The Phoenix Land (36 page)

So now we were to go there for final decisive talks. It was a good omen.

We knew that we would never be able to retain the entire Burgenland, but at least mediation meant there was a chance of a compromise, a middle way by which perhaps we would be able at least to keep Sopron and its immediate surroundings, maybe even more. This would mean a great deal to Hungary. What was even more important was the exhilarating hope that at Venice we might finally achieve peace and at the same time, although now a small and impoverished country, inflict just the smallest of dents in the unjust Treaty of Trianon.

Chapter Five

The Hungarian delegation consisted of István Bethlen, myself, Sándor Khuen-Héderváry (head of the political section at the foreign office), Lajos Valko as economic expert, two or three secretaries and old Fabro, the great master of Hungarian
stenography
. We travelled in a private railway car, as we needed space to study the texts in detail and decide every small aspect of them. We had not had time for this in Budapest since we had had to leave in such a hurry.

We all lunched and dined together, surrounded by files and documents, on meals brought in from the dining car. Only Fabro stayed away, eating in his own compartment the food he had brought with him for the journey: bacon or salami. I forget now whether he told us he was on a diet or whether he preferred his own food, but the real reason was that he found the restaurant car food too expensive. He was known to be careful with his money. However he paid for his stinginess while we were in Venice.

When we arrived at the Grand Hotel, Fabro took one look at the splendour of this luxury hotel and declared that he would not stay there but would install himself at the Bauer-Grünwald, which was known to be cheaper. It was close enough for us to call for him whenever we needed him. And so it was. For the entire three days of the conference he remained stuck there in his room, as he dared not go out in case we should send for him. When we were leaving to return home and asked for our bills the manager of the Grand Hotel told us that we had been the guests of the Italian government, and that he had been forbidden to accept any money from us. So it turned out that we had lived there
completely
free, eating the most wonderful
branzino
(sea-bass), scampi and other seafood, as well as delicious beef and venison –
we, the semi-starved citizens of Budapest – while poor Fabro, having refused the room reserved for him, was obliged to pay the bill. His entire expense account (which was fairly meagre) was swallowed up even though he had been careful to eat most
frugally
; and all the time he might have been feasting with us for nothing, and living in a style to which he had never been
accustomed
, poor man. He only heard this unhappy news in the
railcar
on the way home, when the young secretaries made fun of him thus adding aggravation to the understandable chagrin of this good-hearted old scientist.

The conference was held in the Venice Town Hall. General Ferrario took us in gondolas, and we found ourselves delivered to a fine early baroque palace on the Grand Canal that had once been the home, I fancy, of the Venier family
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. Inside there was an immense hall stretching the full width of the building with, on one side, a magnificent ornate staircase, very steep, as
staircases
are apt to be in Venice.

On arrival we went first to a room next to the conference hall to pay our respects to Foreign Minister Toretta. He was a short small-boned man with greying hair. His face was also grey, and, what is rare in Italians, he seemed insignificant and reserved. What is also rare in Italy is that his manner was laconic. I do not intend these remarks to be taken as criticism because he not only appeared to be full of goodwill but later proved to be so during our official discussions. There we also met the Austrian
delegation
headed by Schober, now chancellor, and the head of the political section of the Austrian Foreign Ministry. This last was present because in Austria the head of government is also the minister for foreign affairs. As I write I cannot recall his name so I shall refer to him as ‘Mr S’
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.

The discussions took place in the big hall. Toretta sat at the head of the table, and next to him were two Italians who wrote the minutes and Castagnetto. Bethlen and I sat in front of the windows, while opposite us were Schober and his right-hand man, the foreign office official. Because they faced the light I was able to observe them well.

Chancellor Schober was a sympathetic type: chubby, of
average
height. His hair was cut short, his beard was white, but his
face was young looking. He looked clean and well groomed, and one could see that his clothes came from an excellent tailor. Wherever I might have encountered him I would have known, even from twenty paces away, that he was Viennese. He was intelligent and well intentioned, and this had been put to the proof for the Hungarians when he had been chief of police in Vienna in 1919. Bethlen had known him from that time. He seemed to me to be a wise and peace-loving character who would probably have been far more at ease sitting in Grinzing with a glass of
Heuriger
wine and listening to the music than here at the green table discussing complicated issues in a language that was not his own, in this case French.

His right-hand man from the Austrian foreign office was quite different. He might have come from anywhere: from Portugal or even Miskolc. He was thin, balding, with a sharp somewhat bent nose, and was clean-shaven. He may have had a bad liver, for his skin was yellowish green. He was very eager and fidgety and
passionately
argumentative. His French was quite good and, although Schober may have understood everything, he was not so fluent so the aide did all the talking for the chancellor. He would start every sentence with:
‘Monsieur le chancellier m’
ordonne
de dire…’
– ‘The Chancellor orders me to say…’ He even said this when the Chancellor had not opened his mouth.

Sympathetic though the Austrian head of government appeared to be, his foreign office sidekick made himself
objectionable
by constant quibbling. We were able to take advantage of this.

The talks went slowly. Toretta opened the discussions with a lengthy speech then documents were read. All of this was
necessary
, but it took time. Finally we arrived at the crux of the matter.

We asked for a plebiscite to be held in Sopron and the
surrounding
area, which we defined exactly upon the map.

Our demands were limited to that, just that. We had decided on this after much thought and reflection, and although it was a pity that we could not ask for a much wider area, reason told us that it would be wiser to limit the plebiscite to such territory that we knew would vote for Hungary with a large and decisive majority. We did not wish to risk winning only by a few hundred
votes. The feeling in other parts of the Burgenland was no longer unanimously in our favour, as it had been when this affair started. The partisans had kept order, but the fact that armed strangers had billeted themselves in the villages had caused much friction – a natural result of any lengthy occupation. And in the south, that part where Prónay had appropriated all the cereals and livestock and only paid with promises, the mood of the locals was definitely against us. We could count on no
support
there.

Our demand started a violent argument, the Austrians fiercely opposing us. They gave no sign that they were at all interested in what the people living in and around Sopron might want; indeed, their only argument was that Trianon must be observed to the letter. Again and again there sounded the
‘Monsieur le chancellier m’ordonne de dire…’
, as the Austrian Number Two grew angrier and angrier. Finally Toretta cut off the discussion by declaring that there should be a plebiscite in the disputed territory.

This was our first real achievement.

I cannot now describe the progress of the conference step by step: in any case, there would be no point. That afternoon the report of the Economic Commission was received, and although this also caused a lot of bickering, a just solution was found. Much time was consumed before a new subject could be broached, as we had to wait for the minutes of the previous
discussion
to be prepared and agreed. This provided me with a free hour and a half in which I was able to revisit some of my favourite spots in Venice. I went to the Church of S Maria dei Miracoli; I looked at Sansovino’s little angel in the basilica, and I wandered along some of the little alleys that held for me
memories
of some fifteen to twenty years back.

Castagnetto invited me to dine with him at one of the most exquisite and typically Italian restaurants on the Merceria. His other guest was the once famous beauty, Princess Giustiniani. Their love affair had been known to everyone about twenty years previously, for they never tried to hide the attachment between them. On the contrary, so the story ran, they had gone out of their way to present themselves as living reincarnations of the
story of Venus and Cupid as painted by some great artist of the past. It was said that they followed the original in every detail, which – as Venus was always scantily clad and Cupid never sported evening dress and a starched shirt – caused no little
comment
, even from the freethinking Italians. The three of us supped together and, as I sat at the table, I had the feeling that some sparks of romance still irradiated the otherwise mundane conversation of the heavily made-up old lady and our balding but still handsome host. As a writer, I stored up this fact in my mind, thinking how I might one day use it in a novel.

I also learned a most important fact at that supper. While we waited for the lady, I mentioned how well intentioned I had found Toretta, ‘I see your influence there,’ I said to Castagnetto. ‘Well,’ said the ambassador, laughing, ‘not entirely. He has his own reasons.’ Then he said something that took me completely by surprise. ‘Toretta was our ambassador in Vienna at the time the peace treaties were being drawn up, and it was he, probably from fear of the Czech-Yugoslav corridor, who invented the Burgenland. Yes it was he: Toretta! He went specially to Paris just for that!’ Castagnetto went on to tell me that it appeared that, as a result of the local uprising, he had been somewhat ashamed that his suggestion had brought about such fatal results and that, in consequence, he was now trying to undo some of the damage he had caused. ‘He hesitated when I advised him to take this course two weeks ago. What decided him was your turning to Benes, thereby raising once more the spectre of the
Czech-Serb
corridor.’

The next day the conference reconvened.

This was the stormiest day of all. The row started with the discussions about how to revise the frontier. Bethlen and I at once made reference to the
Lettre d’Envoi
the French prime
minister
, Millerand, had sent to the Hungarian government with the terms of the proposed treaty in which we were assured that the border commissions would take into consideration our views and the wishes of the local inhabitants. According to this letter, the border committee would be authorized to propose substantial changes. We insisted that this document should be mentioned in whatever text was finally agreed.

This provoked a furious argument, with the Austrians protesting fiercely against any inclusion of this letter.

There now occurred a somewhat comic misunderstanding. Khuen-Héderváry, who sat behind us, was suddenly heard to whisper: ‘They don’t believe it either!’

‘What?’ we thought, ‘Bethlen and Bánffy?
They
don’t believe it either.
They
don’t accept what the Great Powers promised us officially, the only promise we ever had which softened Trianon’s harsh terms? Well!’ we thought, ‘Let’s get on with it!’ And we fought all the harder.

Schober’s aide raged on, and even Schober himself grew red in the face; but we did not relent, so much the more when Khuen-Héderváry whispered to us once more, this time saying: ‘They don’t recognize it.’ We both took this to mean we should persevere, but we were wrong. What Khuen-Héderváry had been trying to point out, so that we should not use the point against Austria, was that the
Lettre d’Envoi
had been addressed only to Hungary, and that its validity existed only between us and the Great Powers. Of course I had known this, but I had
forgotten
it in the heat of argument. We did not grasp this until there was a pause when the president stopped the discussions because of the Austrian’s violent reactions.