CHAPTER VI.

THE DIET OF KAROLY-FEHERVÁR.

It is the fate of many a town, as of many a nation, to rise from the dead.

One people perishes there. The walls fall to pieces. The name of the town passes into oblivion. And again there comes another people, which builds upon the ruins, gives the place a new name; and while the old stones, cast one upon another, seem to bewail the past, the city, radiant with new palaces, rejoices in its youth like a flattered beauty.

The hill on which Transylvania's only fortress stands was once covered with massive buildings by Diurban's race. Who now remembers so much as its name? The Roman legions subjected the nation, threw down the shapeless walls, and instead of the altar dedicated to the Blood-God, and stained with human sacrifices, there arose a temple of Vesta; the wooden palace of the Dacian duke vanished, and the marble halls of the proprætor took its place, with their Corinthian columns, their white mosaic floor, their artistically carved divinities. The place was then called _Colonia Apulensis_.

Again the town grew old, fell down, and died.

A new and mightier race came into it; the former inhabitants were buried beneath the ruins of their palaces and temples, and instead of the proprætor's palace, the gilded and enamelled dwelling of Duke Gyula,[42] with its skittle-shaped roof, towered up like an enchanted castle from the Thousand and One Nights, and on the ruins of the temple of Vesta the pagan forefathers of the Magyars built altars under the open sky, where they worshipped the sun, the stars, and a naked sword. Then the town was called Gyula-Fehervár.[43]

[Footnote 42: _Gyula_ = Julius. The heathen Prince of Transylvania at the end of the tenth century.]

[Footnote 43: _Gyula-Fehervár._ White Julius' town.]

A century passed, and Stephen, saint and king, cast down the altars of the fire-worshippers, and built a vast church on the spot where so many false gods had been adored. The sun-worshippers disappeared, and the Christian world called the church after the name of the Archangel Michael.

What sort of church was it?--Nobody can now tell! Two centuries later the Tartars came, levelled town and church with the ground, and put the population to the sword. On their departure they gave to the town the scornful nickname Nigra-Julia.[44]

[Footnote 44: _Nigra Julia._ Black Julia.]

Our nation's greatest man, John Hunniady, rebuilt it. Traces of his huge Gothic arches may still be found there. In the crypt, built at the same time, all the Princes of Transylvania were buried in richly-carved sarcophagi. Here _rested_ Hunniady himself and his headless son Ladislaus.[45] They _rested_ here, but only for a time. Robber-hordes came and scattered the sacred relics, and devastated the church, and the succeeding princes who patched it up again during the Turkish dominion, added to the Gothic groundwork the peculiarities of Arab architecture, serpentine columns, and Moorish arabesques.

[Footnote 45: _Ladislaus Hunniady._ The eldest son of the great hero, treacherously beheaded in 1456.]

And last of all came the renovations and restorations of modern times--four-cornered towers, with little low windows and shapeless portals. The arabesques were all white-washed, and where here and there the mortar falls from the walls, you may catch a glimpse of the stones with which the church was originally built, relics of every age which has visited the place and vanished tracklessly. Here sculptured fragments of the old Mythra cultus; there mutilated Vestals. Below, the top of an ancient altar with the broken symbol of a sun upon it; above, florid and fantastic arabesques.

And again the town lost its name.

They call it now Karoly-Fehervár.[46]

[Footnote 46: _Karoly-Fehervár._ White Charles' town. German: Karlsburg.]

* * * * *

At the time in which our story is laid, this town was the place where the Princes of Transylvania used to be consecrated and the Diets to be held. Where the episcopal palace now stands stood then the Prince's residence, restored by John Sigismund,[47] with marble inlaid chambers, and walls covered with battle-pieces in fresco. The great hall where the Diet met was separated from the surrounding chambers by a balustrade of tinted marble. Round about the walls hung the busts of princes and woywodes interspersed with trophies. In front stood the throne covered with purple, and round about it a triumphal baldachin made of banners, shields, and morning-stars.

[Footnote 47: John Sigismund Zapolya (1540-1571), with whom the line of the Transylvanian princes began.]

The rest of the town was scarcely in keeping with the pomp of the Prince's residence, for in 1618 the Diet had been obliged to command the inhabitants to cease dwelling in tents, and build up their ruinous houses again.

* * * * *

The Estates of the Realm have already assembled. Every one is in his place. Only the seat of the Prince is still vacant.

There they sit in order of precedence--the Transylvanian patricians, the heads of the Hungarian nobility, the most eminent in wit, wealth, and valour--the Bethlens, the Csakys, the Lazars, the Kemenys, the Mikeses, the Banfis!--those mediæval clans whose will is the nation's, whose deeds form its history, whose ancestors, grandfathers and fathers, have either perished on the battle-field in defence of their princes, or on the scaffold for defying them. And their descendants loyally follow their examples. A new prince comes to the throne, and they take up again the swords which have fallen from their fathers' hands--to wield it for or against him, as Fate may decree.

The Szekler deputies with their homely garb and sullen, dogged faces, and the Saxon burghers with their simple, round, red countenances, and their primeval German costume, form a striking contrast to the dashing and resplendent Hungarian magnates.

The mob assembled in the galleries and behind the barrier presents a most motley picture. Many amongst it can be seen pointing out the celebrities to their neighbours, or shaking their fists at the deputies they dislike.

At last a flourish of trumpets announces that the Prince has arrived. The pages throw open the doors. The crowd shouts "Eljen!" His Highness appears surrounded by his court.

Denis Banfi, as Marshal of the Diet, leads the way, with the national standard in his right hand. Beside him is Paul Beldi of Uzoni, who, as Captain-General of the Szeklers, bears the mace. Behind them comes the Prime Minister, Master Michael Teleki, bringing with him in a silken case the Imperial _athname_: all three gentlemen are in gorgeous robes of state. In the midst walks the Prince himself, in a magnificent green velvet kaftan and an ermine embroidered hat: he holds the sceptre in his hand. Around and behind him throng the foreign ambassadors, foremost among whom stand the Sultan's envoy in a robe sparkling with diamonds; Forval, the Minister of Louis XIV., a sleek, courtly man, with silken ribbons in his dolman, gold lace on his hat, and a richly-embossed sword-scabbard; his colleague, the Abbé Reverend, with a smiling countenance, his lilac surplice fastened by a purple sash; and Sobieski's minister, wearing a _bekesch_ with divided sleeves, which so closely resembles the Magyar costume.

All these dignitaries now take their places. The ambassadors remain behind the Prince's throne; and while the long and tedious protocols of the last Diet are being read, many of them engage in conversation with the lords behind the barrier.

Among these latter we perceive Nicholas Bethlen, the young Transylvanian whose acquaintance we made a long time ago in Zrinyi's hunting suite. He is now a vivacious and sensible young man, having spent his youth in travelling through all the civilized countries of Europe, cultivating the acquaintance of their most famous men, and even of their princes, and appropriating the progressive ideas of the age, without losing anything of his national peculiarities. The French themselves tell us that it was he who first acquainted them with the hussar's uniform, and that the dolman he wore at Versailles served Louis XIV. as a pattern for equipping his first Hussar regiments.

When Bethlen caught sight of Forval, whom he had learnt to know in Paris, he hastened to his side and greeted him heartily.

"You'll lose the thread of the discussion," said Forval, hearing that something was being read, but not knowing what.

"So far, they can get on without me. The bills now before the house merely regulate how many dishes should be set before servants; or discuss the best method of compelling poor people to grow rich enough to pay more taxes. When the real business of the day begins you will find me also in my place."

"Then tell me in the meantime who are the capable men here, and who are not. You know everything about Transylvania." Forval had only just arrived there.

"Such a classification is by no means an easy one," returned Bethlen. "Formerly, when I was a party man myself, and had seen no country but my own, I was quite convinced that all the members of my own party were honest men, and all its opponents scoundrels without exception; but now that I have severed party ties, and seen a little of the world, I begin to perceive that a man may be a good patriot, an honest man, a valiant warrior, or the reverse, whether he belongs to the Right or the Left. Everything depends on the point of view you take. However, as you desire it, I will give you my own views of the state of parties, you can then draw your own conclusions. That proud man on the right of the Prince is Denis Banfi; the one on the left is Paul Beldi. They are the two most eminent men in the land, and both are determined opponents of the war it is proposed to commence; in all else they are adversaries, but on this one point they are inseparable. Banfi seems to be in league with the Emperor, Beldi with the Turk. In their opinion Transylvania is strong enough to drive back every invader of her territories, but not strong enough to play the invader herself. Now cast a glance at that baldish man on the left of the Prince. That is Michael Teleki. 'Tis the genius of that man which alone keeps the other two in check. He is a near relative of the Princess, and would renew here the war which has been the ruin of the national party in Hungary. The trial of strength between those three men will be an interesting spectacle."

"And if the peace party should prevail?"

"Then the nation will have declared for peace."

"And the Prince cannot go against it?"

"Here, my friend, we are not at the Court of Versailles, where a Prince may venture to say, '_L'état--c'est moi!_' Each of those three men has as much authority here as the Prince, and their authority is one with his. But let him only try to act against the will of the nation, and he will soon become aware that he stands alone. So, again, those great nobles would remain isolated if they undertook anything in opposition to the Diet."

"Be candid now. Do you think the war party will prevail?"

"Scarcely this time. I do not yet see the man who can bring a war about. Amongst the whole Hungarian party there is no one fit to become the ideal of a martial nation. Zrinyi has perished. Rakoczi has deserted it. Teleki knows how to overthrow but not how to create parties. Besides, he is no warrior, and it is a warrior that they want. He represents cold reason, and here there is need of a soul of fire. He has no _mission_ to fight for Hungary, but only a political interest. One of the Hungarian magnates, that moustacheless youth yonder, Emerich Tököli, has lately sued for his daughter's hand in order to engage the father in his interests. Mark my words. That young man has a career before him. His one idea is power--and Fortune is fickle, and her instruments are many."

This cold consultation was somewhat distasteful to Forval. Meanwhile the tiresome recitation of the protocols had come to an end, and Bethlen took his seat.

The Prince very sulkily informed the Estates that the reason he had summoned them would now be explained to them by Master Michael Teleki; then, wrapping himself in his kaftan, he leaned negligently back in the depths of his huge arm-chair.

Teleki stood up, waited until the applause of the crowd had subsided, then, casting a calm look upon Banfi, thus began--

"Worshipful and valiant Orders and Estates! The recent events in Hungary are well known to you all, and if you did not know them, you need only cast a glance around you, and the sad, despairing faces with which your assembly has been augmented would tell their own tale. These are our unfortunate Hungarian brethren, once the flower of the nation, now its withered leaves, which the storm has scattered far and wide. You have not denied your kinsmen in their adversity; you have shared hearth and home with them; you have mingled your tears with theirs. But oh! they have not turned to us for the bread of charity, or for womanly lamentations. Thou, Bocskai,[48] thou, Bethlen,[49] whose images now look down upon us from these walls with dumb reproaches; whose victorious, dust-stained banners wave around the throne, why can you not rise up again in our midst to seize those banners, and thunder in the ears of an irresolute generation--The banished beg of you a country, the houseless a home?"

[Footnote 48: Stephan Bocskai, Prince of Transylvania, 1605-1606. A great statesman and warrior.]

[Footnote 49: Gabriel Bethlen, the wisest of all the Transylvanian princes. He reigned 1601-1629.]

Here Teleki paused as if awaiting applause, but every one remained perfectly silent; mere rhetoric did not affect that Assembly in the least. Teleki saw his mistake, and instantly changed his tactics.

"You reply to my words by silence. Am I to take it that _qui tacet, negat_? I'll never believe that your hearts are too cold to be fired. You only hesitate because you would count up your forces. But let me tell you that we shall not take the field alone. The sight of our despoiled churches and our enslaved clergy has called all the Protestant princes of Europe to arms. Even the Belgian King, whom our fate concerns least of all, has rescued our brethren in the faith from the Neapolitan galleys; nor has the sword of Gustavus Adolphus grown rusty in its sheath. Nay, more, even the most Catholic of princes, even the followers of Mahommed, are ready to assist our cause. Behold the King of France, at this moment the mightiest ruler in Europe, raising troops for us, not only in his own land, but in Poland also; and, if necessary, the Sultan certainly will not scruple to break a peace that was forced upon him; or he will, at the very least, place his frontier troops at our disposal. And when all around us we hear the din of battle, when every one grasps the sword, shall we alone leave ours in its scabbard, we who owe so much to our brethren and to ourselves? What happened to them yesterday may happen to us to-morrow, and what country will then offer us a refuge? Therefore, my fellow-patriots, hearken to the prayers of the banished as if you stood in their places; for I tell you, that a time may come when you will be as they are now; and as you treat them now, so will Destiny treat you then!"

Teleki had done. He fixed his eyes on Denis Banfi as if he knew beforehand that he would be the first to reply to him.

Banfi arose. It was plain that he was making a great effort to keep within bounds and speak dispassionately.

"My noble colleagues!" he began, in an unusually calm voice. "Compassion towards unfortunate kinsmen and hatred of ancient foes are sentiments which become a man; but in politics there is no room for sentiment. In this place we are neither kinsmen, nor friends, nor yet foes; we are simply and solely patriots, whose first duty it is to coolly calculate, for, to say nothing of the joy or grief resulting from it, the fate of a whole land depends upon the issue of our deliberations. Now the question before us is really this: Are we to stake the existence of Transylvania for the sake of Hungary? Are we to shed our blood for the sake of raising her from the dead? Listen not to your hearts, they can only feel--'tis the head that thinks. Just now there is peace in Transylvania. The people are beginning to be happy; the towns are rising from their ashes; the mourning weeds are gradually being laid aside, and ears of corn are ripening on fields of blood. At present the Magyar is his own master in Transylvania. No stranger, no adversary, no protector exacts tribute from him. None may interfere in our deliberations. The neighbouring powers are obliged to protect us, and we are not obliged to do them homage for it. Reflect well upon all this ere you stake everything on one cast of the die! Would you again see all Transylvania turned into a huge battle-field, and your vassals transformed into an army, perhaps not even a victorious army? And even if our hosts were sufficient, who is there to lead them? None of us has inherited the genius of a Bethlen or of a Bocskai; neither I, nor Master Teleki. And then again, whom can we trust besides ourselves? The capricious Louis XIV. perhaps? His policy can be changed every moment by a pair of bright eyes. If we depended only on him, a petty Versailles intrigue might leave us in the lurch when we most required assistance."

Here Forval coughed to conceal his annoyance.

"As for Sobieski," continued Banfi, "depend upon it he will not attack his present ally the Emperor for our sweet sakes; nor will the Sultan break his oath as lightly as Master Michael Teleki seems to imagine. What then remains for us to do? Call the nomadic Tartars into Hungary, I suppose! The poor Hungarian population would certainly express their gratitude for such assistance as that! Your ideal Hungarian, Nicolas Zrinyi, used to tell a tale which deserves to be handed down to our latest posterity. The devil was carrying a Szekler away on his back. The Szekler's neighbour met and thus accosted him: 'Whither away, gossip?' 'I am being carried to hell,' said he. 'Eh! but that is a very bad job,' returned the other. 'Yes, but it might be much worse,' replied the rogue. 'Just fancy if he were to sit on my back, dig his spurs into me, and compel me to carry him instead!'--Let every one apply this fable as he thinks best. For my part, I cannot quite decide which I fear the most, the enmity of the Emperor or the amity of the Sultan. For, tell me, what will be the end of this war? If we conquer with the aid of the Sultan, Transylvania will become a Turkish Pachalic; if we are conquered, we shall sink into an Austrian province, while now we are a free and independent State by the grace of God! In any case Hungary's fate is bound to improve, and that fate touches my heart quite as much as theirs who fancy they can heal the sick man with the sword. But nothing is to be won in that way. How much blood has not already been shed without the slightest result? Let us try some other way. Surely the Magyar has sense enough to subdue by his intellectual superiority those whom he cannot overcome by force of arms? Subdue your conquerors, I say. You who are second to none in sense, energy, wealth, and the beauty of manliness, why do you not take the highest posts which belong to you of right? If you were to sit where the Pázmáns[50] and the Esterhazys[51] have sat, there would be no room left for a Lobkovich.[52] If instead of fighting petty, fruitless battles now and then, you were to use your intellects and your influence, you might make your land happy without costing her a drop of blood. It rests with you to restore once more the age of Louis the Great,[53] that foreign prince who became enamoured of his adopted people, turned Magyar, and made the nation as great and as powerful as the nation made him. The Estates of Transylvania will undertake to mediate between Hungary and the Emperor, and so get you back your privileges and your possessions. I will be the first to stretch out a helping hand, and assuredly Master Michael Teleki will be the second. If, however, you do not accept this offer, then, I say, beware of what you do. As to the prophecy--Our turn to-day, yours to-morrow! I'll only say, Fear nothing for Transylvania. I'll be bold to say, that whoever invades her by force of arms, will always find a host of equal strength ready to meet him; but let me tell you, that that same host will never be so foolhardy as to invade a foreign land."

[Footnote 50: Cardinal Peter Pázmán (1570-1637), a famous Hungarian patriot and statesman.]

[Footnote 51: The celebrated Nicholas Esterhazy of Galanta, Palatine of Hungary.]

[Footnote 52: Lobkovich (Eusebius Vincent), Leopold I.'s prime minister (1670-73), who attempted to make the Emperor absolute in Hungary.]

[Footnote 53: Louis the Great, King of Hungary, 1342-1381.]

"Then Hungary is to you a foreign land?" cried a mocking voice from the crowd.

This interruption was too much for Banfi's composure. He turned furiously towards the quarter whence the question came, and meeting the cold, contemptuous looks of the Hungarians assembled there, he quite forgot himself; everything around him seemed to be in a whirl, and dashing his kalpag to the ground, he cried--

"Right, right--indeed! A foreign land--nay more, a stepmother you have always been to us. We have always had to suffer for your sins. We have won victories, and you have frittered away the fruits of our victories. Your discords have thrice brought Hungary low, and thrice have we raised her from the dust. We have given you heroes; you have given us traitors!"

These last words Banfi was obliged to roar out at the top of his voice to make himself heard above the ever-increasing din. The uproar was general. Every one tried to shout down his neighbour. The Hungarian gentlemen sprang from their seats and reviled Banfi. The graver members of the peace party shook their heads when they saw how Banfi's indiscretion had let loose the passions of the Assembly.

Beldi now arose. All lovers of order cried at once--"Let us hear Beldi!"

Then a young man suddenly leaped over the barrier, and placing his hand on Teleki's arm-chair, planted himself in front of Banfi with a flushed and defiant face. It was Emerich Tököli.

"I too have got a word to say," cried he, in a voice audible above the tumult. "I also have the right to say a word or two within this barrier. If you will deny your mother, Hungary, and draw boundaries between her and you, it is time for me to speak. I am just as good a territorial noble here in Transylvania as that proud and petty demigod, whose father before him was just such another reviler of his mother country!"

Beldi was making his way towards Tököli to stop him from speaking, when some one from behind seized his hand, and turning round, he was astonished to see his own son-in-law, Paul Wesselenyi, who begged him to step outside for a moment.

Beldi retired into the lobby, while Tököli's voice thundered through the hall above the never-ending din.

A veiled lady awaited Beldi in the lobby, whom, when she had unveiled her face, he had some difficulty in recognizing as his daughter Sophia, so much had grief and care changed and broken her. Her beautiful eyes were red with weeping.

"We are homeless fugitives," sobbed Sophia, sinking on her father's breast. "They have taken from us our Hungarian possessions; my husband has been driven from his castle, and a price set on his head."

Beldi became very serious. This unexpected ill-tidings pricked him to the heart. Within, Tököli's thundering voice was raising a perfect tempest of indignation, but Beldi no longer made haste back to quell it.

"Remain with me," said he, with a troubled countenance; "here you can dwell in peace till things improve."

"Too late!" said Wesselenyi. "I have already enlisted under the flag of the French General, Count Boham, as a common soldier."

"You a common soldier! You, the descendant of the Palatine Wesselenyi! And what in the meantime is to become of my daughter?"

"She will remain behind with you--till Hungary has been won back again!" and with these words he placed his wife in Beldi's arms, kissed her on the forehead, and departed with dry eyes.

Within raged the tumult. Beldi heard his daughter sobbing, and a bitter feeling began to fill his breast, a feeling not unlike a nascent desire of vengeance. He felt almost pleased that war was being demanded within there; and he, the leader of the peace party, was also just about to draw his sword, rush into the Diet, and exclaim--"War! war! and retribution!" when the pages led into the lobby an old man as pale as death, who, recognizing Beldi, staggered up to him and addressed him in a trembling voice--

"My lord, are you not the Captain-General of the Szeklers, Paul Beldi of Uzoni?"

"Yes. What do you want with me?"

"I am the last inhabitant of Benfalva!" stammered the dying man. "War, famine, and pestilence have carried off all the others. I alone remain, and feeling that I too am on the point of death, I have brought you the official seal of the place and the church bell. Give them to the Diet. Preserve them in the archives, and write over them--'These are the bell and the seal of what was once Benfalva, the inhabitants of which utterly perished.'"

Beldi's nerveless arm dropped the hilt of his sword, and he tore himself from his daughter's embrace.

"Go to your mother at Bodola, and learn to bear your fate with a stout heart!"

Then he took the seal and the bell from the dying man, and hastened back to the hall of the Diet, where Tököli had just finished his speech, which had produced a terrible effect on the Assembly. The French ministers were shaking hands with him.

Beldi stepped up to the president's table, and placed upon it the seal which had just been handed to him.

Every one looked at him, and seeing that he was about to speak, became silent.

"Look!" cried he, with a voice broken by emotion. "A desolated town sends its official seal to the Diet by its last inhabitant. There are already enough of such towns in Transylvania, and in time there may be more. War and famine have wasted the fairest portions of our land. You should not forget, gentlemen, to place this seal among your other--trophies!"

At these last words Beldi's voice sank almost to a whisper, yet so deep was the silence, that he was heard distinctly in every part of the hall. A thrill of horror passed through every one present.

"Outside that door I hear some one weeping," continued Beldi, with quivering lips. "It is my own dear daughter, the wife of Paul Wesselenyi, who, driven from her fatherland, on her knees implored me, as I loved her, to let the _lex talionis_ assert its rights. But I say, let my child weep, let her perish, may I also perish with my whole family if need be, but let not the curse of war fall on Transylvania! May no one in Transylvania have cause to weep because I suffer. No! I would declare against war though every one here present were for it.... Gentlemen!... this seal ... and the other relic too ... forget not to preserve them among your trophies!"

Beldi sat down. Long after his words had ceased to sound, a death-like silence continued to prevail.

Teleki, ascribing this silence to indignation against Beldi, very confidently arose, and bade the Estates give their votes. But for once he had wrongly felt the pulse of public opinion, for the majority of the Diet, deeply touched by the foregoing scene, voted for peace. So great was still the influence of Banfi and Beldi in the land.

Teleki looked with some confusion at his future son-in-law, who clenched his fists, and murmured bitterly with tears in his eyes--

"Flectere si nequeo Superos, Acheronta movebo!"

* * * * *

As the Assembly broke up, Forval and Nicholas Bethlen again met together.

"So our hope that Transylvania will take up arms has been dashed," observed the crestfallen Frenchman.

"On the contrary, our hope only now begins," returned Bethlen, tapping his friend on the shoulder. "Did you hear that young man Tököli speak?"

"Yes; he spoke very prettily."

"Prettily or not, it strikes me that he is just the man you seek."

"A King of Hungary, eh?"[54]

[Footnote 54: Tököli (Emerich), the most extraordinary Hungarian of his day, famous for his marvellous courage and beauty, his adventures and vicissitudes. In 1682 the Turks proclaimed him Prince of Hungary, and for the next five years he disputed possession of that country with the Emperor. After being twice thrown in prison by the Sultan, he was released and proclaimed Prince of Transylvania, but, after many successes, was finally obliged to fly to Turkey. He was excluded by name from the general amnesty at the Peace of Lovicz, 1697, between the Turks and the Emperor; but the Sultan made him Count of Widdin and one of his chief counsellors. He died in 1705 at Nicomedia in Bithynia. He married Helen Zrinyi, who accompanied him everywhere with heroic fidelity.]

"Either that or an outlaw. Fate will decide."