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us? Whaat is it for? Against whom should we use it?’ and he went on to repeat what everyone present knew already, that Austria-Hungary had no colonies and no overseas interests, that the German navy was already far stronger than the French, and no matter how many ships were built by the Dual Monarchy they would never be able to compete with the enormous British fleet. That left only Italy, whom everyone knew to be Hungary’s staunchest ally, and so no reinforcement would be needed there for it had already been agreed that Italy would participate in the defence of the Adriatic. Now, though Korosi ignored the fact, not everything could be discussed in political terms nor all official announcements be relied upon. It was not generally known that the Austro-Hungarian general staff had for some time been dubious about the strength of the Italian alliance, even to the point of preparing for the possibility that, in the event of war, Italy might quite possibly side with their enemies. Every alliance, they knew, stood up only as long as it was in the interests of both sides to maintain it, and only the strong kept their friends. The man in the street, however, who was always childishly naive in anything to do with foreign affairs, would never try to understand what might be going on under the surface. As a result people were now searching for concealed, secret and even totally absurd reasons for the modernization of the navy.

This is what most people believed and now they heard it confirmed by what Korosi was saying.

‘It is obvious,’ said the Rector, ‘thaat the Heir simply wishes to indulge his ridiculous desire to be an admiral! Franz-Ferdinand wants only to emulate the Kaiser Wilhelm, and so he needs a squadron! Thaat, and thaat only, is why the government is prepared to squander all those millions. To satisfy the Heir’s absurd ambitions they are only too ready to spend Hungarian pennies to build Austrian battleships!’

‘Of course, of course, that’s it!’ said several of his audience.

Stanislo Gyeroffy passed his hand over his carrot-coloured wig, as if to make sure it was still firmly in place, and then added with an air of official authority, ‘I’m not sure that is entirely true; but even if it is then surely it could do no harm to humour the Archduke a little? After all one day soon he’ll be our King!’

‘He’ll only be our King if we crown him!’ cried someone impetuously.

‘He’ll be King anyhow,’ said another.

‘After the Pragmatic Sanction it needs a Parliamentary decision.’

‘I say: until it happens, fiddlesticks!’

‘No army, no navy!’ cried another, though no one quite knew what he meant. Then followed a hot debate about the prerogatives of Parliament and what clauses should be added to what texts and what should be insisted upon and what ignored. Before long they were arguing hotly about the wording to be used as if it were they who would have to decide and as if it had to be settled right where they sat. They argued about the status of Bosnia-Herzegovina and some demanded that Dalmatia too should be annexed without delay. Others hotly disputed this, saying that it would lead to Trialism, only to find themselves contradicted at once. The battle of wits was as contrived and as synthetic as military manoeuvres and though the weapons may have been as impressive as political invective they could no more win the day than could cannons loaded with blanks. All the same tempers flared and eyes flashed as the armchair politicians snarled at each other. Every issue of the day was brought up and dissected – but no one stopped to think of the welfare of the nation.

Above the hubbub could be heard the high-pitched screech of Stanislo Gyeroffy and the deep baritone of Dr Korosi, who were rapidly arriving at the point where personal insults would be hurled at each other. Then the unexpected happened. It started when someone unwisely suggested that the government might be intimidated by the rising power of the newly self-styled King of Montenegro, nicknamed ‘Nikita’. This was picked up by Kalman Harinay, Ida Laczok’s husband, who cried