"This upsets all my plans for the summer," replied the soldier, "and it's very annoying, and it's too bad of them to spring a war upon peace-loving soldiers like this. They'll telephone to me if they want me, and I won't move from here till they do."
"And if the telephone is out of order, as it usually is, you'll be shot as a deserter," said Billy.
"Nevertheless, I won't go," said Poli, for the Einjährigerfreiwilliger was a man of peace and did not appreciate a Government which enforced days of warlike pursuits upon him each year.
But Poli had to go, for one morning about four o'clock, as the church bells were ringing the Angelus, the order for a general mobilisation was "drummed out"—in Hungary the town crier always uses a drum. Being much too sleepy to grasp what he said, I promptly went to sleep again, and in the morning discovered that I was the one person in the Schloss who had not been at all upset by the news, and that I was regarded by all as something approaching a monster of callousness. There was the wildest confusion inside and outside the Schloss when I came downstairs; all the outdoor servants had gathered in the courtyard to say good-bye before leaving to report themselves at their "Kaders"; indoors the housemaids were crying as they went about their work, and it was with difficulty that the Princess, Claire, and I managed at last to get some sort of a breakfast served by a scared-looking butler. The Prince and Billy had been up at the stables for some time, for the officials had already arrived to claim the horses on the Government list. "And all our riding-horses will have to go—every one of them," sobbed the Princess, "yes, even Hadur—nothing but Claire's little horses, which are too young, and one other pair will be left."
VI—WEEPING PEASANTS FLOCK TO WAR
The road was simply alive—peasants leading in their horses, recruits wearing the Hungarian red, white and green in their hats, cartloads of Jews huddled together weeping and wailing because their Moishes and Aarons had to go, wild-looking gipsies who had never done military service, dancing and singing in the gladness of their hearts that when others were taken they were left to steal and sing.
The town of S—— was seething with excited gesticulating crowds of people—all soldiers and recruits were drunk—the women-folk sobbing and screaming—the gipsies who lived in the town drunken and singing and dancing like their brethren in the country—every one was hurried and anxious, men, women, children and horses were all mixed up and military automobiles rushing about everywhere.... We reached the Oberstuhlrichter's door in safety, but so bruised and breathless that we could hardly move. Our friend, the Oberstuhlrichter was so harassed and overworked, that he had nothing to say but—"For the love of Heaven, my dears, go away. I really know nothing myself except that Germany and Russia are now in the fray and I've got to get all the recruits away from here at once. Now go away and leave me."
VII—THE WISDOM OF UNCLE PISTA
From him we went to Aunt Sharolta and Uncle Pista—in Hungary all older people are addressed as uncle or aunt. Aunt Sharolta was nearly blind, but wonderfully sweet and gentle; and Uncle Pista was small, round and jovial—red-faced and white-haired. He always wore a piece of plaster on his nose, and we often speculated as to what might be below that plaster, for it certainly never was changed, and whether it had originally been black or pink no one knew, for from time immemorial it was grey. He was the most intrepid politician I have ever met. He had learned geography sixty years ago, had forgotten it for fifty, and I doubt if he rightly knew where Serbia lay from Austria. His daughters' geographical views were based on their father's.