Chapter Five
ABADY DID NOT RETURN to Budapest, for it hardly seemed worth-while to make the journey for a single session which had been called only for the House to consider — and, of course, pass — a motion calling upon all national and provincial assemblies to civil obedience.
Every day a different province, county or district would turn against the nominated government, now mockingly known as the Darabont — Bodyguard or Lackey Government — which was a play on words since Fejervary had previously commanded the Darabont Guard and the word darabont (though only in Transylvania) had a secondary and derogatory sense, for in most great aristocratic houses in that province it was the name used for a kind of inferior lackey or man-of-all-work, ever at the beck and call of his masters. And the word Bodyguard, of course, at once conjured up pictures of the monarch’s own Household.
Kristoffy, who was Minister of the Interior in the ‘Bodyguard’ government, at once proclaimed a universal suffrage measure in an attempt to win popular support. The opposition political leaders countered with a new slogan: ‘The Will of the People must be the basis of the Constitution, not its destruction!’ This soon became the rallying cry of all the opposition parties. It was a good phrase and expressed what everyone felt, especially at a moment when there was a general feeling that this was not the time for inter-party feuds or for war between the right and left. Everywhere could be sensed a universal fear that the independence of Hungary, as guaranteed in the 1867 Compromise, was itself threatened, that their hard-won liberties were being secretly undermined and menaced by subversive hostile forces working towards undisputed dominance by Vienna. Even independents like Abady, who were convinced of the rightness of many of the Austrian proposals — such as those for the armies of the Dual Monarchy — and who had despised the mindless obstructions and flag-waving of the anti-Vienna lobby, now docilely fell into line with everyone who opposed the ‘lackeys’. Abady realized that many people had now sensed what Slawata had already revealed to him of the plans being laid by the Heir in the Belvedere Palais.
The government declared null and void the civil disobedience motions passed by all the provincial assemblies, and those sheriffs who had supported these motions were dismissed and others appointed in their place. In Transylvania, the first General Assembly called to inaugurate the new officials was to be held in the Maros-Torda district, at Vasarhely.
For several weeks in advance plans were being laid, not only there but also all over the country, to prevent such inaugurations being effective. At Vasarhely the town was filled to overflowing the day before the assembly was due to be held. There was a grim, serious look on everyone’s face. The main square was packed with people and every table on the pavement in front of the Transylvania Café was crowded. There was not a place to be found and it was difficult even to thread one’s way from one table to another. At one of the marble-topped tables sat the great Samuel Barra, who had been the idol of the county ever since, the year before, he had led all the obstructionists and in particular had dared to oppose Ferenc Kossuth after the latter had suggested reconciliation between the parties. He had also taken a leading part in the controversy concerning the use of Hungarian as the language of command in the army. Barra was a dark, stocky, broad-shouldered man with a short beard and shining, dome-like forehead. He had large, dull-coloured eyes set under bushy eyebrows, but everyone who looked at him normally noticed only his enormous mouth which seemed to have become overdeveloped perhaps by the tremendous number of words that were constantly emerging from it. His lips were thick and the muscles round the mouth so exceptionally powerful that he could transform himself into a human loudspeaker at will.
Even now, though he was merely chatting with a group of his admirers, when he opened his mouth everything he said could be heard as far away as if he were talking into a megaphone. Around him sat his supporters in a tightly knit group. On his right was Ordung, the suspended prefect who was doing his best to play the martyr’s part; his deputy, Bela Varju, who was a member of parliament; the older Bartokfay, who loved to recount how much better things had been in the ‘Great Days of Yore’; and chubby, baby-faced Isti Kamuthy. The last two had both been unsuccessful candidates at the last elections and were now all the more fired with public zeal as they hoped to be elected next time round, always providing, of course, that there should be a change of government. Their leader at this moment was saying little, merely replying to the soft-spoken arguments of the lawyer, Zsigmond Boros, who could easily and elegantly explain, in persuasive, flowery speeches, the most complicated legal problems. It was he who was taking the lead in their talk and he did so as by right, being one of the members for Vasarhely who was now in the heart of his own constituency. Also present was Joska Kendy, his pipe clenched between his teeth, and Uncle Ambrus, both of whom remained silent. Though this was expected of Joska, who hardly ever opened his mouth, it was unusual for Uncle Ambrus. Ambrus was normally louder and more vociferous than most, but today he was keeping quiet only occasionally belching out a rude word or two with a grin of good humour and doing his best to maintain his role as an uncouth but well-meaning and ultimately guileless good fellow. He had put on an innocent face, like a new-born babe, and every now and then whispered something to the two younger Alvinczys, Zoltan and Akos, who were seated on each side of him. These two disappeared alternately every fifteen minutes or so. All around the supporters of the local leaders sat and talked and walked about and were pleased that all these great and important people had turned up for the assembly. Near to the edge of the pavement sat two so-called neutrals, Jeno Laczok and Soma Weissfeld, who were doing their best to look like patriots and thereby atone for having previously sat on the fence.
Abady remained at Barra’s table for nearly an hour. The talk was of general matters, nobody mentioning the next day’s assembly. The party leaders were careful to avoid the subject, even though everyone already knew what their plan was. It was an excellent plan, and, as everyone already knew it, was a well-kept secret. As soon as the notary acting as president opened the assembly, Bela Varju was to stand up and, before the notary was able even to start making his official statement, propose the suspension of the notary. If this were accepted — as it certainly would be — then the notary would automatically have to give place to the President of the Chancery Court, who was Bartokfay’s younger brother, and he in turn (as had already been plotted) would at once announce that the Assembly did not recognize or accept the government nominee as prefect. This would mean that the president of the chancery court would at once be suspended: but then would be automatically succeeded by Gakffy, the Chief Justice, thereby ensuring that for many months to come, the provincial government would be headed by someone opposed to the government in the capital.
It was well thought out; and it was perfectly legal. The only worry was that, as everywhere else, there were dissensions in the province; and no one was quite sure how long it would be before they rose again to the surface. Though it was more than fifty years since the counties of Torda and Marosszek had been united in one administrative unit, the people of the former stronghold of the Szeklers in the Maros valley never wanted the same things as those of the northern part of the district. It was certain, therefore, that the Szekler party would want something different from what was being generally planned, if only to underline their independence, and that they too were plotting some ‘secret’ move. Being another ‘secret’, everyone knew it too. The Szekler move was almost identical to the majority plan, except that their refusal to recognize the government-appointed prefect, even though he had been nominated by the king, was to be based on the fact that he was a ‘foreigner’. Though both sides wanted, to all intents and purposes, exactly the same thing, they wanted it in different ways, and each was prepared to stab the other in the back if thereby they could get their own way. The two parties even adopted different names: the Suspension Party and the Decree Party. Everyone was well aware of what was going on, but no one was prepared to talk about it. At his table on the sidewalk in front of the café Dr Boros was discoursing elegantly on various non-controversial legal matters and everyone was paying attention to him. At last there was an interruption.