The annual meeting of the Kolozsvar constituent assembly was held in an atmosphere of the general resentment which verged on an uneasy spirit of revolt.
The hall was packed tightly. Every member who could possibly attend had done so and behind them, the galleries reserved for the general public were overflowing, largely with university students. It was soon clear that the public’s intention was to cheer any spokesman who opposed the new government and to shout down anyone who dared to speak in its favour. Everyone was aware that a proposition had been made that all provincial and municipal employees should refuse to obey orders from the central government. That Hungarian non-violent resistance. call it passive disobedience or what you will, had its birth at the Kolozsvar assembly was proved by the fact that the date of the meeting had been long established and therefore preceded any of the discussions in other parts of Hungary. Everyone was wondering how the president of the Assembly, the mayor Szvacsina, would proceed. Would he agree to discussing the motion for civil disobedience or not? No one knew what would happen, and it was because of this uncertainty that the radical Professor Korosi, with his colleagues the author of the motion, had not only organized the presence in the hall of all the university students, but also arranged for the streets outside to be filled with peasant youths who would march up and down, cheering and booing, to make it perfectly clear to the ruling classes who formed the majority of those attending that they really meant business. From time to time someone went out onto the balcony to speak to these young men, bolster up their interest and prevent them from returning home out of boredom.
Inside the dark hall, under the larger-than-life portrait of the Emperor Franz-Josef, the financial secretary of the assembly read out the details and figures of the annual expenditure, fully aware that no one was interested and that no one was listening. Not a single voice was raised; not a single criticism, lest any unnecessary discussion might be started which would distract the assembly before the real business began. Everyone tacitly understood this, so that when the mayor asked if the assembly passed the accounts there were impatient cries of ‘Aye! Aye! Aye!’
From the back of the hall several voices were heard calling out: ‘Korosi! Korosi!’
‘Dr Korosi asks to be heard. Silence, please!’ said the presiding mayor. He then leaned back, his thin, tired-looking form reclining in the presidential chair and his long Fingers folded as if he knew that for some time now he would have nothing to do and so could relax.
Dr Korosi rose to speak. In front of him sat the real heads of the opposition in Kolozsvar, Professor Apathy and his close colleagues, who clustered round him as if they were his bodyguards. This group stared ahead of them at the benches opposite where Tisza’s supporters sat. They, too, were largely composed of university professors for in Kolozsvar, as almost everywhere else, the seat of learning was also the seat of political strife. Korosi addressed his remarks directly to them, not, as protocol demanded, to the president of the assembly. He was a tall man, fat and broad; and he spoke the dialect of the great Hungarian plain where he was born. His words flowed, a constant stream of familiar slogans and platitudes: ‘The accursed Austrians … the camarilla of Vienna … traitors! Gaolers! Lackeys! Henchmen! … Lajos Kossuth and the Honour of Hungary … the martyrs of Arad … Haynau and Bach … soldiery and army intrigues … Hungarian sword-tassels … the language of command … independent national customs … independence of the banks … Rakoczi and Bocskai …’, and so on. Korosi left nothing out. Everything that could inflame public opinion was included and thumped home with all the superficially seductive argument of the professional theologian. His strongest arguments and bitterest accusations were hurled directly at those sitting on the benches opposite; but, though he clearly expected an uproar of protest, he was listened to with calm, smiling acquiescence. At last he read the proposition whereby provincial and municipal administrations should forbid their employees to obey the orders of the central government, should stop the enrolment of army volunteers and should withhold payment of all tax-monies to the finance ministry.
When at last he had finished, Korosi mopped his tousled forehead. Huge cheering broke out from all parts of the assembly hall and one of his colleagues rushed out on to the balcony to signal to the crowd below that the time had come when everyone should shout aloud to let the town aristocrats know that the people were behind the opposition.
Within the hall the mayor raised his hand for silence and asked if anyone wished to add to the proposal now before the assembly. He spoke calmly, in a non-committal voice.
There was silence. Apathy and his band of parliamentary coalitionists looked over to where sat the little gynaecological professor who was the spokesman of the official government party. They all thought that he would rise and in his well-known, sarcastic, razor-sharp tones, begin to protest. But he did not move, merely gazing back with an ironic smile on his face, silent and inscrutable.
‘Professor Dr Korosi’s proposal is unanimously accepted,’ the mayor declared pompously.
The opposition and their followers were taken by surprise. They had not expected things to go smoothly, and indeed had been prepared for battle, noise and disturbance. The assembly cheered the mayor and council and cries of ‘Long live the Mayor’ went up all round. ‘Long live Szvacsina! Long live the Council!’ They smiled and bowed, glad that for once they had been cheered and were popular; on all previous occasions the careful discipline of the Tisza party members had meant that the opposition had normally been forced into unpopular and rowdy behaviour: and for once this had not happened. It was extraordinary but the Tisza party had also declared itself against this ‘government by lackeys’ and so their policy of resistance was for once not only accepted but also popular! And so they started to sing that revolutionary song ‘Lajos Kossuth sent a message …’ to remind them of the great days of Hungarian opposition to Habsburg tyranny.
The triumphant opposition members now left the hall to join the mob gathered outside. This had now been increased by groups of ordinary strollers and loiterers as well as by the gypsies and stall-holders from the market who had all gathered round to see the fun. The streets and pavements were covered with people. Korosi climbed on to a bench in the central part of the square, where each morning vegetable stalls would be set up, so as to broadcast what had happened in a spirited and patriotic speech. As soon as he had finished another man, bull-necked with long arms and dressed in Hungarian national costume, jumped up on the bench opposite: ‘People of Kolozsvar!’ he shouted, ‘I salute this patriotic town in the name of the Szekler people from the Maros who on this sacred day …’
It was Janko Cseresznyes — Cherrytree — the unscrupulous demagogue who had been used by Azbej in engineering Abady’s election and had made such a good thing of it for himself. He happened to be in Kolozsvar that morning by sheer chance, having come into the pig market to purchase thirty young piglets for a firm in Torda. Having done what he came for, he had wandered into the centre of town and, seeing a mass of people all gathered together, could not resist the temptation to play some part in whatever was going on. Accordingly he adopted the role of an envoy from the Szeklers living by the Maros river. As such he could address the crowd to his heart’s content.