They Were Found Wanting (25 page)

It was when this impassioned situation was at its height that there occurred the uprising at Chernova.

A priest named Hlinka had been suspended by his bishop from the care of the parish of Rozsahegy and a local tribunal had found him guilty of making treasonable statements in public. Hlinka’s birthplace was the neighbouring village of Chernova where he had built a church out of his own money. This he wanted to consecrate himself, but he now found himself forbidden by the bishop to do so, while other priests were sent to Rozsahegy to do this office for him. The people of Chernova were at once up in arms, hid the sacred vessels of their church and sent furious threatening letters to the bishop, whose chosen priests took fright and asked for an escort of gendarmes, even though the local sheriff had told them that this was not wise. What
happened
was that, when the priests arrived to consecrate the church, they and their escort were met with a hail of stones. The
gendarmes
, to defend themselves as well as the priests, opened fire. Nine men fell dead and many others were wounded, of which
several
died later. It was a sad, unnecessary and bloody affair.

Sad it certainly was, and nothing to smile about; but Slawata saw it in a different light. He knew only too well the secret links between this sort of commotion and the planning office of the Archduke Franz-Ferdinand, the so-called ‘
Werkstatt
– Workshop’, as the followers of the Heir called it. This sort of thing was just what they wanted, the more trouble there was the better! And when the new ruler ascended the throne and this must be soon now – he would spread joy everywhere by putting all such matters to rights, after his own fashion, of course. It was just as well that the Hungarian government had not intervened between the bishop and his parishioners, for this was just one more problem they must work out for themselves. So, as Slawata reclined comfortably against the cushions of his well-sprung
carriage
, which swung gently from side to side as it progressed in stately fashion along the winding road, he thought of the words of Goethe: ‘
Blut
ist
ein
ganz
besonder
Saft
– Blood is a very strange liquid!’, for Slawata was nothing if not well-read.

I
N THE LAST CARRIAGE
were Countess Beredy and the host. Though the short journey to the castle only took just over a quarter of an hour there was plenty of time for Fanny to outline her plan. She spoke in English so that they would not be understood by the coachman.

She had made a survey, she explained. Using the little
side-stair
she would easily be able to come down to his room that night – no one would see her, for she would wait until everyone was already asleep – really, it was quite simple, she never caught cold anyway and of course she’d wear a well-lined kimono – it would be so amusing, far better than his coming to her – such fun and much more enjoyable too! So she chatted on, showing him every reason why it would really be so much better and of course she had quite understood, the previous night when he had not come to her, that he had been afraid of catching cold and didn’t like to admit the real reason …

Count Antal’s lean greyhound face never moved a muscle. He looked straight ahead, his expression oddly cold if not icy as he said, like her in English, ‘Oh no! That would not do at all!’ and he gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

‘But why not?’ she asked, astonished, and started once again to explain how she had looked carefully at the layout of the rooms and the corridor and the stairway just next to their bathrooms. It would only take a moment, and she’d be very, very careful.

‘No!’ he repeated. ‘No!’ and when Fanny, in an attempt to arouse his desire, told him how she had watched him at the end of the drive and had admired him so much that she had wanted to take him in her arms right then, he turned towards her with an unusually stern expression on his face and said‚ ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing! Here, in my own house, my wife’s house. This is my home, this is not …’ and he broke off leaving the word unspoken.

‘No!’ he said again. ‘This is not the right place!’ and perhaps to soften a little the effect of what he had just said he gave a little almost apologetic laugh: but his voice had lost none of its
decisiveness
when he added, ‘I’m such a fool, you know. I have principles!’

The eyes of the beautiful Countess Beredy narrowed until only two long narrow slits could be seen, catlike, between her lashes. Then, her mouth a thin line too, she made an effort to chatter on as if nothing had occurred. ‘Oh dear! What a
charming
fool you are!’ she said in English; but inside she knew
immediately
that she would lose no time in finding a way to be avenged of that barely veiled insult.

When the carriages arrived at the castle they were driven one by one through the giant gateway and into the courtyard,
drawing
up at the foot of the great stair to discharge the guests and then turning and backing up to stand in line facing the entrance. They waited there until all the sixteen horses were standing in line apparently quite motionless except for the occasional soft
rattle
of a curb-chain. They remained like this for a few moments and then, one by one, starting on the left of the line, they moved slowly off, out through the gates and down the hill to the stables.

No one, alas, saw this elegant and precise manoeuvre which was performed with all the precision of clockwork. The guests hurried up the stairs to their rooms while the accompanying throng, loaders, game carriers, keepers and forest guards, all heavily laden, streamed away through doors at the rear of the courtyard which led to kitchens, game larders, gun-rooms and servants’ living quarters.

The hostess and her widowed sister-in-law, Countess Illesvary, received the returning guests in a small corner room which was the only one of the castle’s drawing-rooms to be furnished in a style later than that of the Empress Maria Theresia. While all the others were decorated in the delicate rococo popular in Vienna in the second half of the eighteenth century, this little room had been completely refurbished from Paris at the time of the
Szent-Gyorgyis
’ marriage. It bore the unmistakable hallmarks of the Second Empire.

Every armchair and sofa was covered with a red repp material, as were the innumerable footstools, and each was bordered with heavily patterned black and red ribbon. The walls were covered in the same stuff and the same ribbon had been used as borders for the artificial panels.

On the walls were hung a multitude of family portraits in oils, most of them fairly recent in date and many representing Countess Szent-Gyorgyi’s Transylvanian relations. There was a group of Abadys with her grandfather; there was Balint’s dead father with her uncle, Balint’s grandfather, Count Peter; Gyeroffys, her parents and their children including poor Mihaly, Laszlo’s father, who killed himself; and a double portrait by Barabas of her sister Agnes, later Princess Kollonich, and herself as children. On the many velvet-covered little tables were placed miniatures on tiny stands and many, many photographs of her husband and children at various ages from their infancy to the present day. Everywhere, too, there were vases filled with flowers, and the floor was covered with a thick pile carpet.

Although the little salon was filled to overflowing with all these objects and heavily over-stuffed furniture, it was still warm and harmonious, as cosy and welcoming as a soft all-embracing down-filled nest.

This was where Countess Elise was always to be found, sitting between the windows, from which she was protected by two screens – for she was extremely sensitive to draughts and always caught cold at once if she sat in the other rooms. In autumn and winter she would only emerge at mealtimes or bedtime, returning immediately afterwards to her chosen place. Today she was
sitting
, not only with her sister-in-law but also with her niece, Klara Kollonich, wife to Imre Warday. Klara was in her sixth month of pregnancy which is why, instead of joining the shooting party, she had lunched quietly at home with her aunts.

As the other guests came in one by one they greeted their
hostess
, kissed the ladies’ hands, made a few appreciative remarks about the morning’s sport and then strolled through to the adjoining dining-room where they sat down informally at a large table laid with platters of cold meats and hot bread, decanters of sherry and pots of tea. This was a light meal designed just to tide over the guests’ hunger because they had all had a huge, rather late breakfast before setting off for the shoot. After all the walking they had done that morning even this light meal was received with pleasure.

Szent-Gyorgyi alone stayed for some time in the little
sitting-room
with his wife, telling her in detail everything that had passed that morning, who had been placed where and what they had shot. They chatted together speaking, as well-matched
couples
do, in a sort of private language of their own that had been developed by years of intimacy and fondness and understanding.

‘But you haven’t told me what
you
shot? More than all the others, I’m sure?’ she said, interrupting him, but smiling at the same time.

‘Oh, no! I think that Balint on the right got more than I did.’

‘Balint? Pheasants and partridges too? Come on, tell the truth, don’t lie!’

‘Ah well, perhaps not those; but then there are always more birds at the centre, you know,’ and Szent-Gyorgyi gave a little laugh as if mocking his own modesty.

When at last the host went into the dining-room he only took a cup of tea which he started to drink still standing. Imre Warday came over to him and said, ‘Would you allow me to look at your Jersey cows before it gets dark? I’m sure I could learn a lot from seeing how you look after them.’

‘Of course! Naturally!’ said his host and gave orders that
someone
should telephone to the stables for a carriage and then to the dairy farm to expect a guest.

‘Yesterday the sheep, the day before the Poland-China pigs! Proper little farmer you are!’ called out young Louis Kollonich in careless mockery.

‘And what’s wrong with that?’ answered Warday. ‘It’s quite natural, and nobody but a fool would miss an opportunity to look at the Jablanka farms. It’s rare enough to get a chance to see model farming on this scale; it costs a fortune and few people can afford it.’

‘Of course, that’s true,’ said his host, ‘but, you know, it’s
absolutely
vital. At the time of the great innovations of Szechenyi…’ and here he started to talk in an impassioned manner unusual for the man who affected to despise all forms of enthusiasm, ‘we started to import thoroughbreds from England, then we
experimented
with Rambouillet sheep and Simmenthal cattle. Now we must look further afield. All this is much easier on the big estates, easier even than for the State itself. Of course I find it a
fascinating
hobby as well as being …’ Here he let the sentence trail off with an indefinite gesture of the hand for Antal Szent-Gyorgyi could not bring himself to pronounce the revealing word ‘duty’ and, besides, he found the phrase too pompous.

Countess Beredy looked across the table at Warday. She said nothing, but when he started to get up she too rose from her seat and said, ‘I think I’ll come with you!’

‘Wouldn’t you rather come with the rest of us to see the brood-mares?’ asked Szent-Gyorgyi as he walked with her to the door.

‘No!
I
would like to see something different!’ said Fanny,
smiling
as she moved past him. Then, laughing softly, she added, ‘And I did ride with you in the carriage this morning!’ before gliding swiftly out of the room.

Szent-Gyorgyi shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the others.

The Jablanka breeding stables were a sight not to be missed. The buildings themselves were extraordinary and had been designed by Count Antal’s grandfather who had had them built after a model he had seen in England.

They stood in the middle of a great meadow in the park. The central building was higher than the others for it contained, on the ground floor, a large drawing-room furnished in Early Biedermeier style, with parquet floors and a wide-open fireplace. It was lit by long French windows and above was a vast hay loft. All around were blocks of ten loose-boxes, five and five back to back, each the size of a room, with enormous doors split in the middle so that the upper parts could be left open to let the brood mares and their foals get enough air even in the worst of bad weather. From each block of boxes radiated white-painted palisades dividing the great meadow into segments which ended only at the edge of the surrounding woods. In some of these
paddocks
there grazed a single pedigree mare followed by her foal. These were the dams of famous racehorses, winners of great filly races.

Szent-Gyorgyi showed them round explaining exactly why everything was laid out as it was. As he did so Wuelffenstein knowingly interjected as many sporting phrases as he could, Balint and young Louis gazed at everything with admiration, Slawata pretended an interest he did not feel, and the two girls fondled the muzzles of those mares that were in their boxes and fed them sugar.