The Phoenix Land

by Miklos Banffy

  Pelényi was indeed a great help. He had gone to America at the beginning of 1920, officially as a delegate of the Protestant church, but with semi-official diplomatic status. He had an exceptional brain and a huge capacity for work. Before 1914 he had been consul in Cleveland. Just before war was declared he had become engaged to a charming but penniless American girl, and it was a measure of her sympathetic character that she waited for him until he was able to return after the war had ended.

  When I first took office I had wanted to appoint him as counsellor at our Washington embassy, with the rank of head of mission. There was, however, just one serious obstacle: what would the man live on? America was a very expensive country, and the pay was not enough for a man with a family to support. As it stood, he could not possibly accept the appointment. I wanted to establish a special rate of pay for Pelényi and so discussed his promotion with Khuen-Héderváry before raising the matter with Nuber, whose job was to control all payments made by the foreign office.

  I called him and told him what I proposed to do. Nuber demurred. I do not know if there may have been some old grudge between him and Pelényi dating back to the days when Nuber was consul-general in New York and Pelényi was his subordinate in Cleveland, but, whatever the reason, Nuber protested vehemently. He declared that it was impossible for anybody, no matter where he was posted, to get a higher salary than was due to his grade. I asked if he could get a supplement for the high cost of living? No, that was not possible. Nuber quoted all the official texts that prohibited such a proceeding. I retorted that is was his job to find a paragraph that would allow it, because such things can always be found if one really wants to do so. This only made Nuber even angrier.

  The man’s behaviour was quite improper and if I had not been restrained by my own sense of humour I would have become very angry too. As it was the scene was irresistibly comic: the little grey man jumping up and down with rage in the middle of the room and stamping on the floor with his tiny feet. He was like Chaplin doing a Red Indian war dance. He was throbbing with anger, huffing and puffing, sneezing and screaming, so much so that I almost burst out laughing. For a moment I left him to his stamping about and his rage and then said:

  ‘Look, Mr Nuber, I must ask you a few questions. As a minister, do I have the right to give a man a special task and then remunerate him for his extra work and for the expenses entailed?’

  ‘Why, of course … yes … but it isn’t allowed … it isn’t allowed…!’ screeched the little man.

  ‘Wait a moment, please. Do I have the right to establish a fixed expense allowance?’

  ‘Why, yes, that too is possible … but of course it isn’t allowed!’

  ‘All right. Look! I shall give Pelényi a special assignment. It will be to look after the well being of our immigrant workers in America, to help them maintain their Hungarian traditions and to visit them for this purpose whenever his other responsibilities permit. Therefore I authorize payment of the sum I have already mentioned, which will be paid from the secret fund and which will officially be granted for travel expenses.’

  Little Nuber was so surprised he almost sat down on the parquet floor.

  ‘You see? As I said before, one can find a legal way to do anything if one really wants to! And so now, Mr Consul-General, go back to your office, have the official documentation typed up so that I can sign the order in the morning.’ When he was almost at the door, I called after him: ‘Thank you very much for your excellent advice.’

  It was a comic incident.

  What was not so amusing was the silent resistance of the ministry’s permanent staff who tried to sabotage everything that I proposed and every measure I put forward to modernize our methods and bring them into line with the spirit of the times. The administration as a whole was still rigidly following the methods of the Ballplatz114 without having that ministry’s ancient traditions. This was because most of the civil servants we employed now came from the lower grades of the old consular service or from other ministries.

  The master spirit of the Ballplatz reactionaries was Kálmán Kánya, the minister’s permanent adviser. He had also moved up from the consular corps having served in his youth in the Balkans – in Üsküb, if I remember rightly – and later in Mexico and other far distant posts. From here he managed to get transferred to the Foreign Ministry in Vienna, firstly in the personnel department and later was accepted into the diplomatic service itself. It is said that it was he who drafted the ultimatum to Serbia in 1914.

  In the old civil service lists he appears as ‘Herr von Kania’.

  He was highly intelligent, with a vast knowledge of archives and historical events; but he was also spiteful and malicious, ambitious and vengeful. He loved to play at conspiracies. He financed confidential agents in Upper Hungary, in the lower Carpathians and in Yugoslavia, which would have been acceptable if he had not made the mistake of being personally in touch with them. He got himself into trouble over this more than once, for these informers were apt to turn to blackmail, and on one occasion his name was mentioned in a criminal trial in Bratislava. These activities he concealed from successive ministers because, in his view, such people were, like me, ‘newcomers’ who had not sprung from a lifetime in the Foreign Ministry and who were therefore categorized as dilettantes and interlopers here today and gone tomorrow. Such people should be told nothing. He, of course, would always be there and so everything must depend on him, and on him alone. Indeed, that is how it was; and he was feared by everyone.

  As part of his Ballplatz luggage he brought with him all the old Great Power arrogance that had been such a feature of Austrian diplomacy. Such haughty self-sufficiency may have been justified in the time of the great Metternich but had later been no of help to the monarchy. This was now especially true for the small country Hungary had become. Kánya’s hatred of the Serbs, his disdain for the Italians, and the superior attitude he adopted to all the newly formed central European states all stemmed from his time in Vienna. Nevertheless, he knew how to conceal his prejudices, at least in my time.

  He was typical of the old-fashioned type of ‘professional’ diplomat in its most fossilized form. He was of the sort that thought of the conduct of foreign affairs as some sort of chess game. He brought all his skill and knowledge to bear on behalf of the white pieces, if he happened to be playing with them; but I am convinced he would have done just the same if he was playing instead with the black. He would regard his opponents’ moves with complete detachment, just as if the matter in hand had no connection with flesh and blood but was merely an interesting variant of the skill of the game. In the past he had shown himself capable of being an excellent aide to a minister who was motivated by a strong patriotic feeling, for his knowledge and memory were invaluable. But these very qualities were a drawback in a position of power because his obsession with precedent and his eagerness to achieve little political successes obscured an understanding of our long-term interests and blotted out any clear sight of the greater national objectives, which should never be lost sight of when dealing with trivial day-to-day matters.

  He would discuss every issue with the same detachment, whether it concerned the happiness or suffering of millions of his fellow men, as he would have approached an algebraic problem he had to solve to pass an examination.

  Many years later, when Kánya had himself become foreign minister, someone asked my opinion of him. Half in jest I replied: ‘Very able; but he would be just the same whether he did it in Japan or Hungary’, which just about summed up both his qualities and his defects.

  Kánya liked nobody, least of all Sándor Khuen. The problem was that, although Khuen-Héderváry was a loyal supporter of his, he had the disadvantage, in Kánya’s eyes, not only of being a former member of the Ballplatz cadre but also in every respect a good man, well-meaning and devoid of ambition.

  All the others in his immediate circle were treated as puppets whose every move was controlled by Kánya and who were scolded and tossed ab
out as he saw fit. Sometimes he would reward one of his puppets with a sweetmeat and sometimes he would stamp on them; for he had the temperament of a sadistic slave driver.

  Kánya’s cautious reliance on precedent and tremendous capacity for hard work could have been of immense value to me, for his suspicious nature would have complemented my own great fault, of which I have never been able to rid myself, of being too trusting. Unfortunately, we never managed to come to a frank understanding and it was only at the end of my time in office that I discovered that he was my enemy.

  Our first clash was characteristic of the relationship between us. This happened at the time the first representatives of the Nazi Party presented themselves in Hungary. They came in secret, and I was asked by the Archduke Albrecht to come to his house late one evening to meet them. It seems that they had been brought to the archduke by Gyula Gömbös.

  Before deciding if I should go I asked Kánya for his opinion. He advised that I should. This turned out to be the first time that I discovered that Kánya was apt to have dubious acquaintances without telling me what he was up to. At that time, in 1921, Nazism was only just beginning to make itself felt and still seemed to be a relatively insignificant political party. Kánya told me that he had already been in contact with these two Germans, and that I should warn Gömbös not to negotiate with them himself because it was a foreign office affair in which he should not interfere. I hardly spoke to the Nazis at this meeting, but I did take Gömbös to one side and said what Kánya had asked me to say.

  The next afternoon Sándor Khuen telephoned me and asked me to come to see him at the Kaszino Club on a matter of the utmost importance. I found Kánya with him, and although Kánya to a certain degree restrained himself, his voice trembled with rage as he accused me of having disclosed an official secret. It seemed that Gömbös had not heeded my instruction not to deal with the Germans himself but, perhaps out of wounded pride, had upbraided them, demanding an explanation as to why they had dealt with the Foreign Ministry and not solely with him. The Nazis, on their side, had reported all this to Kánya.

  I was able to defend myself with a clear conscience for, as Gömbös had been sworn in as a Secretary of State, he too was bound by his oath of allegiance not to reveal state secrets. What I had told him was only what, as my official adviser, Kánya himself had asked me to say. After much argument Kánya calmed down and there crept into his voice a superior note of forgiveness tinged with a gracious and indulgent scorn such as one might use when telling a child who has been naughty to forget the matter.

  It was just at this time that a political group calling itself the ‘Awakening Hungarians’ became active. Tibor Eckhardt, who was Secretary of State before Gömbös, now joined the opposition and headed the movement. The ‘League of Revisions’ also came into being then.

  In my view both of these movements did considerable harm. We were still having quite enough trouble subduing the last vestiges of the ‘White Terror’, and I felt that the last thing we then needed was to have to cope with the harm that would be caused by a resurgence of racist theories. Personally I found it not unamusing that many of those who proclaimed the reawakening of the Hungarian race should themselves all seem to be of foreign descent: Swabians, Slovaks, or Serbs. There were certainly few real Hungarians in their ranks, apart from a few crackpots and some political scoundrels.

  I felt especially strongly about the League of Revisions for which I could see no need and whose effect seemed likely to prove dangerously deleterious.

  Something similar had been formed in France in the 1880s and had done much harm. There it had been called the ‘League of Patriots’ and its president had been a demagogue called Deroulède. One of its members had been that General Boulanger, who tried to make use of its declared aims for some ends of his own, although exactly what these were never became clear. The only certainty was that the League stood for Revanche.

  The French government, however, did not stop at disapproval but after a few years took definitive action against it. Deroulède was arrested, and Boulanger killed himself as it was clear that he realized that he would find himself embroiled in a most serious international problem for the French government if he had been known to have fomented some kind of popular uprising which would inevitably have provoked German intervention. Both the government and the majority of the people desired nothing but peace, as they wisely knew that sooner or later Revanche would come, and all that was needed for it to be successful was the right political climate.

  I had just the same feeling for the League of Revision. Firstly, I felt that agitation to revise the peace terms was superfluous. What need did we have to persuade ourselves, as choruses in opera are apt to do, that the mutilation to which our country had been subjected at Trianon had been both unjust and stupid? That was something no man in Hungary did not already know. To do this would have merely been to rub in our suffering and stir up unnecessary hatred. With human beings the urge to make peace takes some time to germinate, while Homo sapiens is always ready to hate. We saw this in 1914. Before the ultimatum to Serbia and the Russian declaration of war no one in Hungary hated either the Serbs or the Russians. On the contrary, after their gentlemanly conduct in 1849, the latter were if anything thought to be rather sympathetic. But in 1914, as a result of press propaganda, it took less than two weeks for an explosion of hatred, so much so that thousands rushed to enlist, even those who would not then have been called up. Such is the nature of the human animal. Find it in mobs, and the lust to kill is always there. Mankind seems to revel in killing.

  Artificially to incite hatred is not only supererogatory in politics and foreign relations, it is also positively harmful.

  Great nations, and even medium-sized ones, can always seek revision of frontiers by normal diplomatic means – if the political climate is favourable. No propaganda or previous jockeying for position is necessary, for if the right moment is chosen and there are good reasons for a change, then there is nothing to stop anyone from putting forward proposals for territorial adjustment. An example was furnished by Romania in 1912 during the second phase of the Balkan War. Before this no one had ever heard of Dobrudja, but when Russia lost patience with Bulgaria, Romania discovered that she had a claim to Dobrudja and, with a swift but bloodless attack, took it for herself. There have been other examples in more recent times. It is always possible to keep alive certain issues with propaganda abroad, but the acquisition of territory needs quiet patient work. No doubt it can be a help if the world gets to know about the existence of such a problem, but it is not until the world is convinced of injustice that redress can follow.

  Propaganda, if too raucous, will always prove counterproductive.

  The damage arises because in peacetime the nation that never stops menacing others and shouting about its grievances is at once labelled a disturber of the peace and blamed accordingly. Such behaviour is also stupid because it continually reminds others of the quarrel and strengthens their opposition. In the case of Hungary, it was especially senseless, for several million of our blood-brothers still lived in the neighbouring states, and it should have been obvious that their situation would become aggravated if there were too much noisy talk about revising the frontiers coming out of Budapest. I am convinced that we could have improved their situation if we had been able to suppress the irredentist clamour of the Hungarian people – not, perhaps, in my time but certainly later.

  It was also counterproductive for the Hungarians still living outside our new borders because it strengthened them in the belief that very soon – tomorrow if not today and the day after tomorrow for sure – something would happen to change their situation. There developed among us an atmosphere of waiting for a miracle; and this made us neglect searching for a solution to problems which by their very nature could only be resolved in a time of peace that would favour the smooth running of our administrative machinery.

  This noisy propaganda also did harm in a more general way. Success in foreign relat
ions can only be achieved when the negotiator, be he the head of state or his foreign minister, has a complete knowledge of all the circumstances and can assess them coolly and objectively. The public can never know all the facts, and public opinion is always swayed by passion, never by reason and the best interests of the country.

  It may sometimes be necessary to stir up passion, but only if action is to follow, as was the case with the Burgenland; but to go on doing so is a great mistake. If one particular hatred is allowed to become fixed in the public mind it can be like putting shackles on the politicians with the result that measures vital to the country’s best interests cannot be passed since government is impossible without public support.

  For Hungarians, the incessant poisoning of public opinion by irresponsible agitation can be especially dangerous. As I have already explained in some detail Hungarians, while always ignorant of foreign affairs and diplomatic strategy, are singularly receptive to martial slogans, revel in vociferous opposition and love to abuse those they believe to be their enemies. That old ‘kuruc’ spirit that once cried out against the principle of Dualism115 and manifested itself by always criticizing, always knowing better, and could earn popularity for anyone, providing he spouted enough nonsense, was now directed against our foreign policy. Just as during the first world war every small coffeehouse had its ‘Konrad’ who knew best how every battle could have been won, now the times sprouted thousands more: Metternichs and Talleyrands of the coffee-houses, who, by alliances with Italy or England or even with Japan, won back all our lost provinces from the Carpathians to the Adriatic and fought bloody battles on the marble tables between the coffee and the cakes. All this, of course, without danger to themselves, for boasters are ever careful of their own skins.