‘We, the Szekler people who taught the Russians such a lesson in ’48; we, who chased the entire Austrian army to the very gates of hell, we are determined to fight to the end, offering our blood, our lives …’
Professor Dr Korosi and his friends waited for Cherrytree to come to an end but, seeing that he had no intention of stopping, gave up and went home to lunch. Janko went on, his huge voice carrying to the far end of the square, reciting endless promises of good things to come: ‘They talk of “independent customs” but if I was in power I’d see that we got a good price for everything we sell. And, what’s more, what we buy we’d buy cheap! That’s what I’d do!’
‘Bless you! Well said!’ shouted the mob.
‘And I’d lift all the taxes! Yes, sir! I’d wipe them all out!’
‘That’s rubbish!’ cried someone from the crowd. ‘You can’t run a state without them!’
‘I would! And I’d get enough money from the customs for the country not to need taxes. What do they want so much money for anyway? Only to make our boys into Austrian soldiers!’
‘Hear! Hear!’
Then he started on foreign affairs. ‘The Russians thought they’d teach the Japs a good lesson, and look what happened! They’re finished! Well then, why does the Austrian Emperor need so many soldiers? Why does he want Hungarian boys to be bossed about in a foreign language — in German! — by foreign officers who are nothing but henchmen of the Austrian monarchy? Enslaving our good simple Hungarian lads, laughing at them and boasting of their own superiority …’
It was at this moment that an open carriage was driven towards the mob where Cseresznyes was speaking. It slowed down and finally stopped as the road was blocked. ‘Hop! Hop! Move along there!’ cried the coachman, but no one moved and some of the men in the crowd started to grumble menacingly. In the carriage sat a tall dark-haired lady and next to her was an officer in a blue uniform tunic: it was Mme Bogdan Lazar, who had been born Sara Donogan, and Egon Wickwitz.
Cherrytree saw them. ‘Look there!’ he shouted. ‘The sacred assembly of the good Hungarian people is menaced by the army!’ and he pointed to the uniformed figure of Baron Egon.
Many faces were turned towards the carriage, ugly, menacing faces that surrounded it completely. The coachman began to get alarmed and Wickwitz put his hand on his sword, ready to draw if he should have to, for the ‘Kaiser’s Rock — the King’s uniform’ — must never be desecrated. All the same, he did not move. Mme Lazar, on the other hand, leapt to her feet, threw back the carriage veil which protected her from dust on the road, and drew herself up to her full height.
‘What is all this nonsense?’ she cried in a commanding voice. ‘Isn’t a Hungarian hussar respected any more? Shame on you all!’ Then, recognizing the speaker on the bench, she shouted directly at him: ‘And as for you, Cherrytree, you scoundrel, you’d do better to account to me for that money I gave you to buy calves with last week instead of playing the fool here! Be off with you!’
‘I kiss your hands, Gracious lady,’ said Cherrytree, jumping down from the bench. ‘Why, I was on my way to find your Ladyship. That’s why I’m here.’
‘That’s all right then!’ She turned to the crowd. ‘And now, my friends, please let me by. I still have much to do.’
Many of the people in the square knew Mme Lazar. She was generally respected and known to be a clever and industrious woman who managed her own estates. She was often to be seen mingling with the crowd at the hay auctions or in the market place, and she always had a good word for everyone she met.
Some men came forward at once and saw to it that a way was cleared for her carriage.
For nearly two months Wickwitz had been dancing attendance on the attractive Armenian widow. Mme Lazar was a good-natured woman who accepted the bad with the good, and saw through Wickwitz at once. Many men had come chasing her and she never despised or ignored the good things of life. She was tall and desirable, handsome and strong, with a small head and long limbs. Her skin was brown and healthy, over her red lips there was a faint line of velvety down which extended also along the line of her jaw. She radiated health and strength and her large eyes glowed like black diamonds behind thick lustrous lashes, so lustrous indeed that they could have been brushed in with charcoal.
Her husband had died ten years before, and since then she had managed her estates better than most men would have done. Her son was at the same school as young Zoltan Miloth.
She was both desirable and rich. She owed more than two thousand acres close to Kolozsvar, and Wickwitz was sure that she also had a respectable balance in the bank. It would be a sensible move to marry her, he thought; it looked as if nothing would be easier as he had already been accepted as her lover. And as for the matter with Judith … well, that was really very complicated and he thought that maybe there he had bitten off more than he could chew! It was for this reason that he had written the girl a letter full of sad resignation, giving up honourably all that he had ever asked of her and filled with such phrases as ‘and anyhow I’m not worthy’ and ‘It would be dishonourable of me, and unscrupulous, if I were to ask you to share my disreputable life’.It was a good letter. It was full of romance and honourable regret and it left him free to look elsewhere, while not entirely breaking everything off between them. Mannkann janichtwissen—who knows? He had this letter delivered by young Zoltan Miloth and the boy had brought back a brief note which had merely said: ‘I’m desperate! I can’t write now, but I will soon. Wait for me! I love you!’ Nothing more.
Wickwitz had a whole sheaf of letters from Judith and these he had kept by him. Now, seated in the open carriage with Mme Lazar, he pondered over the nature of his relationship with the widow. It was true that she was very kind to him, exceptionally so — and generous — but it seemed to him that she did not take their friendship very seriously. It seemed that she quite realistically took the situation for granted as a simple, obvious, natural arrangement which could hardly be bettered and which could last indefinitely without any change. Perhaps she would be content to go on for ever like this? That would never do, not in his situation! The thing to do would be to throw a good scare into her, make her jealous, wave a few of his other possibilities in front of her, show her that there was someone else, younger too, who was prepared to be his wife. I’ve got to speed things up, he said to himself in sporting terms, for he rarely thought in any others, and so he would use Judith as a ‘running mate’ — as in racing they call the horse who will never win but who will keep his stablemate going until that last effort is needed to be first at the finish. If Mme Lazar realized that she was in danger of losing her soldier lover then it shouldn’t be difficult to steer matters in the right direction. Perhaps she herself might even suggest marriage. Nothing would be better than that. Nothing.
After they had had lunch and were sitting sipping their coffee in Mme Lazar’s cool sitting-room, Wickwitz broached the subject.
‘Dearest Sara,’ he said, his eyes swimming with sadness. ‘I’d like to ask your advice about something very delicate. In confidence of course, because one shouldn’t really talk about such matters.’
From the sofa where she was reclining, leisurely smoking a cigarette, Sara looked up from under her heavy eye-lashes: ‘What sort of matter?’
‘I’ve got some trouble on my hands. There’s a girl who … who … well, I can’t help it, says she’s in love with me and I don’t know what to do.’