trickier. The mandate of the House as then composed rested on the 1910 elections and had later been extended by the emergency powers voted because of the war. This was probably the reason why theSpeaker now suggested that the House of Deputies should at once declare its own dissolution, and that this action should be voluntary and not imposed by force. 28
Thinking about all this, as the train rumbled on, I recalled how the Fehérváry government 29 had dismissed the House of Deputies in 1906. The Fehérváry government was lawful in form, although the fact that its members were in the minority made it unconstitutional – and what indignation had broken out then! What a commotion was then heard from all those members , whether on the right wing or the left, who were offended by a proposal to bypass the law! To carry it off, the chamber had to be occupied by the military, and all opposition stamped out by the resounding clatter of soldiers’ boots as they formed up in lines, blocking all the corridors and exits. This is what had been needed then to flout the law.
Now, in 1918, not even a show of force was needed. Everywhere the mood was fatalistic, almost suicidal, as if hara-kiri were inevitable. Let us surrender our country’s most treasured traditions; we must be resigned to our own destruction! And that act of national suicide could not have been more complete.
There is a legend of Gül Baba that at the end of his life, impelled by desperation, he destroyed the rose garden that had been his life’s work and upon which, since early youth, he had worked with loving care. Some such desperation must have worked its spell upon the Speaker, Károly Szász, on that fatal day in Budapest when he not only declared himself for voluntary dissolution but also failed to mention the recently assassinated István Tisza, the former Minister-President, who had set the precedent (although against the will of many), which had enabled Károly Szász to find himself in his present post. Not only that; he also tried to prevent anyone else from speaking a few reverent words in memory of Tisza.
It may be that he was afraid that if he did not mention the former Minister-President then others would shame him by doing so themselves.
I had it directly from Kunó Klebelsberg that before the meeting he had asked Szász if he was going to mention Tisza, and that the reply had been that it would not be ‘timely’.
‘Then I will do so. I shall ask to be heard before the minutes are read.’
‘Then I will refuse my permission!’
And so it happened. Klebelsberg rose to his feet, but Szász appeared not to notice and quickly adjourned the session.
Even in Japan there is no more perfect act of hara-kiri: the only difference is that there they die of it.
In the last resort the only reasonable explanation can be found in the general neurasthenia that was then so prevalent.
While all this was going on some men of the ‘new order’ gathered in the House. Some female friends of mine had got tickets for reserved places in the public gallery and, as my post at the opera did not come to an end until 18 November and I had been obliged to stay on in Budapest, I arranged to go with them so as to see what was going on with my own eyes. The members of the Károlyi government, together with the representatives of the National Council and the trade unions, sat on the long dais that backed onto the Danube side of the Chamber. The session was presided by János Hock, that notorious priest, who sat in the middle of them. At that moment he was the effective head of the government of Hungary, and so presided over a meeting that, with no legal mandate, could speak on behalf of, and decide the fate for, the whole country.
The Chamber, which is much bigger than the great cupola above makes it seem, was by no means full. The seats in the centre were sparsely occupied, while in the wide corridors behind the pillars, we, the spectators who had come to gape at the
Thinking about all this, as the train rumbled on, I recalled how the Fehérváry government 29 had dismissed the House of Deputies in 1906. The Fehérváry government was lawful in form, although the fact that its members were in the minority made it unconstitutional – and what indignation had broken out then! What a commotion was then heard from all those members , whether on the right wing or the left, who were offended by a proposal to bypass the law! To carry it off, the chamber had to be occupied by the military, and all opposition stamped out by the resounding clatter of soldiers’ boots as they formed up in lines, blocking all the corridors and exits. This is what had been needed then to flout the law.
Now, in 1918, not even a show of force was needed. Everywhere the mood was fatalistic, almost suicidal, as if hara-kiri were inevitable. Let us surrender our country’s most treasured traditions; we must be resigned to our own destruction! And that act of national suicide could not have been more complete.
There is a legend of Gül Baba that at the end of his life, impelled by desperation, he destroyed the rose garden that had been his life’s work and upon which, since early youth, he had worked with loving care. Some such desperation must have worked its spell upon the Speaker, Károly Szász, on that fatal day in Budapest when he not only declared himself for voluntary dissolution but also failed to mention the recently assassinated István Tisza, the former Minister-President, who had set the precedent (although against the will of many), which had enabled Károly Szász to find himself in his present post. Not only that; he also tried to prevent anyone else from speaking a few reverent words in memory of Tisza.
It may be that he was afraid that if he did not mention the former Minister-President then others would shame him by doing so themselves.
I had it directly from Kunó Klebelsberg that before the meeting he had asked Szász if he was going to mention Tisza, and that the reply had been that it would not be ‘timely’.
‘Then I will do so. I shall ask to be heard before the minutes are read.’
‘Then I will refuse my permission!’
And so it happened. Klebelsberg rose to his feet, but Szász appeared not to notice and quickly adjourned the session.
Even in Japan there is no more perfect act of hara-kiri: the only difference is that there they die of it.
In the last resort the only reasonable explanation can be found in the general neurasthenia that was then so prevalent.
While all this was going on some men of the ‘new order’ gathered in the House. Some female friends of mine had got tickets for reserved places in the public gallery and, as my post at the opera did not come to an end until 18 November and I had been obliged to stay on in Budapest, I arranged to go with them so as to see what was going on with my own eyes. The members of the Károlyi government, together with the representatives of the National Council and the trade unions, sat on the long dais that backed onto the Danube side of the Chamber. The session was presided by János Hock, that notorious priest, who sat in the middle of them. At that moment he was the effective head of the government of Hungary, and so presided over a meeting that, with no legal mandate, could speak on behalf of, and decide the fate for, the whole country.
The Chamber, which is much bigger than the great cupola above makes it seem, was by no means full. The seats in the centre were sparsely occupied, while in the wide corridors behind the pillars, we, the spectators who had come to gape at the
Similar Books
