The Phoenix Land

by Miklos Banffy

  This indeed was an echo of the Divina Commedia, but in reverse order, the Paradiso then finally the Inferno.

  In their lines they waited, standing or sitting, looking neither to the right nor to the left, like soldiers before a battle waiting for the word of command…

  The king, crowned with St Stephen’s crown and wearing St Stephen’s mantel, came back into the church and ascended the throne. The first name was called out.

  A grey broken ruin of a man pulled himself up on two crutches. An orderly rushed to his side to prevent him from falling and guided him forward. At the steps of the throne he faltered just as St Stephen’s Sword touched his shoulder the ritual three times. Then somehow he was lifted to his feet and supported by his orderly as he tottered out of the church.

  I could not stay to see the whole of the ceremony of investiture as I had work to do outside and was also only too thankful to be able to escape witnessing any more of the nightmarish scene. I went swiftly into the square.

  Outside the square was by no means full and in many places there were spaces where the public might have gathered. Now the great hangings of coats of arms were no longer hidden by eager spectators. Somehow I felt it was rather like a large outdoor ballroom in which the ball itself was something of a failure. The overwhelming effect brought by the presence of the great crowds was missing. How much more beautiful, and impressive, I reflected once again, it would have been on the Fishermen’s Bastion. There, on the wide steps with the great curve of Albrecht Street and Park below, the whole city could have found a place and filled every nook and cranny with loyal crowds – and beyond, on the quay the Pest, hundreds of thousands of people could have witnessed the public swearing of the Oath which was, after all, the most sublime and important moment of the Hungarian coronation.

  This oath was part of the very oldest of royal traditions. It must have originated in those nomadic days when the king was elected in an open space at the heart of the villages in which the people lived. The law was that the new king, holy crown on his head and regal cape on his shoulders, under God’s free sky and in the sight of the entire population of the land, swears to keep and uphold and enforce the law. To maintain the law was the first and unalterable duty of the sovereign, who thereby protected his people, and it was to preserve this inalienable freedom that so many battles had been fought and so many hardships endured by the Hungarian folk over more than a thousand years…

  In front of the church the procession formed up under the state canopy: firstly, the standard-bearers, then the great gold Hungarian coat of arms, the Lord Chamberlain and his suit, then the barones regni with their official emblems; and finally the young king.

  They moved slowly over a three-coloured carpet to the centre of the square and then in stately procession mounted the steps behind the stone balustrade.

  Even today I can still see them as they appeared on the highest part of the eastern balcony. There were five, and none of them is still living today: Tisza with the text of the oath, Prince Esterházy with the sword, and, between the Prince-Cardinal and the Archbishop of Kalocsa, the crowned king.

  The cheering stopped, and the oath was read slowly, sentence-by-sentence. As each sentence was read out the king repeated the words loudly and in a clear voice. In his left hand he held the apostolic ‘Pax’ cross, and his right was held high to witness his oath before the people. He held his head high, and a youthful smile, unchanging and full of hope, was on his lips.

  When the king and his immediate entourage had returned to the church all the members of parliament and the delegates from the provincial cities, counties and districts moved off towards St George’s Square. Now the horses, all gaily caparisoned in multicoloured shabracks – those long heraldic saddlecloths we see in pictures of medieval tournaments – were led forward.

  The first to mount were the archdukes. Then came the turn of the high court officials, or the deputies they had appointed to replace them, for only Endre Csekonics, the Master of the Table, my father, and the Ban of Croatia were prepared to do this in propria persona. There was not really enough space and this operation resulted in not a little confusion, partly due to the fact that the Ban, instead of carrying before him the golden sphere attached to its cushion as he should have done, handed it to his écuyer, who did not seem at all impressed at the honour of having to carry the symbolic golden apple – the orszag almajat – and simply held it in his hand as if it had been a football out of play. Many people were shocked at the sight. I suppose the man must have returned it later, but I did not see what happened, as I also had to hurry off to St George’s Square. There too the place was not full, although admittedly the grandstands round the square and the artificial hillock at its centre took up much of the space.

  Most of those present were gathered at the corner nearest to the royal palace, attracted no doubt by a most charming sight.

  From a window on the first floor of the palace Queen Zita looked down on the square. She had stood the little crown prince, the Archduke Otto, in the windowsill and held him enlaced with one of her beautiful hands. They were alone, framed in the window, just the mother and her beautiful child. There was the dark-eyed queen with the diamond crown and, held in her arms, the golden-blond boy in his traditional Hungarian costume. It had not been planned, but nothing could have been more beautiful or more touching. In the square the cheering grew louder and louder as more and more people crowded in. The stands were full and men and women in gala dress swarmed all over the square. The multitude roared and, from her window, the queen nodded and smiled her acknowledgement of the applause. It was a scene of surging life when the blood is at its hottest – vitam et sanguinem – when all Hungarians present forgot themselves utterly in an expression of ardent patriotism.

  There was so much noise in the square that we hardly noticed that the cheering was growing ever louder outside and that therefore the king must already be on his way from the parade square where the oath had been taken.

  Everyone lined up so as to make way for the mounted procession. I was in the front row by the road, and there was so little space that the horses brushed against us all as they passed.

  First of all came the high court officials riding side by side. Behind them Tisza rode alone, his dark-clad figure so sombre that it seemed black after the multicoloured parade of those who preceded him. I looked hard at his face, but the expression of his eyes could not be seen behind his thick glasses. However, the corners of his mouth were drawn into deep ridges as if he were subject to some unutterably bitter sorrow. His lips were pressed hard together tightly closed lest they should reveal some burning secret. I thought that he was like a man weighted down by the hopelessness of his task, by the pain and endless worry of a duty that could never ever succeed … I do not think that I have ever seen a more tragic face than that of Tisza as he rode through that cheering happy throng.

  I stayed at the corner of the palace of Archduke Joseph and so was only able to see the sword ceremony from a distance. The mounted figure of the king suddenly emerged from the forest of banners in the square. Up the little balustrade hillock he rode. Then with the sword he slashed the air around him while a palace outrider in a green tail suit turned the horse to the north and east and south and west, to the four corners of the world. A few moments later the steed was once more led down into the crowd and the figure of the king lost to sight among the ceremonial banners.

  Not long afterwards the king became visible once again when, with the joy of a task well accomplished, he emerged from the crowd that surrounded him, waved a greeting to the figure of his wife at the window overhead and then quickly galloped away in the direction of the palace gates.

  Everyone felt immensely relieved when his crowned head vanished through the great doorway, not the least because it was foolhardy to break into a gallop on that sloping slippery pavement, and the crowd, horsemen to a man, wondered what would happen if the charger were to stumble…

  We next gathered in the largest re
ception hall of the palace. This was crowded not only with all those who had official commands to be present in the church and at the other two ceremonies but also with several hundred ladies who were expected to assemble here before being presented to the king and queen after their symbolic feast.

  It was much more difficult to keep order here. All those who were waiting formed themselves into groups, some trying everything they knew to remain in the front rows, others refusing to move from the passages, and still more taking up their positions on the sofas that lined the walls. And, having selected their places, no one was prepared to move.

  By now, most of those present were getting tired and obstinate and there were those who, spreading their legs wide, refused to move even from the established places of the officials of the court. My ushers were hard put to keep order, but somehow they achieved it and by the time the royal procession entered the hall most people were in their right places.

  The royal couple, the two archbishops, the Palatine and the Prince-Cardinal took their seats along one side of a table that had been placed on a dais a few steps above the level of the floor.

  Each dish was presented by the appropriate court official, by the chamberlains, members of parliament and certain magnates who approached the table in a long line. Only the gigantic roast, which had been cut from an ox roasted on the Vermezo, was brought up by the Chamberlain of the Table himself. At the lowest step of the dais he was handed the yard-long golden dish by the two lackeys who had carried it into the hall. It was very heavy, but somehow, given strength by his sense of duty and personal honour, he just managed the three steps, although it looked to all of us as if his legs would give way under him. Somehow, too, he managed to present the dish to the king, bowing as he did so.

  The Chamberlain of the Wine filled the golden goblets.

  The king toasted the nation, and everyone present responded with loud cheering.

  This was the last official ceremony of the occasion, and immediately after it was over the court officials-in-waiting retired with the king and the members of parliament hurried down to the House so as to pass the necessary legislation confirming the act of enthronement and the consecration of a new monarch.

  All the ladies and some of the men remained in the palace. At about half-past three Jekelfalussy and I were sent for and received in audience by the king. His Majesty thanked me most gracefully and warmly for my work. He did not seem in the least fatigued. When he dismissed us I went back to the drawing-room near the main staircase, knowing that those ladies who were to be presented would retire there after leaving the throne room and I wanted just once more to rejoice in the sight of such a pageant of beautiful women all dressed up in the panoply of jewels and trains.

  A long table had been laid with a buffet meal in the drawing-room and, although I had eaten nothing for more than twelve hours, any fatigue was soon dispelled by a cup of tea and some slices of ham.

  In the throne room, the Defilier Cour, as they called the ceremony of presentation, had already started. It had not previously been known in Hungary.

  In order of rank, each lady to be presented enters the room. She walks to the throne where, on this occasion, only the queen is seated. The king stands behind her, and the crown prince, the little Archduke Otto, is at her feet. There, as the Lord Chamberlain has read out her name, she makes a low reverence and then walks back to the far end of the adjacent drawing-room.

  When the ceremony started there were long waits between each lady, and where I was in the drawing-room there would be five or six minutes between the arrival of one lady and another. However the royal couple were anxious to board their train for Vienna no later than six o’clock and something had to be done to speed things up if the presentation of several hundred ladies was not to go on for hours. Accordingly they started to hurry them in, the chamberlains calling out, ‘Quick! Quick! Hurry there!’ until the ladies were scrambling in, now singly, now in groups, pushing up to the throne, and elbowing each other out of the way at the doors to the drawing-room.

  Everyone was exhausted, for most had been in full evening dress since early in the morning, wearing tiaras or diadems on their heads and supporting the weight not only of their trains but also of the heavy gold and silver embroidery of the dresses themselves. Many had been up most of the night waiting their turn with some fashionable hairdresser.

  Tired and faltering, pale with exhaustion and tottering under the weight of their finery, they came into the drawing-room and at once sank thankfully into the few chairs and sofas that lined the walls of the apartment. The room was by no means brilliantly lit; indeed it was rather dark, as not all the chandeliers had been lit. More light came in from the windows, for the lamps in the palace courtyard cast up a helpful glow through the shadows cast by the rain that had just started to come down.

  In this poor light every vestige of beauty and pageantry was drained from these poor ladies. The silver veils looked merely grey, the gold-braid a dull black, even the jewels lost their sparkle. Makeup ran on the older faces, powder vanished. In the early evening light these formerly radiant creatures were a sorry sight.

  ***

  I went home very late.

  The city returned to its normal wartime aspect.

  After the royal couple had left at the end of the afternoon, the evening was just like any other during the winter. The departure of the king and queen quenched all rejoicing and sense of occasion. Rumours and gossip started spreading at once. People whispered about imaginary ill omens, that the crown had been placed crooked on the monarch’s head, and that he had stumbled just at the moment when he was reading the words of the oath…but all this passed me by. Only one thing did happen which could have provided food for this kind of gossip, but I do not think any one knew about it. The cathedral had only just emptied after the coronation when the inch-thick glass plate in the purple tent above the altar split in the heat and crashed like a giant guillotine to the altar and the prie-dieux below. However, no one was told about this except those who had work to do in the church on the following day and afterwards no one spoke about it.

  Later in the evening the rain turned to snow and for a brief moment the white flakes lay on the pavements and glistened in the light of the street lamps. Then all turned to mud and slush, and everything returned to an all-enveloping greyness.

  Already, on the very same evening of the coronation, the pageantry and colour seemed no more real than a half-forgotten dream.

  Notes

  2. The office of Ban was equivalent to that of a governor appointed by the monarch.

  3. This, as we can see from contemporary photographs, was Empress Maria-Theresia’s diamond crown that, according to a note in the treasure house of the Hofburg in Vienna, has not been seen since 1918.

  From My Memories

  Part Two

  Times of Revolution

  Chapter One

  We were sitting at our regular Monday evening dinner table. This had started some years before the war when, on the first day of each week, the same group of friends would come together at Gusztáv Heinrich’s table in a private room at the National Kaszino. Ferenc Herczeg, Andor Miklós, the playwright Ferenc Molnár, Jëno Heltai, Ambrus and myself were the regulars, while Géza Papp was a ‘visiting member’ who occasionally joined us. These had been enjoyable evenings devoted principally to serious literary discussions interspersed by amusing analysis of the day’s news and laughter over the latest items of town gossip. Our evening meetings would pass quickly. With the war, however, the literary talk and the light-hearted telling of amusing anecdotes were dropped, and for the past six months everyone had been preoccupied with the news from the Front, and lately with growing worry at the general situation. Although our discussions had changed character during the war, they had been no less interesting, and it was at these dinners that we gained important insights from men of many different backgrounds: insights that were made all the more valuable coming, as they did, from so many viewpoints. A
s a result, we were lucky to be provided with an exceptionally true and vivid picture of those critical times. So, if one of us was away from the capital for some time – perhaps on some official mission or with the army at the Front – on his return he would hurry there as soon as possible knowing that he would find friends whose positions had kept them in the capital and who would therefore be fully informed about everything, whether it was public knowledge or a supposed secret, that had transpired during his absence.

  When I returned from the eastern Carpathians to be greeted by the news of the Bulgarian armistice, I could hardly wait for the next Monday dinner.

  The previous two weeks had been terrible. Everywhere there had been confusion and a general breakdown of order.

  There were those who called for a message to be sent to President Wilson, others backed a direct approach to England. From the King-Emperor in Vienna decrees had been issued calling for all Austria-Hungary’s peoples to form so-called ‘national councils’, thereby admitting the failure of parliamentary government while approving revolutionary movements. The effect was to destroy the last remnants of the admittedly crumbling authority of the central government. On our side of the Carpathians those happy words ‘national councils’ were seized upon everywhere and used to justify the public formation of similar national councils by the Romanian and Slovak minorities. Prime Minister Wekerle still called for the maintenance of the union of Austria with Hungary in the person of the monarch, while Mihály Károlyi demanded a complete break with Austria and Hungarian independence. Both sides consulted the law books and produced suitable texts to support their views. Meanwhile there had been an attempt on the life of István Tisza (the former prime minister) and a group of officers attacked some policemen in front of the National Theatre. Behind our lines on the Serbian Front, lawless gangs were creating havoc. It was rumoured that thirty thousand army deserters were in hiding in Budapest, while many a ‘soldiers’ and workers’ council’ was being formed on the Russian model. In parliament Károlyi openly supported revolution saying ‘Take it as fact that I shall act!’, and while many people made out that they did not understand what these words meant, the very next day the ‘Workers’ Party’ joined up with some members of parliament, thus forming an impotent alliance in which everyone concerned was suspicious of their new allies and so was hopelessly irresolute.