The Phoenix Land

by Miklos Banffy

  Eventually I found a man who looked after the lawns and flowerbeds of the villas nearby and went to see him.

  ‘Where,’ I asked, ‘can I find an unclipped laurel?’

  ‘There are none in The Hague!’ he answered, ‘but if you go to Delft there is a gardener who has quite a large park and who, especially for painters, had grown all sorts of trees as they would be found in the wild. I should ask him, he is sure to have what you want.’

  Once again I was to reflect that only in this perfect country could one now find such politeness and such good manners.

  ***

  It was now the end of May, and I think it was just about then that Miklós Vadász arrived in The Hague. His brother had told us a long time before that he was coming, and so we had been eagerly awaiting him. We were all glad to see him not only because he was a man everyone liked but also because he brought us news from home, from which we had been completely deprived. Although he told us terrible things about the awful poverty that was everywhere evident, it was still good to get any news and to know what had been the most recent developments. I fancy that this was the time when General Smuts’ mission to the Hungarian Soviet was the centre of interest.

  Vadász was just as elegant and well turned-out as he always had been, but overlaying his habitual Weltschmerz – pessimism and world-weariness – there was a new sense of bitter disillusion. He had come a long way from that excited mood when I had last seen him at the time of the ‘Aster Revolution’. Since then his illusions had proved baseless, and his disappointment was painful and hopeless. It was with deep sadness that he now told us: ‘There is no longer anything to hope for there!’

  He too needed to earn a living in The Hague, and so he asked me what might be possible there. I told him that things were very difficult; there were almost no high-class publishers of glossy magazines or elegant journals such as might be found in London or Paris, and what there were did not offer any opportunities for people like us, since all the available posts were already filled by local artists who, although they might not be his equal in skill and talent, were accepted and popular with the Dutch public. At first he did not believe me; but within a few days he was convinced I had been right. Then he decided to do portraits in oil.

  This was a forlorn hope, since Holland boasted plenty of eminent portrait-painters who already had good connections and whose names were well known. To challenge such men one had to be world famous like Philip László. To me this plan seemed hopeless from the start, even if his talent had matched his ideas.

  However, he started off in high spirits and, for the first time in his life, began to paint in oils.

  Mrs Andorján sat for his first two attempts which, if I remember correctly, were for one large picture and one small.

  They were terrible! Really terrible!

  This proved how different is painting from drawing. Miklós Vadász, who was such a master draughtsman that even his monochrome drawings could give the effect of colour and whose handling of chalk or merely the 6B Castell Pencil when drawing the most amusing coloured posters or lithographs was so masterly, could only produce the oddest of strange effects when trying to paint realistically. In his drawings everything was placed just right, yet in his painting his colours had no depth or light or air but seemed as formless as would some dull-coloured pieces of paper placed haphazardly beside each other.

  Not that he himself saw this. He showed me proudly his first efforts, and, although I did shake my head once or twice, I did not want to dampen his enthusiasm and so merely said they would do all right as first attempts but that he still needed more practice. As he thought these first canvasses were perfect he did not accept my opinion; and this, perhaps, is why he never improved. He was firmly convinced that every one of his paintings was a huge success to the point that he declared repeatedly that until now he had never realized how ‘simple’ it was to paint!

  It was touching to see not only how Miklós Vadász, happily unconscious of the truth, thought his own smears wonderful but also to note his slightly patronizing sympathy not just for my own smears but also for those of all other painters too.

  It was about this time that I was trying my hand at copying a Rubens portrait in the Mauritzhuis.

  Vadász often came to visit me there and we would wander through one or two rooms in this most exquisite of picture galleries. Now the Mauritzhuis must certainly be one of the most perfect of the smaller museums. A small two-storey townhouse built of smoothly worked stone, it cannot have more than fifteen or twenty rooms but everything in it, without exception, is first class. All the most famous of Flemish painters are brilliantly represented, Vermeer, Ruysddael, the two Hals, the Bruegels, all of them, as well as many Rembrandts of his finest period when he rendered every canvas he painted transcendent and mysterious. Yet Vadász could not pass a single picture without finding some fault or other – only Vermeer escaped his disapproval. Despite all this, I was always pleased to be with him as he was an essentially good-natured and pleasant companion.

  I also have him to thank for a most interesting encounter.

  One day I was standing in front of my own canvas, while Vadász was sitting on a chair nearby and chatting away, when a new visitor entered the room. He was a tall thin but powerfully-built, man with a noble head and impressive bearing. Vadász got up and they greeted each other. Vadász then introduced us, and we exchanged a few polite phrases. Then the two of them talked together. It was Ramsay Macdonald, leader of the British Labour Party.

  He had come to Amsterdam for a world Socialist conference, and he had come for just half a day to visit the Mauritzhuis, putting off all work just to see the collection. Even though he was the leading spirit, indeed the most important figure at the congress, he had taken this time off. It was a only a passing incident, but it seemed to me so typical of this Socialist leader of the working class whose epic life struggle was to make his life and love of his country so remarkable.

  ***

  Aarlof, who had received something of a cold shoulder from me since the affair of the model, now somewhat belatedly decided to make amends for the past and surprised me by producing a really first-class nude female model. She was a most interesting girl, small and fine-boned, with flexible joints and a lovely skin the colour of old ivory. Her body was uniformly golden brown, so much so that at home I would have taken her for a gypsy. Perhaps she was, although she came from a village near Amsterdam where the whole population is said to be dark-skinned. Apparently, they had been settled there since the time of the Spaniards.

  Her full, rather Negroid, mouth and bluish curly hair, along with long almond-shaped eyes made her head exceptionally interesting, enhanced as it was by a strange, somewhat melancholy expression. I was overjoyed to have her pose for me. She never let me down and remained as my model faithfully all the time I stayed in The Hague.

  She was an extremely nice girl and engaged to be married. Her fiancé was an artist, and together they planned a career on the stage, but not until they had enough money to buy what they needed. They loved each other dearly but had decided none the less to wait until then – and everything cost so much! She was quite sad when I said I would only need her in the mornings because then it would take longer to save up what they needed. When she asked if she couldn’t also sit for me in the afternoons and I had to reply that that would be too expensive for me, she at once offered to sit in the afternoons for less provided we could work at my hotel. Apparently, if she worked at the studio she had to pay out a part of her earnings (she did not say to whom!); but in my rooms, well, that would be different.

  I agreed, not only because she asked me so charmingly but also because she had such an interesting head. I thought I would do one or two portraits of her in watercolour, just as if they had been commissioned. So I asked if she had any good clothes, and she announced proudly that she had one that was very beautiful. It was her gala dress, which she wore only on the greatest occasions. She said she would bring it for me t
o see.

  The next day she arrived at the hotel in the same old dress she always wore to work, but on her arm, carefully wrapped in paper, she carried her silk dress. She blushed when she had put it on and indeed looked very pretty in it. She was not in the least flirtatious, and I am sure was utterly faithful to her beloved artist, but on this day at least she showed how pleased she was to show off her prettiness when dressed in her silken dress, which was so different from the worn shabby frock she usually wore.

  In my little room I could only get a proper distance from her by seating her on the table and myself on the windowsill. In this way I did three small portraits of her. It took me three or four days.

  This had an unexpected result.

  One evening, as I was on my way down the dark corridor to tackle the set meal in the hotel dining room, I was addressed by a broad, heavy, elderly woman, who asked if I were the ‘Monsieur Banfi’ who lived on that floor. I bowed, and she went on to ask: ‘How much would you charge to do a portrait of me, such as I saw in your room?’

  ‘You see,’ she explained, ‘yesterday, when I went by, they were making up your room and the door was open … and I saw the ones you had been doing…’

  I had to think quickly. I did not want to ask too much in case it discouraged her; but not too little either, or my work would be held of little value. So I asked for two hundred florins, which would be more than enough to keep me for the next two weeks. Of course she started to bargain, and we finally decided on one hundred and fifty. That was agreed. Tomorrow in her rooms at the hotel? That was agreed too, and I said I would be there at four o’clock.

  She received me in her living room, dressed in her best clothes. She wore a dress of dark-blue silk brocade with a cascade of fine lace at the neck. I looked at her carefully. She was one those women from Java which Dutchmen living in the colonies often married and brought home, where they were at once accepted and received in Dutch society without a hint of discrimination. Once in Holland they often moved in the highest society, and there were not a few Jongheers with Javanese mothers or grandmothers. This is just another instance of the wisdom of the Dutch in not treating their colonial subjects as social pariahs but rather accepted them with the respect due to another human being. As a result they have kept their colonial possessions without the aid of large sea or land forces, and this despite the fact that Java and Borneo are rich and eminently desirable colonies.

  We soon established the pose, which had to be both comfortable and also cast the least possible shadows on the face (this last so as to diminish the wrinkles – although I did not say that to her).

  It proved to be a most interesting challenge. The broad face with its jutting cheekbones gave her an almost Chinese look, which was enhanced by her hooded oriental eyelids. Although she was no longer young, her hair was still as black as soot and as smooth and shining as if she were wearing a satin helmet.

  She sat as calmly as an eastern idol and never uttered a word. As a result, I was able to make swift progress with her picture, even though I never made her sit more than an hour or so at a time so as not to tire her.

  I had been at it for about three days when her husband came to see us. He was a thickset, fair-haired Dutchman who was already balding. He had all the corpulence of prosperous good living emphasized by a massive watch chain. Without any form of greeting he stepped behind me, looked at the half-finished painting, stared at it for a while and then walked over to his wife. They then spoke to each other briefly in some language I did not know but which sounded like the twitter of small birds interspersed by an occasional click. After a few words the lady turned to me and asked ‘Do you usually stop at teatime? Because if you do I will order you a cup of chocolate.’ Then added with emphatic generosity: ‘Chocolate … with whipped cream!’ The man then nodded to me significantly as if to say: ‘You see, we don’t begrudge such extravagance to a poor painter!’

  Of course I accepted with pleasure not only because of the chocolate but also because I saw he liked my picture. (I have to admit that I had to some extent flattered my sitter, much as the good Aarlof used to do).

  From then on I got my chocolate every afternoon and, five days later, the watercolour portrait of the lady was finished, and it only remained for me to fill in the background in my own room. When I delivered it there was a great family conference; they looked at it from every angle and in every light, and then they started off again in the bird-twitter language. Finally the man turned back to me and said: ‘My wife has a lovely diamond brooch. Could it still be included in the portrait?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I just need to see it pinned on.’ So she went to fetch her ‘broosh’. It turned out to be a tiny diamond surrounded by arabesque scrolls; pinned into the loose folds of lace it almost disappeared. I knew at once that if painted as it was this little drop of a ‘broosh’ wouldn’t have the effect they so clearly wanted. At once I said I would paint it back in my room because only there did I have the right sort of paint.

  ‘You don’t have to take the “broosh” with you, do you?’ asked the lady with barely concealed anxiety. ‘Oh, no! I can do it from memory,’ I reassured her and returned to my room.

  I painted in the brooch twice as large as it was, and the diamond four times its real size. After a quarter of an hour I returned to the couple, and they were overjoyed. Again they looked at it from every angle and in every light. Finally the husband patted my shoulder in the most cordial manner and said: ‘Don’t you think…’ By now he had already called me his dear friend and went on: ‘don’t you think that the diamond is really a little bigger? Not much, but just a little bit?’

  He looked at me so beseechingly that, even though I knew he knew very well that it was not bigger at all but actually much smaller, I realized his words really meant ‘Please. For my sake, make it bigger!’

  Naturally I did what he asked. After admitting I had got it wrong I went back to my room and painted in a stone on the lady’s bosom that looked as if the Kohinoor had whelped. When they saw it they were enchanted. The next day I handed over the picture, framed and mounted and was immediately and gratefully paid. Furthermore, the husband lost no time in commissioning a portrait of himself and another of his mother; and this time he did not quibble at two hundred florins … which just goes to show how true is the saying, ‘One good deed deserves another’!

  This little tale is one of my favourite memories from that time, which is why I have related it at such length. Later it was to have rather an amusing sequel.

  Two years later the artist Ede Telcs, who had been unable to find work in Budapest, accepted a post at Begheer’s silver shop in Amsterdam as a sculptor of small objects. Before the war I had a seen lot of Telcs and his family when I had designed the pediment for the statue of Queen Elisabeth he had made for the commemorative exhibition. One day, on returning to Budapest after representing Hungary at some conference abroad, I was telling him about my adventures in Holland, and he at once told me that his daughter had met the Javanese lady and seen the portrait in her apartment. By chance the lady asked her if she knew the Hungarian painter ‘Mr Banfi’. ‘Of course,’ the girl had replied. ‘He is Count Bánffy, our present foreign minister!’

  ‘Oh, no! That’s not him!’ replied the lady. ‘Our painter was a very modest unpretentious sort of man!’

  In vain did Telcs’ daughter explain that she knew it for sure, and even recognized my signature. Then I had been a refugee, now I was a minister. But the old lady would not be convinced. It was impossible: her poor painter was someone quite different!

  ***

  As it happened, those commissioned portraits were never to be painted, for on the very same evening I received a telegram from István Bethlen. There were just three words: RETURN AT ONCE!

  I knew immediately what this meant: it meant the Soviet regime in Budapest was collapsing, it meant returning home, it meant the end of exile and of homelessness; and it might even mean a return to Transylvania, my native
land.

  Even so, when, after hurriedly packing, getting visas and saying goodbyes, the train steamed out of the station in The Hague, and that enchanting city faded from view beyond the wide green meadows, the joy and hope engendered by my going home was tempered with sorrow: sorrow that I was leaving this place where I had lived for many months comparatively free of care, sheltered from the storms of the great world and engaged in simple honest work. As the train clattered through the growing darkness, racing towards the east along the endless straight railway track, I was subconsciously aware that it was taking me to new responsibilities, to trials and disappointments, to live surrounded by passion and hatred, to the acceptance of heavy duties, and maybe also to joyless and possibly fruitless struggles.

  Chapter Eleven

  Vienna had changed a great deal since I had spent a few days there the previous January. The volunteer officers’ guard that had closed the Hofburg and transformed it into an impregnable citadel in the centre of the city had dispersed as soon as the monarch and his family, under the protection of an English military escort, had left for Switzerland. Perhaps this had been a wise move, since the emperor’s continued presence in an increasingly Red Vienna might have put their lives in danger, and it may well have been this thought that persuaded him not to follow the example of Prince Ruprecht, heir to the throne of Bavaria, who sat out the short-lived Soviet rule there, and that of the Bulgarian King Boris, who never left home either. I do not know enough about the reasons that persuaded King Karl to leave, and I have had no means of checking the contradictory explanations I have heard from other people46.

  What, however, is certain is that after the king’s departure those who had remained loyal to the dynasty, along with many other conservatives, were seen no more. Whether they had retired to their country properties or gone to live in small provincial towns, they had somehow vanished from sight – disappeared! Simultaneously the government of Deutsch-Oesterreich leaned ever more to the left.