‘Surely that’s not possible,’ said Balint. ‘Doesn’t the law already state that Croatian is the official language in Croatia?’
‘Of course! While I was in office I did all I could to speak against the idea. Especially because it was our fault that the Khuen government collapsed and thus ensured the majority of the Serbian Coalition. But this was exactly what Kossuth wanted because the Serbs were the only party who backed him on the Personal Union issue.’
Abady felt that this was really going too far and he answered, with some heat, ‘I’m sure they didn’t do that just to please us. The immediate consequence of Hungary’s personal union would have been Croatia’s right to the same autonomy, leading sooner or later to the formation, with Bosnia and Dalmatia, of a new sovereign country within the empire. Triality instead of duality. It’s already an idea dearly beloved in certain circles in Vienna!’
‘That is a matter for discussion. But one thing is certain and that is that it is absurd to foster a movement and later on to strike down what we have laboured to create. And, if this government remains in power, that is exactly what will happen. My problem is this. It is or is it not my duty to try to overthrow the government before it is too late?’
Balint thought quickly about the discussions he had recently had with various Ministers about the development of his co-operative and housing programmes in Transylvania, discussions which showed every sign of leading to official support for his plans, and he did not want to do anything which might put these plans in jeopardy. At the same time he was extremely reluctant to have any part in an intrigue which would lead to a new crisis in the government.
‘What you have just told me‚’ he said, ‘is certainly very‚ very serious. It is indeed dangerous, and harmful, if the government gives too much weight to individual nationalistic aspirations without regard to the well-being of the whole nation. I am honoured,’ he continued, feeling himself getting more stilted and pompous with every word he uttered, ‘that you should have trusted me and told me all these things. However, I don’t really know how to advise you. I imagine that you have talked over these matters with others as well as myself?’
‘Not from quite the same angle‚ at least not in such detail. In fact‚ I didn’t really expect advice from you. I really only wanted the opportunity to talk over the matter, to try to clarify my ideas, with someone whose opinions I respect. I also wanted to explain that I had resigned office for important national reasons and not just because of some dubious financial dealings as some of my so-called friends have been pleased to suggest!’
At this point Dr Boros returned to his usual orotund manner. The bitter note disappeared from his voice and the velvety politician’s baritone took its place as he went on ‘… because I, who have given my life’s blood to work only for the salvation of my country‚ with no other notion, no other intent, than to make our nation great and prosperous and powerful, ready at all times to face undaunted the villainy and craftiness of …’
In the corridors the bells rang shrilly‚ the sound echoing throughout the domes and vaults of the vast building.
From all directions members started to run back into the Chamber to regain their seats. A young member of the 1848 Party dashed past the sofa on which Balint and Boros were sitting.
‘Apponyi’s going to speak. Everyone to their places! Apponyi’s on his feet …’ And he ran on.
Abady was thankful for the interruption. He felt annoyed that Boros should have spoilt the effect of his apparent sincerity by returning so abruptly to his usual affected politician’s manner. Somehow it diminished the seriousness of what he had just been saying.
They walked back to the Chamber together.
It was some time before Balint saw Zsigmond Boros again and so the question of the Pactum was not again discussed between them.
The public condemnation of the Fejervary government did not, after all, take place. The committee of the Department of Justice met again on the following day and five men were nominated to draft a new text. The matter was thus neatly buried and forever after forgotten.
The leading article in the ‘Fremdenblatt’ had told nothing but the truth.
Chapter Two
IT WAS ALREADY HALF-PAST TWO in the morning when the members of the gypsy band collected themselves together and set out in the calm spring night. March had been unusually mild that year. Laji Pongracz‚ as befitted the leader of the band, stepped smartly out ahead of the others, his fur collar turned up on each side of his fat cheeks and with, carefully swathed in a wrap of soft silk, his precious violin under one arm. The last of the group was the cymbal-player‚ limping as he carried his heavy instrument on his back. Behind the musicians followed an open wagon on which had been placed a table and six chairs. The wagon moved slowly‚ driven by a coachman beside whom sat a waiter holding on his lap a basked filled with glasses. Between the waiter’s knees was a box in which some ten bottles of champagne and a couple of bottles of brandy rattled together, and a bucket of ice. The procession was closed by two policemen. These had been sent over from the Town Hall, since the city’s regulations demanded that all serenades should be officially announced in advance and must be provided with a police escort.
As the group of musicians turned into University Street, out from the hotel’s main hall came the gentlemen who had ordered the serenade. In front were two men, arm-in-arm. One was large and good-looking, the other was much smaller: they were Adam Alvinczy and Pityu Kendy.
These two were now always seen together since for more than a year they had both been helplessly in love with Adrienne Miloth. No doubt they felt that a sorrow shared was the easier to bear and so they spent all their time in each other’s company. When they had both drunk enough they would explain their sadness and grief to each other. Each felt increasingly sorry for the other and when at last they felt they could drink no more they would return to their respective homes, only to meet the following day to repeat the pattern, day after day, night after night. On this day they had already been at their favourite pastime for some hours and both were in full flood of woe and commiseration.
Behind them were two other men. On the right was Gazsi Kadacsay‚ who was on leave from his regiment of hussars that was stationed in Brasso, and who was therefore not in uniform but dressed in a short jacket with a sheepskin hat askew over one ear. On the left was Akos, the youngest of the four Alvinczy brothers. Between these two strode Ambrus Kendy who, though older than his companions, was still the leader of the jeunesse dorée of Kolozsvar. The two younger men were assiduous in their attentions to ‘Uncle’ Ambrus, for they felt that it was a great honour to them that he had interrupted his evening of drinking and carousing with the gypsies to join them on this serenade. They also knew that if he had not agreed to join them they would never have been able to get the gypsy musicians away from him. Indeed they had hardly known how to ask the favour.
To their great joy Uncle Ambrus had agreed at once.
‘Devil take it!’ the older man had shouted. ‘I’ll join you myself‚ though I can see from your faces you’ll be going far afield tonight, pack of young rogues that you are! What? Right out there? To the lovely lady herself! To the Uzdy villa, what? To Adrienne Miloth, no less? Oh, yes, I’ll come with you. Why not? I’ll come along though I’m far more used to pursuing women indoors than squeaking away outside their windows!’ And he let out a long drawn-out cry ‘Aay-ay-ay!’ and rubbed his great hands together just as peasants do when they dance the csardas.