted. Count Antal answered his daughter in his most icy manner, ‘I’m not asking any of our relations this year, except for Balint Abady!’

  It was the memory of this that had made Lili blush, for she knew that she had knowingly prepared the trap for Magda and that, quite shamelessly, she had advised her to do the one thing which would annoy her father and stop any chance of Peter being asked to the shoot. For a moment or two Lili did not turn back to face Balint. Then an arm in formal evening dress stretched out between them and a voice said, ‘I beg your pardon!’

  Lili and Balint both looked at the speaker. It was Count Slawata, who was just pushing a cream bun towards his mouth.

  ‘Oh, Servus – at your service,’ he said when he had quickly swallowed his mouthful and, with his short-sighted eyes peered at Abady and recognized him. Then he said, bowing to the girl, ‘I kiss your hand, Countess Lili. Please don’t think I’m always so greedy …’ and he reached for another titbit, ‘but Seine Hoheit – his Highness – has only just left.’

  He was referring to the Archduke Franz-Ferdinand, whose confidential adviser he was, and who had ostentatiously left for Vienna the moment the King and Queen of Spain had taken their leave.

  ‘There were masses of telegrams to send and a lot of official reports; so I didn’t get any supper.’

  ‘Schwerer Dienst – very hard work!’ said Abady, with a hint of irony.

  ‘Not really. But interesting, you know, especially now. And especially today when we have got some results for once. Today is the third of October and success has crowned our efforts!’

  Balint realized that Slawata was unusually happy and pleased with himself. His whole body radiated a sort of nervous, tense joyfulness. His round snub-nosed face seemed almost about to split, so tightly was his skin stretched across the chubby cheeks. His eyes flashed behind his thick-lensed glasses.

  ‘What was today’s great success?’

  The adviser to the Ministry for Foreign Affairs had been waiting for just that question. With a theatrical movement he stepped back and pulled out a watch from his waistcoat pocket with studied slowness. ‘Here it is five minutes to midnight. In Paris it will be five to eleven and the leading article in tomorrow’s Le Temps will already be in the press. As soon as the paper is on the streets the whole world will know what has happened – so I am now free to tell you the news: it is that our ambassador in Paris today informed the President of the Republic of our annexation of Bosnia-Herzegovina. At last we have been able to bring this about: it was effective from midday today!’

  Something tightened in Balint’s throat. He remembered all at once that argument with Slawata a year before, in his bedroom at Jablanka, when the politician had talked about the need for a war. Now, as a thousand fears and questions crowded into Balint’s mind, the music started up again and people streamed from the buffet table back into the ballroom. Lili was whisked off to dance again and Balint found himself briefly separated from Slawata.

  Standing alone by the buffet table Balint remembered that the Congress of Berlin had indeed given paper approval for the annexation, but no date had even been mentioned by any of the great powers. Furthermore it was implicitly accepted that Bosnia-Herzegovina, though until now still nominally a province of the Ottoman Empire, would never be handed back to Turkey. All Europe would have objected. It was there
fore clear that, though it was one of the Congress’s official aims to uphold the integrity and sovereignty of the Ottoman Empire, no one thought of this as anything other than a face-saving formula not to be taken literally. Still, Turkish sovereignty had been guaranteed by international decree and could not lightly be discarded unless all the guaranteeing powers agreed. If the Ballplatz had not taken care to obtain such accord by undercover diplomatic negotiations, then Austria’s unilateral action might well be considered an unforgivable breach of internationally valid agreements and so, whether the annexation was justified or not, Austria would be vulnerable to attack which might lead to untold complications.

  Dismayed by his own thoughts, Balint turned once again to Slawata and said, ‘But surely this could lead to trouble? Has the way been properly prepared? Diplomatically, I mean?’

  ‘I-wo! – sowas ist doch ganz unmöglich – that is quite impossible!’ replied Slawata unconcernedly; but then, seeing how worried his companion looked, he piled his plate high with galantine and foie-gras, and beckoned to Balint to follow him to a nearby sofa, saying, ‘Komm, alter Freund, ich werde dir’s erklären. So ganz leichtsinning sind wir eben auch nicht! – come, old friend, and I will explain it all to you. We are not as irresponsible as all that!’

  Slawata seemed now to take Balint into his confidence, apparently speaking quite openly and giving chapter and verse for each statement he made. On the question of diplomatic consultation he said that there would have been no point in asking the opinion of the subscribing powers in advance. This would only have led to lengthy discussions which at best would have had inconclusive results. Only two countries had any real interest in the matter: Russia, which was bound to oppose any extension of Austrian power; and Turkey, whose new government, unless faced with a fait accompli, could hardly be expected to agree to the loss of one of its own provinces.

  On the other hand, he went on, if the annexation happened now, it would probably be accepted in Turkey as part of the payment to be made for the removal of the old order and the final elimination of the sins of the Sultan’s imperial policies. Since at the same time Austria was to restore to Turkey the control of the Sanjak of Novibazar, this could be advertised by the Porte as a triumph for the new leaders in Istanbul. There only remained the Russians. They had, to a certain extent, been prepared in advance. When the Russian foreign minister Izvolsky had called upon the ambassador Berchtold at Buchlau, his Austrian opposite number, Aehrenthal, had brought up the question of Bosnia-Herzegovina, stating that unless action was taken soon the new rulers of the Ottoman Empire would be bound by their constitution to insist that Bosnia send representatives to the Turkish parliament, which would not only be absurd but also unacceptable to all the signatory powers. Izvolsky had offered no objections to this argument, which could be taken as acquiescence even though no ‘protocol’ had been signed at the end of the meetings. Of course, no doubt both sides had made notes so that even if the Russian minister was taken by surprise by the timing of the annexation, he could hardly claim that he knew nothing about it! And in these circumstances there was little that England and France could do; after all, they could hardly pretend to be more Balkan than the Russians!

  Berlin had not been informed either, for the simple reason that if one of the powers had been told then Italy would have to have been told too – and this was most undesirable as the news would swiftly be passed on to the Entente.

  ‘Und die guten Italiener hätten ausserdem gleich irgend ein Equivalent verlangt – and the good Italians will no doubt have an equivalent claim of their own!’ said Slawata ironically.

  ‘But the alliance consists of three members and all information ought to be shared. If it’s not, then the Italians are no longer in honour bound.’ suggested Balint.

  ‘So much the better! So much the better!’ cried his companion. ‘In spite of Aehrenthal I agree with Conrad. The best thing would be an Austrian attack upon Italy. But, of course, Aehrenthal will do anything to hold the alliance together.’

  And then he returned to one of his favourite subjects. If events followed the lines he suggested then the world would soon see which was the stronger: ‘… Franz-Josef – Der alter Herr, oder wir, Jung Österreich – the Old Gentleman, or we, Young Austria!’

  And so it came about that the international crisis provoked by the Austrian annexation of Bosnia-Herzegovina heralded a new era in European politics. Aehrenthal, quite unwittingly, created a diplomatic precedent by presenting all Europe with a fait accompli that was contrary to the Treaty of Berlin and bypassed all international discussion.

  On the very same day as the annexation of Bosnia-Herzegovina, Bulgaria declared itself an autonomous kingdom instead of only a semi-independent principality nominally subject to the Sultan in Istanbul; this, of course, was done with the full knowledge and approval of the Ballplatz. Both these events were to prove the models for Italy’s occupation of Libya in 1911, without either legal or diplomatic reason and without declaring war on Turkey, and also for the 1912 Balkan war. Together, Austria’s annexation of Bosnia-Herzegovina and the unilateral declaration of Bulgarian independence, though only formal provocations and not actual acts of war, served as precedents for more violent and more cynical acts of oppression and effectively killed off that moral force which until then had been accorded to the given word. And at the end of the line came that most dramatic and least morally justified – of such acts: Germany’s 1914 invasion of Belgium. And that started the First World War.

  Of course the annexation itself had been inevitable and long foreseen. It is unlikely that any other course could then have been taken by the unwieldy Austro-Hungarian monarchy, to whom Fate had then dealt a hand that was almost unplayable. As in Greek tragedies there had arisen a situation in which every option open to Vienna conflicted with another of the Monarchy’s prime interests. That the empire remained a cohesive whole depended upon a complicated web of alliances, treaties, unwritten agreements and historical relationships, and the recognition of the loyalties and rights that these conferred. To dishonour any one of these ancient obligations was to undermine and deny the validity of the whole structure.

  It was therefore as a breach of the given word that the international Press interpreted the latest events, and on which was based the storm of criticism and disapproval that was directed against Vienna. The campaign started with the publication in the London newspapers of photographs of the Emperor and his heir, the Archduke Franz-Ferdinand, labelled succinctly ‘Breakers of their Word’. Such an unspoken and insulting personal attack seemed extraordinary coming from England where one was accustomed to more measured tones.

  The first obvious effect of this action by the Monarchy was that from that day Great Britain became one of Austria-Hungary’s most implacable enemies.

  In Istanbul the reaction was limited to a boycott of Austrian goods, for there everyone’s eyes were on Bulgaria since her troops had been massed on the Rumelian frontier; and it was against this new threat from the north that Turkey responded by mobilizing her reserves.

  The wildest turmoil raged in Belgrade. Volunteer forces were enrolled, there were street demonstrations almost every day and the mob attacked Austro-Hungarian shops and looted them. Montenegro prepared itself for war by dragging cannon onto the heights of Mount Lovcsen, and Vienna responded by sending warships down the Danube to Zimony, calling up the reserves of the south-west provinces and banning the shipment of arms to the neighbouring states of Bosnia and Herzegovina.

  While all this was going on in the Balkans the diplomatic representatives of those great powers opposed to Austria swung into action. Izvolsky rushed to Paris to repair the effects of his first mistake in listening without comment to those conversations which had implied general acceptance of the forthcoming annexation. Now he proposed another conference which would have the declared intention of handing over to its neghbours the Sanjak of Novibazar, a Turkish province set between Montenegro and Serbia, thereby giving the latter a corridor to the
Adriatic. After Paris he went to London and there, in the middle of the month, settled the arrangements for the preliminary discussions. At the end of October Prince George, heir to the throne of Serbia, was received by the Tsar on a state visit.

  It now seemed to the initiated, as indeed it did several times in the next few months, that war was inevitable.

  The Hungarians, of course, seemed totally to ignore the implications of what was happening outside their own frontiers. There was some passing comment in the Press, but no one took it as having any relevance to their own affairs, for, perhaps wisely, the newspapers had adopted a conscious policy of not being alarmist. And at that time there were few who had any feeling for the significance of events abroad. Most people read the foreign news as they would any amusing but transient tale, as two-dimensional and as trivial as a comedy on a movie screen. Neither Franz-Josef’s Speech from the Throne, nor Aehrenthal’s explanations – nor even the daily telegrams from London, Belgrade and St Petersburg – held the smallest interest for anyone in Budapest. With a yawn most readers turned to the next page where more was to be found about the death of the popular parliamentarian and journalist, Aladar Zboray, than there was about the Bosnian affair. Not that Zboray did not deserve the attention he got, for he was a most affable and loveable man and an opposition speaker whom everyone liked.

  It was, of course, possible that the Press purposely honoured their departed colleague at such length as such paragraphs always seemed, at the very least, reassuring.

  There were, nevertheless, other matters which merited attention.