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.
