The Phoenix Land

by Miklos Banffy

  In the longest room trestle tables had been set up where the architects and designers Dénes Györgyi, Károlyi Kós, Pogány and sometimes Lechner made their designs and drew their plans on paper with giant rulers. On the high wall behind them young Lehoczky drew the outlines of coats of arms seven metres high. While all this was going on, the corners of the room were filled with craftsman kneading papier-mâché and making outsize plaster casts. In rooms nearby statues were being hurriedly run up on skeletons made of wooden lathes nailed together, and so quickly was the work being carried out that it seemed as if the figures were gaining weight as each day went by. At one end of the hall typewriters clattered without interruption. Nearby there were heaps of felt and samples of cotton and velvet and, beside them, boxes filled with modelling clay, slabs of plasticine, pails of plaster of Paris; and, to get from one doorway to another, one had to pick one’s way between piles of glue-smeared strips of paper.

  It was a weird mixture of medieval sorcerer’s cavern and some disordered builder’s shed, and if anyone unfamiliar with our work had come in unawares he must have thought he had stumbled into an asylum where raving lunatics were incarcerated and where each and everyone of them were indulging in their own private manias, absorbed in drawing, modelling, and hammering away while no one cared what they were doing or attempted to stop them.

  In this sorcerer’s kitchen my somewhat comic role was that of Head Cook who stuck his nose into every pan and sipped at every brew. This was all I could do, but do it I had to, for the ultimate responsibility for every detail rested with me, and I was sure to be blamed afterwards (as indeed I was) if anything did not go as planned. My task was to assemble and coordinate the whole, to bring harmony to every phase of the coronation, to provide the continuous frame in which the ceremonies were to be clothed. Accordingly I was obliged to put my finger into every pie, to meddle with every craftsman’s concerns.

  During these four weeks I lived only for the work in hand and therefore knew very little of what was going on in the world outside. Despite being a member of parliament, I really know very little about all the discussions that raged over the appointment of the Palatine whose duty was to carry the crown until it was placed on the king’s head. This was not merely a battle of words. The opposition parties were so united in their determination that the post should not go to Tisza, who sprang from a family of the minor nobility, that they brought forth an archduke as a rival candidate. And when Archduke Joseph demurred and refused to be named, in view of the controversy, they put forward a hundred unexpected names, some of them of the most venerable elderly gentlemen of whose existence no one had heard for decades and who must themselves have been astonished to read their names in the newspapers in such a connection.

  Tisza’s appointment was also attacked in other ways. Someone invented the slogan ‘a Protestant cannot hold the crown’ and learned historians and lawyers were mobilized to produce evidence to clinch the matter. Rumour had it that a ruling would come from the very highest ranks of the church and state to prove their point. As it happened it was the Prince-Cardinal Csernoch whose verdict settled the dispute; and decided in favour of Count Tisza. When the Catholics demurred and brought up the religious disqualification the cardinal silenced them in his strong Slovakian accent, saying: ‘I know best: I am the cardinal!’ As no one could think up any argument stronger than that, the storm abated and was heard of no more.

  At the time I knew very little of all this directly, for I was so involved in a thousand different worries and running to and fro from place to place and office to office that these things only reached me like a far distant echo. The committee of administration had decided that all of the traditional ceremonies should be carried out in the quarter of old Buda where the royal palace was situated. However, no details were settled, and so I was given the task of proposing where each of the different ceremonies should be held.

  There was no problem, of course, about the actual crowning: that would take place as tradition demanded, in the Coronation Church. Likewise St George’s Square was the obvious choice for the Ceremony of the Sword. I still had to find a place for the moment when the sovereign has to take his coronation oath in full view of the assembled populace. I thought that the most beautiful site would be the Halasz Bastya – the Fishermen’s Bastion – which looked out over the whole city behind the Coronation Church itself. Unfortunately, the chief of police was nervous about a possible demonstration of outrage and declared that such a place was impossible, as it could not adequately be provided.

  But how beautiful it would have been!

  I envisaged the invited guests placed under the arches of the outward curving wings of the bastions, the members of parliament and representatives of the country districts grouped on the steps with their multicoloured local banners, everyone in traditional Hungarian gala costume and, lower down, beyond the statue of Hunyadi, there would be room for thousands upon thousands of ordinary spectators. Above everyone would be the balcony, and right in the centre, under the white wreath of intricately carved stonework and flanked by the Prince-Cardinal and the Palatine, the king would step out, his hand raised as he took the solemn oath. It would be a sublime moment, unforgettable too for the monarch himself as, St Stephen’s crown upon his head, he appeared before his people to dedicate himself to their service. At his feet would be the Danube, behind it the sprawling capital and, further away, the great ocean-like expanse of the Hungarian Plain. If the oath could have been taken there it would truly have been given before the whole nation.

  Since I was unable to carry out my dream I had to look for some other solution, and I at length suggested the votive column in Trinity Square on one side of which stands the Coronation Church. This was accepted and on the same day I sketched out draft designs for the balustraded podium, which Móric Pogány was to realize so brilliantly and which to this day shows off the great baroque votive column to such advantage. For the day of coronation the podium was constructed in wood, but this structure was afterwards rebuilt in stone and, unhappily, in so doing several small errors which had slipped into the original sketches failed to be eliminated and so have been perpetuated for all time in the permanent edifice.

  The building of an artificial hillock in St George’s Square for the sword ceremony presented few problems. Only the placing of the public stands round the square had to be settled. We looked up the dimensions of the one erected for the 1867 coronation and then made the top somewhat wider for I had been told by my father – and heard it from others too – that everyone had been filled with alarm and anxiety when Franz Joseph had taken his horse up the mound at an imposing gallop. With just two strides he reached the top and when, with St Stephen’s Sword in his hand, he slashed to the north, to the east, to the south, and to the west – to the four corners of the world – his grey charger, confused by the cheering and the crowds and by the blasts of cannon-shot, reared up four times. Everyone nearby was afraid that the animal would jump clear over the balustrades and into the square below, but Franz Joseph had been a superb horseman who kept his foaming terrified steed turning upon the same spot, his hands, calming and masterful, close to the animal’s withers, and his own bearing, cool and royal and fully in command, never for an instant changed or faltered.

  The task that presented the greatest challenge was the decoration of the inside of the Coronation Church itself. With Jenö Lechner as chief designer, we selected the motifs of the decorations from medieval illustrated manuscripts and decided to clothe the entire interior of the church in dark red, which we felt would give the finest possible background to the multicoloured dresses and uniforms of the crowd who would fill every corner of the building. We ordered great bolts of the same material as would cover the church walls to drape the columns which, as they were covered with frescoes painted in a most stylish but agitated manner, would have clashed unbearably with the other decorations if left in sight. The builder of the church, old Schulek, was still alive and, having been the prime in
stigator of these murals, decided to be deeply offended, running everywhere denouncing us as ‘vandals’ and threatening to make an appalling scandal if an inch of his beloved frescoes was not to be seen. If I remember correctly, it was on the last evening but one before the ceremony that I received official ‘advice’ – although no actual order – that the drapery had best be removed from the columns.

  I did not know what to do and certainly did not want to make any decision without having consulted Lechner who had been the originator of the whole scheme of decoration. He could not be found until late that evening, and so at the close of the performance, he came to see me in my box at the opera. Sitting side by side on the sofa in the little drawing-room behind the box we commiserated with each other at this last-minute interference in our plans. At last, resigned to the unfairness of life, we decided to go just once more and look at our handiwork for the last time before it was all changed.

  It was eleven o’clock at night when we got there and found that the men were still hard at work, assiduously attending to last-minute details in the dimly lit church. They were bathed in a strange almost mythical atmosphere. We looked around. The ogival baldaquines over the two thrones, the drapes behind the altar and the sweeping folds of the material with which all the pillars had been swathed made the roof seem at an infinite height; and the dark-red velvet material contributed so much to this effect of sublime beauty, so human, so warm and yet so regal, that we realized that it would have been ‘vandalism’ indeed to do anything which might spoil it. On the spot I decided to change nothing and brave the consequences – for I was convinced that anyone who saw what we had achieved would agree that we had been right.

  And so it turned out. The interior of the Coronation Church was the most successful of all our decorative efforts, and everyone who was there would never afterwards forget the effect it made. In the last week we had so much to do and were so feverishly busy that I hardly spoke to a soul who was not one of my fellow-workers. Even so, just before Christmas, news arrived, reaching even as far as me, which dampened everyone’s spirits: it was the dismissal of Burian as minister of foreign affairs and his replacement by Czernin. After more than two years of war morale was not high, and the nomination of Czernin raised a spectre that most people hoped had been laid by the outbreak of hostilities. Those anxious rumours that had circulated in the years before the war, those sad indications of a doubtful future for the independence of Hungary suddenly seemed once more a dire possibility. It was as if the ghost of FF (Franz Ferdinand) had risen from its uneasy grave and become the rallying point for all those spirits who hate everything that was Hungarian and who had striven for some form of Slav Imperium. Czernin was the prophet of this movement and one of its first spokesmen. He had written a popular book on the subject and had been an intimate friend and confidential adviser of the dead heir, who himself is said to have declared that he would bring up his successor to follow his policies so that Hungarians would have him to reckon with for the next two hundred years. This saying was so well known that as soon as Czernin’s appointment was announced it was heard once more on everyone’s lips. It seemed as if there was truth in the old rumours after all. The effect was slightly modified when the Empress Zita, as queen of Hungary, at once asked to be accepted as president of the ‘Pro-Transylvania’ charitable organization as soon as she arrived in Budapest – but the damage had been done, and in many people’s hearts the seeds of suspicion and doubt had once again taken root.

  ***

  The coronation rehearsal had been timed for 28 December, the day after the royal couple had arrived in the capital.

  The new king received me most kindly, saying that he remembered me well. As he spoke his face was suffused with a warm-hearted smile which did not leave his lips even when he was silent.

  His manner was simple and sympathetic.

  The rehearsal, behind closed doors, went smoothly.

  In an hour it was over, and I was left alone. As I stood there, a 4,000-watt arc light hanging above the altar exploded in the heat. It had been hidden in the tent-like draperies above and it had burned brightly through the rehearsal. Tiny fragments of glass fell and covered the altar with needle-sharp little crystal daggers.

  Something had to be done at once to ensure there was no repetition of the accident during the coronation itself. It was essential that the scene at the altar should be strongly lit – and it was obvious that we could not hope for a bright sunny day at the end of December. Therefore, following the chief-electrician’s advice, a sheet of heavy glass an inch thick was rapidly polished and hoisted into position among the draperies overhead. This effectively protected the space below where the arc lights were hidden.

  This decision nearly had a fatal effect on the following day.

  This, however, was not the only last-minute change that had to be made. Late in the afternoon, when we had placed the holy crown in the nearby Loretto chapel, I received a message from the king’s Master of the Horse who wanted to see me as quickly as possible.

  I went to his office in the palace and he explained that it was the ‘wish’ of his Majesty that the giant coat of arms and supporting angels that had been mounted high above the main entrance to the palace and which were an essential part of the decorations of the adjacent St George’s Square, should be taken down in case the king’s horse should take fright at them and bolt! I murmured something to the effect that there was nothing to fear for these decorations were fixed some fifteen or twenty metres above the ground, well above the stonework of the great monumental palace gateway, and in any case could only be seen from afar. The Master of the Horse, himself an accomplished rider, merely shrugged his shoulders noncommittally and repeated what he had already said. It was all quite clear, and I promised that by morning there would be no decorations above the gateway.

  However, this was not all. It seemed the king wished to mount his horse in front of the church without having to put his foot in the stirrup and swing himself into the saddle. It was therefore suggested that, during the night, I should have a sort of footstool made, with steps upon which the monarch would climb and whence he could slip into the saddle unaided.

  This order was more difficult to put into effect. Had we been living in Vienna, with a choice of all the perfectly trained horses of the Marstall – the Royal Stables – at our disposal, we might no doubt have lighted upon an animal that could be relied upon to remain absolutely still beside such an unfamiliar mounting block. But we were in Budapest, capital of a nation of horsemen, a multitude of whom on the following day were expecting to see their newly crowned monarch leap into the saddle, his crown upon his head, on the steps of the church in which he had just been anointed. To place a little footstool where all could see it, a footstool whose only function must obviously be to help the king mount his horse, would have seemed to most of my country men inexpressibly ludicrous and would lead to odious comparisons and the sort of ribaldry undesirable on such an occasion. Some other solution had to be found, so after talking the matter over with the master mason, we decided to build a low wall on each side of the canopy, which had been placed above the church door. Behind this a small flight of steps would be concealed. The wall was unusual, and otherwise quite without function, but the people in the square would think it had been placed there merely to enclose the church.

  This little wall was quickly run up in a rather makeshift manner. Luckily there was no frost that night, and so by morning the cement had hardened and all was ready.

  I arrived home very late. That night I slept little, as I wanted to be in the church early so as to be able to supervise any last touches that might be necessary.

  It was just before four o’clock when I drove away from my house.

  There was no sign of life in the inky darkness that enveloped the city. The only sound was that of the fiacre horses’ hooves on the cobblestones. Here and there a lamp blinked in the darkness, solitary, forlorn … and yet how much brilliance and splendour, how much
light would bathe the capital later in the day! I had dressed myself in traditional Hungarian gala dress, covered with a mass of gold braid. Looking out of the window of the hired cab my thoughts went straight to those thousands of my countrymen, my brothers, who were at that moment passing this winter’s night in the mud, snow, and freezing cold of the trenches on the front line.

  Notes

  1. Of which Miklós Bánffy was Intendant.

  Chapter Two

  It was still night when I entered the church by a little side door. To step from the darkness outside into the nave, which was now bathed in light gave me a feeling difficult to describe. It was rather like one of those marvellous moments recounted in legend when the tired hero, after battling his way through the horror of an obscure thorny wilderness, suddenly finds himself in the radiance of an enchanted castle.

  The night before, when I had seen it last while giving final orders for the construction of the little wall outside the entrance, there had only been a few shaded lamps where the craftsmen were still at work. Now the whole church was ablaze with light.

  In spite of the fact that I had discussed all the details – most of them several times – with my friend Professor Lechner and in spite, too, of having attended the rehearsal when the throne and their canopies and prie-dieux, the purple tent lined with white silk which hung over the altar, and the towering hangings of red velvet that draped the columns of the aisle, had all been in place, still, now, after another night of uninterrupted work had put the final touches of the great church’s gala dress and the huge crystal chandeliers above sparkled with light, even I was surprised, indeed overcome, by the sublime harmony of the effect we had created.

  On each side of the aisle, rising to the level of the windows above the side-chapels, rose banks of seats all covered with red velvet, and between the seats were narrow flights of steps all covered with the same red material. The double line of rising stands lent to the nave the aspect of a long open valley that was pervaded with a sense of expectancy as if it were waiting some long-awaited fulfilment. The church seemed to be stretching out its arms to welcome the festive throng who would soon be crowding to their places headed by all the members of parliament and, finally, the king. If the eye followed the line of the flowing drapes of the columns, their rich velvet folds as regular and as immobile as the pipes of some great celestial organ, to the soaring arches of the gothic vaulting so high above the great chandeliers, then it would finally come to rest on iridescent circles of white flames floating in the air like the haloes around the heads of medieval saints and filling every ogival curve of the stonework with a powdery radiance.