They Were Divided Read online

  All this had formed the theme of Berchtold’s address the previous year; and, because then the situation in the Balkans was still far from being settled, and also because the Dual Monarchy’s relations with Russia had been particularly strained, he had managed to set forth his exposé without encountering undue criticism.

  A year later the situation was very different. At the end of August the Bucharest peace treaty had been signed and so what had previously remained uncertain now had somehow to be explained away. As far as Austria-Hungary was concerned the profit-and-loss account showed a deficit, and Berchtold had the pitiful task of trying to make the best of it.

  The truth was that the Dual Monarchy had everywhere been the loser, and furthermore the Balkan states had acted as if she did not exist. In May an agreement between Bulgaria and Romania had handed Silistria to the latter in return for Romania’s neutrality during the hostilities; and it seemed that this must have been planned by a former secret agreement inspired by St Petersburg. Already, despite Romania being a party to the Threefold Agreement, Bulgaria, which with the help of the Ballplatz and Aerenthal had finally become independent of Turkish suzerainty three years before, had also annexed Rumelia. As soon as these moves were made relations between the different Balkan states became soured, for they all aspired to a share of the disintegrating Ottoman empire, and promptly quarrelled among themselves as to who should get what. Russia was asked to arbitrate, but when, encouraged once more by Vienna, Bulgaria refused to accept the Tsar’s verdict, war again broke out. This time Russia encouraged the other Balkan states, now also including Romania, to turn against her disobedient former protégé Bulgaria.

  The war was over in ten days.

  On July 1st the Serbian army defeated the Bulgarians. On July 3rd the Romanian army marched south and by July 10th stood before Sofia. Meanwhile the Greeks chased the Bulgarians from the Aegean coast while the Turkish Enver Pasha advanced upon Adrianople, over which much blood had already been spilt, and reconquered it with almost no casualties.

  In these ten days Austria-Hungary lost her last vestiges of respect in the Balkans. Something might have been saved, even at the last minute, if she had seen fit to intervene, but the Dual Monarchy made no move. This may have been wise, in that her intervention could well have provoked a war with Russia, but the real reason for this inactivity was that, after all the internal confusions which had obstructed the modernization of the army, Austria-Hungary was then even more unprepared for war than she was to be in 1914.

  So, though she could hardly have done anything else, the end result was that in the eyes of Europe these Balkan wars were lost, not by Turkey but by the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy.

  Up to the last minute the Austrian Foreign Office did its best to camouflage the truth. Firstly the Ballplatz declared that, along with the other great powers, Austria reserved the right to approve the terms of the forthcoming peace treaty. It is probable that she imagined the London Conference would stand firmly behind her and thereby do something to save her good name. Unfortunately the great powers, including Germany, did nothing of the sort: they all approved the peace terms unreservedly.

  This produced a new dilemma. Either Austria could pursue her aims unilaterally, which might lead her into war without the support of either Germany or Italy, or she had to renounce her claim to revise the peace terms in the way that best suited her. Faced with this impasse the Dual Monarchy withdrew from the London Conference.

  From the beginning Austria had put herself in a false position. Her diplomacy was ill thought-out and badly prepared; and it showed the world how many cracks there were in the Threefold Alliance of Austria, Germany and Italy. Above all it antagonized Romania, who in the end received more from the Bucharest Agreement than she would have been allowed by St Petersburg only a few months previously. Austria’s claim to have the right to approve the peace terms therefore seemed to the Romanians to be an attempt to limit their share of the spoils, though that had never been Berchtold’s intention.

  Romania’s revenge was to come in the following year.

  The main result of this feckless muddling was that from the moment Austria-Hungary withdrew from the London Conference, the world got on quite well without her. Vienna no longer had any say in Balkan affairs. The Turkish-Bulgarian treaty, and that between Turkey and Greece, had both been settled and signed without anyone even asking the opinion of Austria. It was as if the Dual Monarchy did not exist. She did make one more attempt to retrieve her lost prestige by issuing an ultimatum to Serbia that Albania’s independence must be preserved; but the effect of this was lessened by the fact that it was also the policy of Italy and England – above all of England, who did not relish the possibility of having a Serbian (which meant Russian) fleet at large in the Mediterranean.

  This was what Berchtold had somehow to explain to the delegation from Hungary. His presentation of the disagreeable facts was masterly.

  Firstly he emphasized that Austria-Hungary’s foreign policy was based on the need to preserve peace. He spoke of the ‘harmony’ which existed between the great powers, even including Russia – though he did admit that in the previous years there had been ‘some small differences of opinion’ which had later all been smoothed away. This had been a definite success for the Monarchy’s diplomacy.

  He then spoke appreciatively of the Ottoman Empire. It had proved its continued power and vitality by the re-taking of Adrianople from the vanquished Bulgarians. That the Sultan had also lost two great provinces was, in one way, advantageous to Turkey for she was thereby relieved of some of her most unruly subjects …quite a happy result, in fact! It was, of course, true that when the war began Austria-Hungary’s principal aim had been the maintenance of the status quo, but, as Berchtold’s predecessor, Gyula Andrassy, had said as early as 1878, ‘We mustn’t prop up a crumbling house until the day it collapses’. So it was with the status quo. In this he took the same view as his great predecessor.

  All this Berchtold told with great skill and authority. No one could have bettered his air of effortless superiority. His distinguished appearance, with high balding forehead, recalled a stylized figure from a magazine devoted to men’s fashions. He spoke as from a great distance, so de haut en bas that he left no doubt in his hearers’ minds that he belonged to the inner circle of the Vienna ‘Olympus’, that social group so exclusive that only a few of its members were not born to the purple.

  Indeed his exposé was masterly.

  He represented the independence of Albania as a triumph of Viennese diplomacy and, as evidence of this, he announced that Austria had already found a suitable king for that new and still untamed country. This was the Prince of Wied, who until recently had served in a Prussian guards regiment, the so-called Yellow Uhlans.

  There was also another extraordinary success to be told: it was the cession of the island of Adakaleh to Hungary. This, he felt sure, would please the Hungarians as it had figured so largely in the classical Magyar novel The Golden Man.

  With the account of these two great successes Berchtold brought his address to an end. The meeting was then terminated and all discussion postponed until the following day.

  In this way the Austrian foreign minister had somehow extricated himself from a most awkward position, though this, ultimately, was not because of the brilliance of his exposition, nor because of little Adakaleh, but because the whole affair was at once overshadowed by the unwise comportment of the opposition members of the Hungarian delegation who provoked a scandal by raising the matter of Tisza’s use of the parliamentary guards in Budapest – this when discussion of all internal matters was forbidden to them. It had long been agreed that the delegation could discuss only foreign affairs, matters concerning the joint Austro-Hungarian army, and the general state of the economy. The intervention was all the more unexpected because it was those very members of the delegation who had so defiantly affirmed that internal matters were taboo, who now brought them up to the scandal of all those in the public roo
ms of the palais in the Bankgasse where Berchtold had given his address.

  It was only after half the time allocated for the discussion had been wasted in this way that the delegation was able to turn to those foreign affairs which were, after all, the sole raison d’être of the meeting.

  Now, finally, Berchtold found himself asked some very awkward questions. Was it true, someone asked, that Germany had abandoned the Dual Monarchy on the question of Austria’s claim to inspect and if necessary revise the terms of the Bucharest peace treaty? Why, asked another, had Berchtold not spoken in warmer terms of the role played by France?

  This last question was raised by Mihaly Karolyi, who by then had become the acknowledged leader of the Independent Party. Karolyi praised the part played by Poincaré and asked why there had been no criticism of the totally passive role played by the Ballplatz throughout the whole Balkan crisis and the London Conference which had followed. This attitude was not entire logical, coming from the representative of those who had extended the hand of friendship to Serbia from the great height of the pseudo-parliament in the Hotel Royal’s ballroom: for how could someone who saw no wrong in aggression emanating from Belgrade condemn the passivity of Vienna?

  The presence of the delegation brought quite a number of Hungarians to the Austrian capital.

  It was also the reason why Balint found himself there. He had been appointed in the autumn by Tisza who wished to reward him for having given up his non-party stand and joining the government party when Tisza took office.

  Abady had thought about this for some time and the move had made things easier for him, especially in regard to his work for the Co-operatives. Now he no longer had to apply for an audience with the appropriate minister but could buttonhole him at any time in the party’s private rooms. Balint’s change of heart had had nothing to do with his political beliefs. It the past he had remained free of party allegiances only because of his innate distaste for any restraint on his freedom of action. Now he overcame this.

  He had not come to Vienna from Budapest with the others, but from Switzerland where he had just spent a few days with Adrienne on the shores of Lac Léman near Nyon. From there Adrienne had gone on to Lausanne to visit her daughter while Balint returned to Vienna. In their little pension they had registered as man and wife – which in those days before passports posed no problems – and indeed this is what they now considered themselves.

  That terrible unbreakable chain which had bound Adrienne to her incurably mad husband had shattered of its own accord in the autumn. On November 2nd Pal Uzdy died suddenly.

  He had been in excellent health until the end of the summer and indeed, throughout the four years of his confinement, and though his mind had gradually grown ever more clouded, his physical condition had even improved. He had put on weight and there seemed to be no reason why he should not live for years, even possibly outliving his wife.

  In the middle of September, however, his persecution-mania took a new turn. He said nothing to anyone, not even to Adrienne who visited him often, but he began to imagine that his medical adviser was trying to poison him. Normally it was to Adrienne that he would confide his innermost thoughts, but not this time. It was his keeper who began to notice a change in the patient and soon diagnosed the trouble. Uzdy started by sniffing at his food suspiciously, and then leaving most of it on the plate until he was eating almost nothing. The doctor did his best to persuade him to eat but though Uzdy pretended to agree, he would tip the soup into the wash-basin and throw the meat and vegetables into the lavatory pan. When this was discovered they tried installing a little electric cooker in Uzdy’s room so that he himself could prepare the eggs that his keeper brought him telling the sick man, though of course it was not true, that he had smuggled them in from outside without the hospital people knowing anything about it. He also brought him apples and pears and a little silver knife with which to peel them himself. This worked for a few days, but proved to be a failure when Uzdy, from his window, caught sight of his keeper talking to the hated doctor. From then on he refused to eat at all, and would soon have died of starvation if Fate had not decided otherwise.

  He grew very thin, barely more than skin and bones, and for hours he would pace up and down his room without stopping. Soon he could hardly keep himself upright, but reeled from side to side grabbing hold of whatever piece of furniture he found in his way. Though too weak to stay upright for more than a moment without support, nothing would make him stop.

  On the last day of October he slipped and struck his back against the bedpost. The injury sparked off an attack of pleurisy which soon affected his lungs. In three days he was dead.

  He was buried at Varalmas, where his own mad father had been interred. It was after this that Adrienne decided to visit her daughter.

  It was still necessary in those days to do nothing which might cause tongues to wag and so Balint left before her, having arranged that they should meet in Salzburg and only from there go on to Switzerland together. They did this principally because it would not have been thought seemly, despite the circumstances, for Adrienne to have travelled alone with a man during the first weeks of mourning. They used the opportunity to talk over their future together. Adrienne was insistent that they should wait until the year’s official mourning was at an end before they married. This, she felt, was for the sake of her daughter who would never afterwards wonder why her mother had not waited for the customary period. Balint felt obliged to agree.

  In spite of the reason for this voyage it turned out to be like a honeymoon. Here, for the first time, they were alone, with no fear of discovery or exposure, and happy in the knowledge that their future together was at long last assured.

  Balint’s only regret was that his mother had not lived to see how things had turned out. He knew that she would no longer have opposed his marriage to Adrienne but, on the contrary, would have rejoiced with him. He remembered how sweet and welcoming she had been to Adrienne that time they had so unexpectedly met at Gerbeaud’s. He knew that his mother would have approved.

  Balint had chosen a small pension on the edge of the lake. It had only twenty rooms and had been converted from the country retreat of some patrician family from Geneva who had had it built at the end of the 18th century and named it, after the fashion of those days, ‘Monbijou’. The name had been kept, and suited it well. It was designed in the French manner, elegant and stylish, and typical of the sort of modest, but not too modest, retreat built by the wealthy of those days. The house faced the lake. In front of it a wide lawn sloped gently down to the water’s side and it was backed by giant oak-trees. Across the lake the mountains rose, a wild jumble of rocky crags above which, whenever the clouds parted, could be seen the snow-covered triangular peak of Mont Blanc. This seemed to float so high in the sky that it was difficult to imagine that it was anywhere attached to the earth.

  There they stayed for eight days, eight days of quiet joy and happiness far removed from the impassioned fever of their first coming together in Venice when every minute of that month of frenzied love-making had to be made the most of as both of them feared that any one of those days might have been their last on earth. Then every dawn might have heralded a parting made final by death. Now all was different. They lived together beside the lake in calm intimacy … and in the happy promise that soon they would never again be parted.

  They made all sorts of plans, reaching out many, many years ahead. They would have a quiet wedding with only two witnesses, no one else. Some modernization would have to be done at Denestornya; electricity installed and two new bathrooms, one for Adrienne and the other … the other for the future when their son, who had not been spoken of by them for a long time, not since Uzdy’s madness, would then at long last have become a reality. This, they now felt, was sure; and the child would be the crown of their love, a descendant who would be the living proof of their enduring will to live.

  Chapter Two

  AFTER THE MEETING Balint went to a conce
rt given by the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra to hear one of the Beethoven symphonies.

  It was quite late when the concert was over and Balint hurried to get to Sacher’s before midnight when the public dining-room closed.

  He was too late. The lights had been turned out and all the tablecloths removed. Balint found himself somewhat put out for he did not know anywhere else where he could get a quiet meal without music. He turned back from the dining-room and had just entered the front hall when he met Peter and Niki Kollonich coming in.

  ‘Have you come to get some food?’ asked Balint. ‘They’ve just closed here, so I’ve got to find somewhere else.’

  ‘Come and join us then,’ replied Peter. ‘We’ve got a private room for supper. Kristof Zalamery and I booked it in advance!’

  ‘It’s really very nice of you, but if it’s with gypsy music and girls then I don’t think it’s for me tonight.’

  They reassured him. No gypsies and no girls, except for one who would be coming later. She was La Pantera, a famous Spanish dancer who had been appearing at the Ronacher Theatre for the last two months and who had thrown the imperial capital into a fever.

  Abady had already heard of her. She was, he knew, beautiful as well as being an accomplished dancer – but she had become even more famous for her diamonds which had been pictured in every illustrated paper in the world. This had been done many, many times, since La Pantera, or her manager, used these famous jewels for the dancer’s publicity. Just in case interest in the diamonds should wane, they were stolen every five or six months – only to be recovered a week or ten days later. Each time this happened they could be written up again, with every detail lovingly described and the enormous value greatly exaggerated so as to tease the respectable reader.