By forced votes, all-night sittings, by referring all important issues to rediscussion in closed committees, this little group had done its utmost to outlaw the government itself. To anyone outside politics it seemed inconceivable that such a tiny minority could even attempt to force its will not only on the large majority in Parliament who supported the government but also on the entire monarchy including the Emperor himself. Only those students of history who knew how effectively the Hungarians had used this sort of legalistic quibbling in their centuries-old struggle with the Habsburgs could see what the minority were up to and where they had learned their methods. To this dissident minority, whose heads and hearts were always ruled by patriotic resistance, the achievements of 1790 and 1867 owed nothing to historic circumstances and everything to this sort of delaying tactic.
The precarious armistice between the government and the opposition that had been agreed six months before had only come about because old Kalman Thaly intervened to support the Minister President, Istvan Tisza, when he threatened to reform the Standing Orders by force but let it be known that if peace were made concessions would follow. And both contending parties had become so impatient of the stalemate, and so bored, that they had reluctantly agreed.
Many greeted the parliamentary peace with relief and joy; but there were still those who, sitting at home smoking their pipes, brooded in rebellious discontent and accused even the extremists of being fainthearted and infirm of purpose.
One of those armchair politicians was the elderly Count Bartokfay who, at Var-Siklod that afternoon, had ensconced himself comfortably close to the wine table.
‘That wicked old Master Tisza wouldn’t have got away with it if I’d still been in the House,’ said Bartokfay in his old fashioned country drawl. ‘I’d have had him impeached for breaking the law!’
‘What law? You can’t say he broke any law.’ The prefect Kis was always on the side of authority.
‘He collected taxes that hadn’t been voted!’
‘Come, come! Voluntary contributions aren’t taxes,’ said the notary, who was also known for supporting the government. ‘No one had to pay. Those aren’t taxes!’
But nothing would stop Bartokfay. ‘I’ll keep off the army question then. Maybe that was necessary. But the government started discussing international commercial contracts — and that is a constitutional offence! Yes, a con-sti-tu-tional offence! Even according to the Compromise!’
‘I beg your pardon!’ parried the Prefect, ‘but there’s nothing illegal about discussion. The matter had to be discussed and they were free to do so. Now I agree that a settlement would have to have been stopped … I say it myself, but…’
‘Then all discussion is pointless! Absurd!’
‘All this discussion is absurd!’ shouted Peter Kis, completely losing his temper.
For a moment there was silence. Then a rich deep baritone voice, with melodious depths to it like organ notes, spoke up from the background: it was Zsigmond Boros, the lawyer whom everyone respected.
‘You must excuse me, Prefect, but our old friend is quite right. Allow me to clarify the problem …’
The lawyer’s calm and lucid explanation smoothed down the rising tempers of the others. He paused for an instant and then the puffy young Isti Kamuthy spoke up, his lisp all the more pronounced as he tried to get his word in before anyone else.
‘Thatth just what I thought, at home in Burgozthd. Then I thought I was thtupid. Now I thee I am not tho thtupid!’
‘You were right the first time, in Burgozthd!’ Old Crookface shouted. Everyone laughed, even young Isti, though he did not know why.
Then, as the laughter died down and everyone seemed calmer, the banker Weissfeld started again. Balint rose quietly, touched Gyeroffy on the shoulder and unobtrusively moved out from under the tree. All this narrow-minded, prejudiced, dogmatic talk got on his nerves. Even the prefect, whom he admired, brought only clichés and worn-out legalistic quibbles to the discussion. Laszlo joined him as they walked away.
Slowly they made their way back to the terrace. It was growing dark. Between the small corner tower and the library a small door opened onto steps that led down to the rose garden. They went this way but did not speak until they had left the terrace. It was as if they both felt the need for the quiet privacy of the garden before starting to talk, so many months had passed since their last meeting. Balint still felt dazed by the useless clamour of the politicians and he reflected ruefully on the very different experiences he had had while abroad on mission. He thought of the methodic logical work that had gone into the preparations for the commercial treaty with Italy, and of the barely disguised contempt expressed by foreigners, especially by the Austrians and Germans, for the fuss that Hungary was making about Austrian control of the united armies. To them the security of the Dual Monarchy depended on the unification of the armed forces, and this was being foolishly undermined by the Hungarians. In the context of world politics the Hungarian attitude was short-sighted and meaningless. Of course foreigners knew nothing of Hungary’s past and they could not understand why the Hungarians loathed and resented the integration of their army with that of Austria. Balint’s ardent national feelings had been outraged every time he had heard his countrymen laughed at and misunderstood.
Laszlo’s thoughts were very different. He had barely listened to the argument under the lime tree. Politics were not for him, and in any case his mind was far away, on matters more important to him.
The meeting with all these friends and relations today at the races, and again at Var-Siklod, had reawakened in Laszlo that old feeling of being an outsider. It was odd how even in Transylvania he did not feel a part of the group. This sense of not belonging went everywhere with him. Here, as at his aunt’s place in Budapest, everywhere, it was the same. The grown man still carried with him the aura of his orphaned childhood. He was alien, a foreigner; politely welcomed perhaps, but never completely accepted.
How he yearned to be loved — and loved for himself, not just for what he could do to amuse and entertain, not for his excellent dancing, not because he could play the piano so well, providing waltzes and foxtrots that all could dance to; not because he was a good shot and an excellent fourth at tennis. When he visited his Kollonich or Szent-Gyorgyi relations in West Hungary, all his cousins seemed overjoyed when he came, tried to make him prolong his stay and were sad when he left. But still Laszlo sensed that it was only for these superficial reasons and not because they really understood and liked him.
Of all these cousins there was only Klara, who was about his own age — and she was not really a cousin at all as she was the daughter of Prince Kollonich’s first marriage — who seemed to see more in him than the others. Only she was interested in what he thought rather than what he did. Even when they were still very young they would pair off in team games, the two of them against the others. Klara was different; but her half-brother, his aunt’s sons, and the two Szent-Gyorgyi boys? He doubted very much if they saw anything more in him than an amusing cousin who was good at tennis.