1936 On the Continent

it. Every Austrian is glad of friendly criticism. We ourselves are unfortunately not always content, and have a certain amount of sympathy with the dissatisfaction of others. So saying, I hope to have—in my last sentence—given you an inkling of one side of the Austrian character, and I hope you will understand it.

HUNGARY
by
LAJOS ZILAHY
    TABLE OF CONTENTS

HUNGARY
Journey to Hungary
    I T was after dinner. We were sitting round the fireplace over which there was a Reynolds portrait of one of my host’s ancestors. There were some twenty of us in the room, most of them English, but there were also some Americans, a Swede and a French married couple. Of the company I only knew our host, whose charming personality was an important contributor towards my great love for the spirit and traditions of the English home and for the Englishman in general.
    During dinner I sat next to Miss Betty Glinton. The only thing I knew about her was her name, which I read on the little place-card in front of her. Additionally—and as a matter of course I had also observed that she had lovely hands, a transparent complexion, dark red hair and most interesting green eyes. I would not venture to say that her face was radiating a great beauty, but it reflected intelligence, a little irony and a good humour. I guessed that she was over thirty, though I felt that this impression of mine would not by any means meet with her approval.
    After dinner we continued our argument, whose subject seemed to both of us so much more important than the Treaty of Locarno. She said that the Irish Terrier was the very finest dog on earth, and I tried to convince her that the Hungarian
Puli
leaves all dogs behind in all respects. Later on I discovered that both of us were addicts to fishing. She resented it when she heard that I had a preference for Florida and Mexico to the waters of England and France.
    “What is your nationality?” she asked with a gentle hint at my English, which is by no means perfect.
    “What d’you think?”
    Miss Glinton was glad to be involved in a new kind of social game and her eyes began to examine my whole physical appearance. I felt a trifle ill at ease as I had never regarded myself a beauty. She looked at my reddish hair for quite a long time, and discovered thatit is discreetly though but quite definitely making its way towards gradual disappearance.
    “Dutch,” she said finally, in a voice that suffers no contradictions.
    “Sorry. My parents had otherwise decided.”
    She looked at my tie and my shoes.
    “Austrian.”
    “I swear that I am not one.”
    Her glance swept over me again and as a result she decided that I must be Swiss. Then she said that I was French. Later on she thought I was a Pole, and in a surprisingly short time she gave a list of all European nations. Finally she gave it up. Her eyebrows arched:
    “Can’t you share your terrible secret with me?”
    “It isn’t a secret. I am a Hungarian.”
    Miss Glinton began to protest with such a righteous indignation as if she had caught me cheating at cards.
    “Excuse me, I
did
say that!”
    “You did not.”
    Our argument became so fiery that several people in the room became conscious of it.
    Miss Glinton whispered:
    “But I
did
say it. I said you were an Austrian, didn’t I?”
    “Oh, well. I might as well say in turn that you are Portuguese.”
    “Why? Surely Austrians and Hungarians are the same. Don’t you speak German in Budapest?”
    I seized her arm:
    “For God’s sake, Miss Glinton, don’t make that statement again and aloud. It is the greatest mistake, which originates from the fact that the Austrians and Hungarians had formed a monarchy for several centuries, under the same dynasty: the Habsburgs. But that does not mean that the Hungarians belong to the Germanic race or that the Hungarian language is a German dialect. We Hungarians are the most lonely people in Europe.”
    Miss Glinton looked at me with surprise:
    “Then who are you Hungarians after all?”
    “We are the Young-Man-Of-Twenty-One in Europe.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “We had lived twenty thousand years in Asia and athousand years in Europe. Twenty plus one is twenty-one. And a young man of twenty-one, who has left his parents’ roof at twenty, cannot change himself completely in a single year. That is why we have still retained a good many Eastern traits. If you come to Hungary you would see a good deal of Asia in the native dresses of some of our