Here the party line was broken by a large and hairy man with a black beard, Zoltan Varju, a neighbour of the Laczoks, who was generally regarded as an irresponsible and dangerous demagogue, and who sat facing the host.
On Count Laczok’s other side sat Ordung, the County Sheriff, whose dealings with the opposition were by no means as discreet as he believed; his friend the Deputy Sheriff Gaalffy, and an elderly man, Count Peter Bartokfay, in Hungarian dress and boots, who had been Member for Maros-Torda for many years in the past. Beside the old politician sat Zsigmond Boros, an eminent lawyer in the district and one of the leading political figures in Vasarhely; and a round-faced, puffy young man, Isti Kamuthy, who was politically ambitious and so liked to keep in with anyone important.
Between Kamuthy and Varju sat old Daniel Kendy who had no political ideas of any sort, but who had chosen that place because there he was nearest to the wine. He never spoke, but just sat quietly drinking, refilling his glass the moment it was empty.
A little further away, outside the main circle, stood and sat the young men who had been asked to the ball, together with a few others who had not found places nearer the host. Among these last was Tihamer Abonyi who had placed himself beside Laszlo Gyeroffy, partly because they came from the same district and partly because of Laszlo’s grand Hungarian connections. Balint went at once towards Laszlo, his friend and cousin, rejoicing to see a kindred spirit. As he did so he recalled the words of Schiller ‘Unter Larven die einzig’ fühlende Brust — in all these grubs just one faithful heart’, but even as he quoted the words to himself he was seized by the Prefect, Peter Kis, who greeted him with as much warmth as if he had been the prodigal son.
Balint, who had met only the Countess Laczok, asked him: ‘Which is the host?’
‘I’ll introduce you at once, my dear friend,’ replied the Prefect, putting an arm round Balint’s shoulders and propelling him forward as if Balint were his special responsibility. They had to stoop to pass under the low spreading branches of the tree to reach the wide pine bench on which Count Jeno was sitting.
The host was a heavy-set man, fat and almost completely bald. A single lock of hair was combed over his forehead, like a small brown island in the yellow sea of his smooth shining hairless skull. There were two ridges offat at the nape of his neck and he had three double chins, and his large pale face was given distinction only by an impressive black drooping moustache and the upward sweeping eyebrows that peered out from the layers of fat. Count Laczok sat rigidly upright, neither leaning on the arms of the bench nor against the tree behind him. One of his short legs reached the ground, the other was drawn up under him, and he held his hands spread on his knees. Balint at once thought of those squat Chinese soapstone figures displayed in oriental bazaars. The Lord of Siklod, sitting hieratically under the old lime tree, seemed a reincarnation of some Szekler-hun ancestor from the distant past.
‘May I present Count Balint Abady, my latest and dearest Member?’ said Peter Kis, pushing Balint forward with a special squeeze on his shoulder as if he were thus sealing their friendship.
‘Welcome, my boy! Welcome!’ said Count Jeno, extending his hand but not otherwise moving, as neither rising nor turning was easy for him.
After greeting his host, Balint introduced himself to the guests he did not already know and went to sit down beside Laszlo Gyeroffy.
‘Your Member, my dear prefect?’ quietly asked Sheriff Ordung from the other side of the table, in a mocking tone that barely concealed his underlying animosity. Ordung had two reasons to resent the Prefect: firstly because, unlike Peter Kis whose father was a middle-class merchant from far-away Gyergyo, the sheriff came from an ancient noble family of Maros-Torda and secondly, because they belonged to different political parties. As a result they were on worse terms than were usual between elected sheriffs — who could hold office for as long as they retained the confidence of the voters — and the prefects who, as appointees of the government, were apt to come and go with every political upheaval in the capital.
‘Well, Lelbanya is in my country,’ the Prefect replied heartily, but somewhat on the defensive.
‘Elected members belong to the people who have elected them,’ cried Zoltan Varju.
‘… or to the town or country,’ added old Count Bartokfay.
The Prefect, finding himself cornered, took refuge in evasion. ‘I only said “my” because I like him so much!’
Even this did not satisfy the demagogue Varju.
‘Sheer absolutism! Just as if he were appointed by the government,’ went on Varju. ‘It’s not as if it hasn’t happened before.’
‘But he supports the ’67 Compromise.’
‘He’s not a member of any party … and this means he disapproves of the government and the Tisza party,’ intervened Peter Varju who, turning to Balint, went on: ‘Am I right, Count?’
‘I am far too much of a beginner to give an opinion,’ answered Balint, who was not at all sure what to say and felt he was getting into rather deep water.
Now the host thought it was time he intervened.
‘Well spoken, son! That’s the way to defend yourself. I keep clear of opinions too and keep my mouth shut. It’s the only way not to be torn to pieces either by the dogs,’ and he waved at the politicians on his right, ‘… or by the wolves,’ indicating their opponents. ‘Frankly, gentlemen, I don’t see why you all growl at each other so much. The peace has been made by old Thaly, the Hungarian curse has been laid to rest, and all should be friends!’
While saying this, Count Laczok spread his arms wide and then brought them together again, hugging his own huge bulk as if it were the whole world. ‘Be friends, my good fellows, be friends!’ And bursting into loud derisive laughter, he reached for his wineglass, refilled it to the brim, and raising it high, said:
‘Long life to this clever and excellent peace! Drink up, my friends. Vivat! Vivat!’
And with this ironic toast to the uneasy parliamentary truce, the floodgates of party discussion were opened again.
The bitter battle in Parliament about responsibility for national defence, which had begun a year and a half before and which had brought into the open many old grievances about the complicated legal relationship between Hungary and Austria, had dwindled into an uneasy peace in the previous spring. Though the party leaders in power had managed to overcome some of the technical objections to the integration of the Austrian and Hungarian armies — and indeed had isolated the small group of those politicians who clung to the 1848 policy of complete independence — they still needed, so as not to lose votes, to brandish patriotic slogans that demanded, if not the separation into two of the monarchy’s armies, at least the appointment of Hungarian senior officers. Without such token signs of resistance — and some even thought the national colours woven into Hungarian officers’ insignia would be enough — they were defenceless against the persistent stubbornness of the little group headed by Ugron and Samuel Barra which, though in the minority, took every advantage of the absurd anomalies in the old Hungarian parliamentary rules of procedure to block the passing of budgets, and the approval of foreign contracts, all essential if the business of government was to continue.