The Phoenix Land (8 page)

Back in Hungary he proclaimed his support for a rupture with Germany and a separate peace with the Allies. Later he was to declare that Hungary should lose no time in accepting President Wilson’s terms. That he never seemed to waver in his publicly declared attitude, at least not so the general public would notice, (as, for example, when he volunteered for the army, or when Romania’s entry into the war provoked a fierce chauvinist
reaction
in Hungary), may have puzzled many of those who did not know him well.

Some of his intimate friends, however, knew that Károlyi had relations in France and what was more significant, had held political discussions with Poincaré, who had once acted for him as a solicitor. This was enough, in those last ominous weeks and months, for more and more people to see in him not only the one politician who seemed always to have been right but also
possessed
powerful links with (and maybe even definite promises from) the Allies, who could bring about an end to the already all too evident menace of the nation’s imminent destruction and so somehow lead the country to the other side of the political Ocean, just as the Czechs and Poles had already done. Even the lawsuit brought by his cousin, Imre Károlyi
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seemed to confirm what they thought just because the two men had been in such close touch. Surely this meant, the general public assumed, that it was precisely this relationship which proved that Imre’s accusations were true; and so, if it were true now, when the destruction of the Central Powers was only a matter of days away, how much more faith should be put in Mihály if he were indeed a secret agent in the pay of the French? The example of the Czech Kramarz strengthened this view, since the latter had been tried for treason in Austria, recently set free and had now re-emerged as spokesman for the newly independent republic of Czechoslovakia.

In the course of that first week of the revolution I met many men who analysed these events with cool logic. Furthermore, an army of eager gossip-mongers was to be found everywhere, who heard everything from ‘reliable’ sources, and these men, who now announced with joy that providence had sent Count Károlyi to head the government, were the very same who, a few months before, had related with wicked glee that the ‘traitor’ Károlyi was about to be arrested. This was one of those times when one needs a lot of brotherly love not to loathe one’s fellow men.

So passed the first morning of revolution in a general
outpouring
of joy. Everywhere was heard the cry: ‘our bloodless floral revolution!’

And indeed that first day was bloodless, and all the firing heard during the night was only due to high spirits. No one was hurt, not even General Lukacsics who had been called ‘Bloody
Lukacsics’ as he had ordered ten or so deserters to be shot as soon as he had been put in command of the Budapest garrison. Arrested, like all the other senior officers in the capital, he had been taken to the Hotel Astoria, dressed in civilian clothes, and let out the back door.

Amazingly enough there was no resistance anywhere or
incident
of any kind. Even today
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, with the benefit of hindsight, it is difficult to understand how everything passed so smoothly. This cannot be explained solely by the fact that the night before, General Lukacsics had telephoned King Karl for instructions and he, always kind-hearted, had said that no blood was to be shed; nor because, as came to light later, all the telephone lines (including the secret ones) had been taken over by the
revolutionaries
. Some people later suggested it was because Hungarian officers refused to fire on their fellow Hungarians, but this does not explain it either, for neither the officers of the Kommando-Korps, nor many other army leaders were any more Hungarian than the men under their command, most of whom were
Soldatenkinder
, born into military families in which the tradition of serving in the Dual Monarchy’s forces was handed down from father to son. Such men had hardly any connection with Hungary, for their only ‘homeland’ was the Austrian army. What was common to them all was a shared ideology (which, incidentally, was to prove to be both their strength and their weakness while ensuring that the dual army was one of the Habsburg monarchy’s strongest supports) made up of such artificial notions as the
Kaisers Rock and the Portepée Ehre
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, and this made it all the more extraordinary that all those disciplined officers, from humble depot commanders to those of the highest rank, should now forget their most cherished ethic and give up their arms when faced with threats and orders from mere civilians or disobedient soldiery. Was their passivity caused by the lack of orders from above? Was that why they did not automatically reach for their own weapons? I admit that theirs was the wisest course; but were they all wise? How was it that the tradition of never permitting an insult to the
Kaisers Rock
– which in times of peace was so fiercely upheld that an unwise remark or harmless gesture could provoke a duel as an ‘affair of honour’ – was now forgotten by them all?

However, one thing did cast a chill over that evening on the day when the sun had shone and ‘bloodless’ revolution was being celebrated everywhere with white aster flowers in full bloom.

This was the assassination of István Tisza.

The news spread like wildfire through the city, and as it did the universal merriment was stilled and the crowds started to melt away. Those few who remained would speak quietly to each other, whispering the news and moving swiftly on so as not to have to reveal what they felt. It was as if the flames of the guns that had killed the man whom many people, both friend and foe, had considered great had acted as a flash of lightning had laid bare the sinister truth.

The revolutionary idyll ended at that moment.

Tisza’s funeral was to be at four o’clock on the following day. At half-past three I set off but was met by a friend coming away. He told me that the funeral was over and that it had been held before the time announced as it had been feared the mob might try to prevent the last respects from being paid because there were those who had threatened to desecrate the corpse of a man who had been so hated.

Tisza’s tragic death at once put an end to the public rejoicing, but the people’s confidence in the new order, and in particular in its leader, was eroded more slowly. The first disappointment came when the new cabinet was announced and, instead of an exciting bevy of new names, sparkling with talent and promise, which everyone had expected, the list of ministers held no surprises. Of course, the public’s hopes had been essentially naive since by then most men of experience and integrity had long been
antagonized
and so, in the inevitable atmosphere of distrust and
disillusion
it was a matter of
‘Woher nehmen und nicht stehlen?’
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Even if Károlyi had wanted to do otherwise, he found himself bound to make the choice from members of his own party.

Even so, the first list of ministers was not complete. No one wanted the post of minister of justice. This gave rise to a
tragicomic
little anecdote that was soon repeated all over Budapest
and caused much amusement. It was recounted that all morning and most of the afternoon Károlyi had tried in vain to find
someone
willing to occupy the velvet seat of the minister of justice. This was serious, as Károlyi was desperately anxious to take over the government without delay. Nothing was to be done, however, and so Károlyi, with his incomplete band of proposed ministers, set off for Buda to present them to Archduke Joseph. In the funicular they met, by chance, one Károly Sladics who held a senior post at the ministry of justice. Why not offer him the vacant post? someone suggested, and to their relief and joy, he accepted; and so, by the time the old funicular car had rattled its way to the top, the cabinet list was complete. But not for long. Just as they were walking across from the station to the
archduke’s
palace a newsboy came rushing over to them yelling out the news of Tisza’s murder and offering them printed leaflets with all the details. Some of the little band bought them and then, just as they were saying they had better get a move on so as not to keep the archduke waiting, they looked around for the future justice minister – he was nowhere to be seen, vanished into thin air. No one had seen him go, and no one knew where he had gone. He had just slid away and vanished, and was never seen again.

This humorous little tale was characteristic of those days and, although perhaps not completely accurate in detail, essentially true
13
.

Later on someone was found for the post, but everyone’s
feeling
of disappointment remained. The new ministers were largely unknown, except perhaps to a few in obscure circles in the capital. What was worse was that none of them had any
practical
experience in the fields for which they were now to be responsible. They had never held executive posts in any civic or governmental department. On the contrary, they were armchair theorists or journalists who ranged from honest but donnish
scientists
and dreamers to that familiar type, those coffee-house prophets who had passed their days in playfully solving all the world’s most complex problems while sitting at their desks or at the marble tables of popular cafés. The only exceptions were the Socialists for whom leadership of the trade unions had proved a
good schooling, and so they alone of the new government had any idea of the effect new measures might have on real people when they passed into law.

It was therefore only to be expected that once such men had seized power, which they had done from the first day of the
revolution
, the whole edifice of government would gradually begin to wither away.

Chapter Three

The story of the October Revolution is not really the subject of these purely personal reminiscences. It is neither my intention nor my calling to write any more about it. Everything that I know of those days stemmed either from the newspaper accounts or from the unverifiable tales told to me by
acquaintances
. Even afterwards I never studied any of the official
documents
, and as far as the Károlyi case was concerned, all I knew was the published verdict. Therefore all I can recount of what actually happened in those troubled times was learned from the point of view of an onlooker; and very few of those events had any personal significance for me. My memories can offer only a fragmentary picture, and so their only value can be as source material for historians of the future who wish to write about this period after a long interval of time; and their interest, perhaps, will be underlined by the fact that these pages come from the pen of a man who tried always to avoid bias.

Impartiality is not necessarily a virtue; rather it is a question of character. At any rate it has always been a part of
my
character
, so ingrained that I feel I was born with it as an inherited characteristic which was to be developed by many experiences during my time as a diplomat. Then I was apt to make mistakes by involving myself in the affairs of people whose ideas always held such a fascination for me that I would joyfully try to
imagine
myself in their shoes. Perhaps, too, it is part of a writer’s makeup to collect facts, to analyse human nature and, by trying to enter the minds of others, to understand the significance of a strange association of apparently contradictory ideas. But once one does that, impartiality becomes a necessity, because only thus can one decide with clarity whence, and under what
influences, could this apparently strange and illogical action have stemmed. Only with impartial analysis will the motives become clear, even when they seem to contradict each other, and then one can see what – after an agony of suppressed internal battles and hesitations – has given birth to a decision that at first had seemed beyond all reason. Such apparently illogical actions are almost never inspired by a single motive. They spring from an unknown number of threads, perhaps thousands of them, some forgotten, some unconscious, some consciously suppressed or not
admitted
, which when collected and spun together have formed a
conclusion
, however considered or unconsidered it may ultimately seem. It is like the myriad tiny wells and springs, underground streams and insignificant little rivulets of water emerging from far and wide, seeping out from swamps or caverns of
rock-crystal
, surging forth from the dark underground or oozing through rotting vegetation until, bursting from a cleft in the rocks, they all unite and merge imperceptibly together then, tumbling down to the valley, they achieve their ultimate purpose and are transformed into a mighty river.

Among those who played a part in those uncertain days, I was closely related only to one: Mihály Károlyi. Destiny had
somehow
placed him right at the centre of affairs. I think I knew him better than anyone else, for not only was he a near relation but, what is more important, we had also been close personal friends since early childhood. I was seven and he was six when we first met, and there sprung up between us an almost brotherly
affection
that lasted and bound us together well through our stormy teenage years. Indeed it was to last long afterwards – even when our careers and adult lives kept us more and more apart, and our characters were becoming evermore different. Finally our very different points of view and understanding of what was
important
in life were to bring about a complete rupture between us. Nevertheless, we remained on the intimate terms born of our childhood together, even at a distance and although we rarely saw each other after his marriage and during the war. Brothers, even if they have very different characters, can be like this; the bond remains even if fate has sent them on widely separate paths. The old intimacy is never entirely lost.

From his earliest childhood there were the most varied
opinions
about Mihály Károlyi’s character and abilities. Even today in 1932 people still hold wildly differing views, some believing him to have only a most limited understanding and modest talents and to be little more than a power-hungry adventurer; others – although nowadays these are growing fewer and fewer – see in him some kind of noble prophet. To my view both these opinions are wrong, and so I will try to describe him as I personally see him, not as a politician but as a man. And to do so I will have to show not only what he became but also go back to where he started, so as to establish, if I can, whence came those early impressions that were to motivate his actions over two decades, actions which were ultimately so fatal as to land him where he is today
14
.

A man’s character is only formed after the impressions of childhood and early youth have become blended with the
indefinable
and hidden influences both atavistic and of more
immediate
heredity. When, like soft clay, the newborn human spirit has been first fashioned by the firm hand of the modeller and then allowed to set and harden, this is the moment the final
character
emerges, fixed for life. While the part played by heredity will always remain elusive and uncertain, the influences of a man’s early years are not difficult to unfurl if we know where to seek and consider seriously what we find. I must therefore go back many years to start this search, and I fear it may prove a lengthy process.

Károlyi was a child of first cousins, and it is possibly this which resulted in his being born with a harelip and cleft palate, and so weak and puny that no one thought he would survive for long. His mother was already suffering from tuberculosis when he was born and was to die scarcely three years later.

The two orphans she left were cared for by their grandmother, who was also my aunt. She surrounded the child with constant care and careful nursing. He had to be shielded from everything, for everything harmed him. He was like a hothouse plant, so weak and pale that it had to be sheltered even from the slightest breath. Until he was fourteen years old one could hardly
understand
what he said; but then old Professor Bilroth from Vienna was induced to try a hazardous operation on his palate, which at
least made it easier for him to enunciate his words more clearly. He then had to learn how to speak properly and, showing much willpower, he achieved this by endless exercises, daily repeating words and phrases ever more loudly until his speech was so improved that it became almost, although never quite, that of those born with a normal palate. This built-in physical handicap was to remain with him for life: never admitted, sometimes,
perhaps
, temporarily out of mind, but nevertheless always there, like some congenital stigma.

Thus we can find already present from birth some of the most important formative elements in building the young Mihály’s character. One of these was the physical handicap that which was to inspire Mihály’s lifelong battle to prove himself as good as anyone else – the spirit of ‘I’ll show you!’ – a battle of willpower that had always to be waged in silence. It is terrible to think what it must mean, in the life of a small boy, to have to fight every day of one’s life to overcome a genetic handicap. Furthermore, one can but imagine the feeling of humiliation at being forced to wage this constant battle just to arrive where every other child starts. This is the other most important outside influence in forming the young Károlyi’s character.

Of course, something of this only appeared occasionally in his early days. When it did, it was to have all the more acute an effect. It was even a humiliation for the child to realize that he was given special consideration because he was physically so much weaker than other children. His faults would be forgiven him because of this very fragility; and all this because he was an incomplete being, almost a cripple. Things would happen that would all at once bring these ever-present feelings to the surface as a vivid and wounding reality. This would be provoked, for example, on the rare occasions when he found himself with other boys, usually relations of his own age, adolescents who, filled with an arrogant joy in their own strength, barely concealed their contempt for a weak undersized boy of their generation who had a speech defect to boot. This situation was graphically described by Ferenc Molnár in his novel
Boys of Pál Street
.

Such an experience must always be both painful and troubling. On a boy who has led a secluded life, cosseted and
protected like a hothouse plant, it will have a far greater effect than on those who have already have had a normal exposure to the hardening experiences of everyday life. In Mihály’s case, it was also provoked when I, never particularly athletic myself, forgot how much weaker he was and put him to shame in some boyish wrestling or other gymnastic activity. Although I
remember
how careful I was, when we were small boys, not to let this happen, once or twice in all those years of our youth, I grew careless. I understood then what I am writing about now.

I have now described the most important factors that were to result in three of his most marked characteristics – his ‘I’ll show you!’ reaction to the cruelties of fate and the humiliations they provoked; the hothouse atmosphere in which he had been brought up protected from all contact with real life; and thirdly, the fact that, because he was an orphan burdened with a severe physical handicap, he had all his life been treated as the most important person in the narrow little world of which he was the central figure.

We have just described the internal spiritual effects of his social background and physical condition. Now we should
examine
the external visible ones.

Firstly, there was the cultural atmosphere of the house in which he was raised, and its particular political and social aura.

I write ‘particular’ because the intellectual life of that family home was permeated by an exaggerated veneration for the
ideology
of the party that fought for Hungary’s independence in 1848 and consequently for the strong anti-Austrian and
anti-Habsburg
feelings it inspired.

This atmosphere was personified by the master of the house, Sándor Károlyi, and his wife Clarisse, both of whom belonged to that generation that had lived through Hungary’s fight for freedom and the years of oppression that had followed. Both they and their contemporaries had enthusiastically imbibed in their youth the heady notions of self-sacrifice enshrined in the political slogans of the 1840s, but, protected by their wealth and social position, they were never personally to experience the
devastation
and misery caused to so many by the revolutionary war. Of course, they had suffered many anxious moments, witnessed
scenes of high drama and endured much sadness and worry; and therefore the pain those past days recalled for them was mingled with a sense of romantic excitement and the sparkle of heroic battles. What sorrows they had were those of their youth and, although kept alive, were only enshrined in some scintillating golden web of memory.

Count Sándor Károlyi had been an officer in the hussars at the age of seventeen and later – so it was said – had been an active participant in the Komárom Conspiracy
15
. His father, the old István Károlyi (whom I never knew) was imprisoned for years at Olmütz and Kufstein for having himself raised the regiment in which his son Sándor had served
16
.

Sándor’s wife – my aunt and Mihályi’s grandmother on his mother’s side – had two brothers who fought on the Hungarian nationalist side. There were many exciting tales told about their escape and time spent in hiding. As a teenage girl she had lived with my grandparents at the house on Széchenyi Square
opposite
the ‘New Building’
17
in Budapest, to which they had retired in 1850 after the storm. Sometimes at dawn there could be heard the crackling of gunfire from the fortress-like barracks just across the square’s gardens. This meant that an execution was taking place, probably of some martyr to the Hungarian
nationalist
cause, although, except on one occasion, they did not know for sure who it was. The exception was when they executed Prince Voronievsky, who, on the eve of his death, had somehow managed to get a message to my grandmother and her
daughters
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. He had known them in Kolozsvár when he had been with the army of Bem. It was said that he had been in love with my Aunt Clarisse, and that that is why the message had been sent to them. It asked for their prayers, as his turn would come on the following day!