DIARY
PETRONELLA WYATT Ispent the New Year in the former Aus- tro-Hungarian Empire. It was full of strange spirits of the past. Some of the old families are slowly returning to their castles in Hungary, including the Karolyis, who, somewhat astonishingly, were invited back by the socialist government. Countess Karolyi, who looks like one of those kick- over-the-traces Chandler brunettes, was set on an old-style New Year's Eve party. The Empire would strike back. The guests, one of whom arrived in the uniform of a hussar, if not ancien were at least ancien regime — Andrassys, Bethlents and Esterhazys. By nightfall a mist was drifting through the castle grounds and the silvery rustle of church bells shivered its frozen lake. We warmed ourselves with the traditional dish of pork and stewed cabbage which is said — wrongly — to prevent hangovers. At midnight everyone sang an old Imperial song, unintelligible to the few English pre- sent. The English were thrown into greater confusion when the count announced that waltzing was to begin. The Viennese waltz is vastly more intricate than the English version attempted by embryonic Sloanes at Miss Vacani's. There is something almost comical in forcing the British to do it, like putting elephants in tutus. Properly danced, nothing can match its erotic combination of discipline and almost transcendental ecsta- sy. I was beginning to enjoy myself when our revels were suddenly disrupted by what sounded like gunfire Peering out of a win- dow, we observed a mob of villagers march- ing on the castle. One thought of the storming of the Winter Palace.The peas- ants looked ugly. They were ugly. But they were friendly enough, and the shots turned out to be firecrackers let off for our enter- tainment. 'Mein Gott!' cried one ancient Habsburg, pirouetting precariously with joy. 'Zis is just like before ze Abdication.'
Count ICarolyi is a man who would do three rounds with Mike Tyson and come out begging — that is, for more. He is not someone one would wish to insult. It seemed, though, that I had done it. The count's first words to me were: 'For 50 years I haf had ze reputation as seducer of vimmin. You haf destroyed it.' I had no memory of this. Admittedly, I had no mem- ory of anything. If my host had ordered me to walk the plank I could not have done it, as by this point I was unable to walk at all. Slowly, painfully, I began to recollect a Spectator article in which I had described the Karolyis' return to Hungary and the count as Alcibiades reborn. I drew myself down in my chair: 'What is the matter with you? Alcibiades was incredibly handsome. You ought to be very pleased.' The count's eyebrows made two grey hillocks. 'Natural- ly I vas pleased — until someone told me sometink."What was that?' Alcibiades,' spluttered my host, 'vas a homosexual.'
It is extraordinary how much Central Europeans of all classes admire the man who hopes to be our next prime minister. I refer of course to John Major. There is a near universal detestation of Tony Blair. Unlike our North London intellectuals — clever people without brains — most of the Euro-intelligentsia regard Blair as the un-British embodiment of unprincipled hyperbole. This is not to say that Austro- Hungarians think Mr Major the most exciting of politicians. But he came, he bored, he conquered. Some Hungarian girls find him very sexy. In Hungary, because of the cold climate, they attach importance to ample head hair. At any rate, Central Europeans think we are mad to contemplate throwing out the Tories. It is not the Germans who now have an eco- nomic miracle, but the British. Austrians came up to congratulate me as if I were personally responsible for it. In explana- tion of our perversity I told them that the English regard democracy as a cricket match; the other side must be given a chance. A Viennese friend said, 'That is not democracy, it is idiocy.' In Central Europe, thank God, everything is reduced to its quintessence.
Thank God also for fur. I was the only person not to own a mink coat — and that included the charlady. The wife of the for- mer Hungarian ambassador to London appeared one day in an astrakhan with a mink collar. She told me she had never worn it in England — 'You can guess why.' I could. This is another instance of our hypocrisy. The lefties who loved the Soviets turned a blind eye to their sables, but when a Western woman wears a fur coat she is excoriated. Recently Miss Anna Wintour, the editor of American Vogue, had a dead raccoon thrown into her soup by an anti-fur protester. In this country, some tiresome young women have posed nude in Tatler. Miss Tamara Beckwith, who is, apparently, an 'It' girl, says she would rather go naked than wear fur. This is an unkindness to the reading public that has to see her so. Tama- ra, get 'em on. Mind you, I would like to see her go naked in Vienna or Budapest rather than wear a fur coat. In the last two weeks, suffering in temperatures of minus 20, over 50 people have died of hypother- mia. Perhaps Miss Beckwith does not realise that the alternatives to fur, including the ridiculously ugly faux kind, fail to keep one warm. People who are anti-fur are real- ly anti-humans. Their apparent concern for animals disguises a hatred for the people who are thought to favour fur — the rich. These anti-people protesters would rather someone died than took warmth from the skin of a rodent like the mink. This fanati- cal concern for animals was of course shared by Hitler. The next time I come across an animal rights person I shall be tempted to throw a dead human being into their soup.
Talking of Habsburgs, I have been given a portrait of my great-great-uncle. He was an adviser to the widow of Franz Josef s peculiar son, Crown Prince Rudolf. People are still occupied by the mystery of Rudolf's death at Mayerling. Rudolf was found with the body of his mistress, Baroness Maria Vetsera, who was played by Catherine Deneuve in the 1960s film, and by successive ballerinas in Kenneth MacMillan's ballet, Mayerling. The film claimed the lovers had a mutual suicide pact, but some historians have suggested that Rudolf was murdered for political rea- sons. A book just published in Hungary claims that the Crown Prince was a Freemason who wished to abolish the monarchy, and so was killed. There are many oddities to the tale. The Empress forbade a post-mortem on the bodies and the police chief was packed off with a sum of money. His widow, who lived in Paris, extorted still more over the years. Unless the Austrian government exhumes Rudolf s body, the truth will never be known. My grandmother, however, used to claim that my great-great uncle told her the real story of Mayerling, which he heard from Rudolf s widow. Apparently Rudolf had tired of Maria Vetsera, but she plead- ed for one last tryst at the hunting lodge at Mayerling. While the Crown Prince was sleeping, Maria removed his genitals with a razor blade.The desperate man shot her and then shot himself. Rudolf, then, was the Habsburg Bobbit. There is one problem with this story. Both my great- great-uncle and my grandmother had a tendency to rely on imagination rather than memory.
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