The Phoenix Land (6 page)

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 reception 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.

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. As 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.

The monarch in Vienna, or at his country place at Gödöllo not far from Budapest, gave constant audiences from which emerged new coalitions and governments that, like soap bubbles, burst as soon as they were announced. The atmosphere grew daily more
heated, and there were those who took care that it should
continue
to do so. There were then many unscrupulous men who, for their own ends, did not hesitate to gamble with the lives of innocent young men: for example, by leading a demonstration to the royal palace in Buda regardless of whether the police would use force to disperse the crowd. ‘To Buda, to the king!’ they cried, although most people knew he was at Gödöllo and never came anywhere near Buda. The agitators had calculated aright. The government, demoralized and fatally weakened, nervously overreacted and ordered the police to cordon off the bridges and meet the demonstrators with drawn swords, thus adding fuel to the general exasperation as when kindling is thrown on the fire. Those who retreated unhurt proceeded to smash all the ‘By appointment to the king’ emblems on the city shops and smashed their windows. That same evening the ‘National Council’ was formed and supported by the majority since it was the only body to show any will to take control of affairs. All kinds of
organizations
, unions and people in authority, with baseless and futile confidence, hurried to join the Council with the same speed as moths rushing to a flame. Everyone was convinced that Károlyi would return from Gödöllo as Minister-President, and would then with great servility put on the robes of revolution.

This is what had happened on the previous two days, which seemed to have raced by like a film run at double speed. It was like the moment before being struck by a tornado when, with heart throbbing, one is overcome by a nerve-wracking sense of impending doom: so menacing are the tumbling clouds in the sky that first appear at the corners of the far horizon and then are suddenly above our heads, swelling and towering until they cover the entire firmament, cutting off all light and leaving only
occasional
gaps which at any moment will close up with a terrifying clash until the whole sky falls down upon us burying the whole world with it.

During those days this feeling never left us, and it was with a sense of deep foreboding that I went to our Monday evening dinner on 28 October 1918.

The latest news was only of delay, postponement and more talks.

On Saturday evening the king had taken Károlyi with him to Vienna arriving in the morning. There, Károlyi was told to wait at his hotel until he was summoned and, in the meantime, not to talk to anyone. Károlyi waited. Noon passed, and he still had no news. Finally he telephoned to the cabinet offices for
instructions
and was simply told to go home as he was not needed then … perhaps later in Budapest
4
?

Knowing Károlyi’s passionate nature, I realized at once that he would not accept such a gratuitous insult without in some way hitting back. It was then certain that we must expect a violent outcome. Károlyi’s arrival in Budapest would herald the storm to come.

At the Western Train Station a crowd of many thousands was already milling about. They had come from a huge public
meeting
outside the parliament building, called by the National Council where they had voted for the adoption of the Council’s program. When the news came of Károlyi’s imminent return the leaders at once suggested that they should all go there to greet the arrival of the evening express. The train came in. With
deafening
cheers and an air of celebration they lifted the ‘Leader of the People’
5
onto their shoulders, passing him from hand to hand with outstretched arms. What happened next was strangely
symbolic
of his whole life to come. ‘The crowd … took Károlyi not towards the usual exit but in the direction of the warehouses. The people were so overexcited that they had not noticed that they had carried Mihály Károlyi into a blind alley that ran between the warehouses and Váci Street and which was closed by a tall iron gate that was locked.’ To turn back was impossible. The only way was to clamber over it and squeeze through the iron spikes on top. Mihály Károlyi scrambled through, but no one else. He was then carried off by the crowd milling around outside ‘with much dangerous jostling and pushing … like a piece of driftwood tossed about by chance, he was propelled
forward
sideways by the force of that determined crowd.’

This happened on Sunday.

On Monday came the news that discussions were being held by Archduke Joseph in his capacity of
homo regis
(literally ‘the king’s man’): a thankless task that, with real self-sacrifice, he had
accepted at this late hour in an attempt to make peace between the rival factions in the face of such heightened passions.

We discussed all this on Monday evening, weighing what seemed the most likely outcome; and also the most unlikely. At about ten o’clock we were just mulling over whether János Hadik had any chance of forming a government (an idea of which most of us had only just heard) and also the idea of nominating Archduke Joseph as Palatine (viceroy) when a waiter came in to call Andor Miklós to the telephone, saying it was very, very urgent.

Miklós left us at once. In a few moments he was back,
unusually
pale.

‘There is a battle raging at the Chain Bridge,’ he said. ‘The men were ordered to shoot … many dead and wounded!’ and left to hurry back to his editorial desk.

Jenö Heltai was with us, and we decided to see for ourselves what was happening.

Everything was quiet outside the Kaszino. There was nobody about in front of the National Council’s headquarters in the Hotel Astoria just across the road where, on previous evenings, crowds had gathered to listen to speeches from the Council’s spokesmen. We started off briskly towards the Chain Bridge, passing the Town Hall, down Bécsi Street and Harmincad Street. The streets were empty, and the only sounds we heard were our own footsteps. Then suddenly, at the corner of Gisella (now Vorosmarty) Square, we met a huge crowd. The whole square was packed with men, shoulder to shoulder. The reason we had noticed nothing and made this so unexpected was their total silence. There was something essentially dramatic and
sinister
about this mute voiceless multitude, something far more menacing than if they had all been shouting and noisy. There must have been several thousand men gathered there – and not a sound. Every window was dark except, far away at the corner of Váci Street, there were lights in the windows of the Károlyi party headquarters. Through those windows the outlines of men moving to and fro could vaguely be seen, and maybe some speeches were being made there, but this I do not know for
certain
as no sound reached us. We asked some men standing near
us what had happened, but they did not answer. They just shrugged and turned away.

Then we decided to go to Jószef Square.

Only a few steps from there two lovers stood entwined, caring nothing for what was going on around them, perhaps even
finding
a good opportunity amid the general chaos. Oblivious to their surroundings and clinging tightly together they went on kissing happily.

Heltai laughed. ‘That’s Budapest for you!’ he said as we
hurried
on.

On the far side of Jószef Square a barricade had been built, and the soldiers manning it would not let us through to the Chain Bridge. They were from a Bosnian regiment, and we heard later that they had been sent to replace the 32nd Infantry who had had orders to close Dorottya Street and Vigado Square but who had not only let the demonstrators though without a word of protest but also, in good part, left their own ranks and joined them. Now, however, every street leading to the Danube was closed by the loyal Bosnian regiment. Here again not a voice was to be heard, not even a command. The only sound was the rhythmic beat of the soldiers’ iron-studded boots. That dark night was the last occasion when anyone was to hear the
measured
tread of the Imperial Habsburg army on the march.