The Phoenix Land (4 page)

This little wall was quickly run up in a rather makeshift manner. Luckily there was no frost that night, and so by
morning
the cement had hardened and all was ready.

I arrived home very late. That night I slept little, as I wanted to be in the church early so as to be able to supervise any last touches that might be necessary.

It was just before four o’clock when I drove away from my house.

There was no sign of life in the inky darkness that enveloped the city. The only sound was that of the fiacre horses’ hooves on the cobblestones. Here and there a lamp blinked in the darkness, solitary, forlorn … and yet how much brilliance and splendour, how much light would bathe the capital later in the day! I had dressed myself in traditional Hungarian gala dress, covered with a mass of gold braid. Looking out of the window of the hired cab my thoughts went straight to those thousands of my
countrymen
, my brothers, who were at that moment passing this winter’s night in the mud, snow, and freezing cold of the trenches on the front line.

Chapter Two

It was still night when I entered the church by a little side door. To step from the darkness outside into the nave, which was now bathed in light gave me a feeling difficult to describe. It was rather like one of those marvellous moments recounted in legend when the tired hero, after battling his way through the horror of an obscure thorny wilderness, suddenly finds himself in the radiance of an enchanted castle.

The night before, when I had seen it last while giving final orders for the construction of the little wall outside the entrance, there had only been a few shaded lamps where the craftsmen were still at work. Now the whole church was ablaze with light.

In spite of the fact that I had discussed all the details – most of them several times – with my friend Professor Lechner and in spite, too, of having attended the rehearsal when the throne and their canopies and
prie-dieux
, the purple tent lined with white silk which hung over the altar, and the towering hangings of red velvet that draped the columns of the aisle, had all been in place, still, now, after another night of uninterrupted work had put the final touches of the great church’s gala dress and the huge
crystal
chandeliers above sparkled with light, even I was surprised, indeed overcome, by the sublime harmony of the effect we had created.

On each side of the aisle, rising to the level of the windows above the side-chapels, rose banks of seats all covered with red velvet, and between the seats were narrow flights of steps all
covered
with the same red material. The double line of rising stands lent to the nave the aspect of a long open valley that was
pervaded
with a sense of expectancy as if it were waiting some
long-awaited
fulfilment. The church seemed to be stretching out its
arms to welcome the festive throng who would soon be crowding to their places headed by all the members of parliament and, finally, the king. If the eye followed the line of the flowing drapes of the columns, their rich velvet folds as regular and as immobile as the pipes of some great celestial organ, to the soaring arches of the gothic vaulting so high above the great chandeliers, then it would finally come to rest on iridescent circles of white flames floating in the air like the haloes around the heads of medieval saints and filling every ogival curve of the stonework with a
powdery
radiance.

Somewhere high up on the banks of seats workmen were still hammering the velvet covering into place, while, behind the altar, seamstresses were stitching away hurriedly trying to finish the ceremonial cushions before the ceremonies began. The
electricians
, having just completed the reserve light-circuit, were carrying away their long ladders. There was very little time left, and anything that still needed doing had to be done quickly.

Very soon the ushers started to arrive. These were young men who would be responsible for showing the guests to their appointed places and ensuring that no unseemly scramble marred the dignity of the occasion. I selected a few of them to act as my personal runners who would keep me in immediate touch with the chief electrician who would be hidden from sight in the Bela III chapel, and some others to be posted outside in the square where they would stand like heralds to indicate which way the guests should go. Others I kept in reserve in case of unforeseen disaster.

After the ushers came the photographers; and with them was the painter Felix Schwormstädt, the eminent artist employed by the German magazine
Illustrierte
who was to be the only
representative
of the world press officially permitted to record the scene for posterity. The photographers were huddled together in the pulpit – which had been covered so that they could not be seen – and poor Schwormstädt had to squeeze himself somehow in behind the velvet curtain in which it had been shrouded. There was very little room for them all but, as the coronation was itself an official session of parliament as well as being a religious and state ceremony, neither he nor the photographers and their
equipment would have been permitted in the aisles. Despite these difficulties Schwormstädt managed to do a magnificent job, and the painting that was reproduced in the next issue of
Illustrierte
was the only one that I ever saw that did justice to that splendid but fleeting pageant that had gladdened our hearts that winter’s day so long ago.

Now the Keepers of the Regalia arrived in the church.

We had to place the crown and the other symbols of power and majesty in the Loretto chapel. There they had rested, each on its separate stand, on cushions which had been fitted with
special
fastenings to ensure that the sacred emblems could be carried in the horseback procession without risk of mishap.

This was the last time that anyone was to see the crown of St Stephen used for its essential purpose. It was a fabulous object not only for its historical associations and for the many legends that had become attached to it but also for its own sake, for it was a work of art unique in the world. Despite, or maybe because of, the fact that it is made up of two diadems, it has a wondrous and unexpected beauty. What was so surprising was the freshness of its enamels, as glowing and translucent as when they were first seen fresh from the hands of those unknown artists, goldsmiths, jewellers, and enamellists a thousand years before. Unbelievable, too, was the warmth and glow of its pearls – hundreds of them set in lines on every possible edge, still alive and radiant despite being kept for centuries in airless sealed cases. I remembered last seeing this fabulous object twenty years before on the occasion when Hungary celebrated the first thousand years of her history, and the crown had been displayed for three days in this very church. Then I had been one of the gentlemen appointed to stand guard around the sacred emblem of our monarchy and every detail of its shape and decoration were etched in my memory. Twenty years had gone by since the days of the millennium and now, with perhaps a more mature appreciation, I admired the great crown even more than I had before.

There was, however, another extraordinary object, also unique of its kind, among the ‘clenodiums’ – the sacred emblems of the state – this was the sceptre. When it first came into
possession
of the kings of Hungary is not known, although tradition
also attributes it to the time of St Stephen. The ball is of crystal, as big as a man’s fist, and rampant lions are carved all over it. It is Arab work from the eighth or ninth century, and the shaft and setting are of gold and are contemporary with the ball. It is an object to admire and ponder over. Whence did it come? How did it arrive in Hungary? What fate carried it from place to place and country to country and through what hands did it pass, what adventures had it known? The sparkling crystal above the golden shaft symbolized that above even the noblest of human values ruled the dispassionate clarity of the Word and Will of God.

It was now past seven o’clock and even though the women were still stitching away behind the altar and the ceremonial cushions were not yet ready to be put in place, the main doors had to be opened.

At once a stream of invited guests invaded the church.

Among the first was Móric Esterházy, the Minister-President elect.

I had just greeted him when the dark figure of a thin young man appeared alone at the top of the steps which led up to the main entrance of the church, silhouetted in the doorway against the light of the morning sky. He was dressed in a dark-green gold-embroidered tail suit and was holding his three-cornered hat under his arm. He moved forward and joined us and for a moment I did not recognize the man behind the finery, for I had previously only met him in the simplest of plain clothes. It was Czernin, the new minister for foreign affairs.

He asked me where he was to sit and then shook hands with Esterházy.

From the way he stood and moved, and from the knowing smile upon his face, I at once understood everything that was passing through his mind. It was as if he had said to Esterházy out loud for everyone to hear: ‘See? I’ve made it! Now it’s your turn. It’ll come soon, you’ll see!’ In that one little moment I felt it so clearly that it was as if he’d spoken, and I was at once seized by the same anticipatory anxiety that so many others had felt as soon as Czernin’s nomination to office had been announced. Once again I was filled with dread, fearing what so many others
feared, namely that the gossip about Franz Ferdinand’s prophecy was now brought to fulfilment. I tried to chase the thought away, telling myself that it would be madness at this critical time during the war to think of dispensing with Tisza, who alone among contemporary Hungarian statesmen had the greatness of soul and strength of character to carry the burden of the nation’s survival. After the war perhaps … but now? No! It was impossible!

More people were flooding in, the men in splendid uniforms and the women in their elaborate best, and the seats in the tiered stands were beginning to fill up. Those few artists we had
managed
to fit inside the church – Alajos Strobl, Oszkár Glatz and the others – hurried to their allotted places high up under the windows on the right. The court ladies, those in waiting on the queen, arrived in a group and, dressed as they were in traditional Hungarian court apparel, it was as if a bevy of old family
portraits
had suddenly come alive. They wore fantastic diamond tiaras and diadems on their heads and their pearl and
jewel-embroidered
capes glittered like a cascade of rippling light. It was the last parade of Hungary’s thousand-year-old history, a pageant that was never to be repeated and which will now never be seen again.

As we stood at the great doors telling everyone where to find their places I was suddenly accosted in French by a tall,
broad-shouldered
man in the uniform of a Hungarian general. It was the king of Bulgaria … and he was very cross indeed.

He would like to see the crown before he went to his place, he said shortly.

I led him to the Loretto chapel.

He inspected everything carefully, for he was a great
connoisseur
of all things artistic and a man of exceptional taste. In his total absorption in studying the Crown Jewels, for a few moments he forgot his anger. Then, turning back to me, he spoke passionately of how he had been insulted. He had been seated in the gallery of the oratorium, next to the little six-year-old crown prince; hidden away where no one could see him: he, the only foreign monarch who had the courtesy to come to Hungary for the coronation. He was very angry, repeating several times
that he had been hidden away with a little child; where no one could see the presence of a foreign monarch, a traditional and long-time friend of Hungary who had come in these times of trouble to make a public gesture of alliance and solidarity. ‘And this is all the thanks I get! This is how they treat me!’ he said furiously.

It was extremely painful for me to listen to King Ferdinand’s outburst, especially as only a year before he had received me in the palace at Sofia and had treated me with exceptional kindness and courtesy. I tried to explain that I had not been responsible for the seating arrangements and that, in any case, the little
archduke
Otto, as hereditary crown prince, was the highest ranking in Hungary after the king…

‘That’s all nonsense!’ interrupted King Ferdinand. ‘I know it’s not your fault! But I know, too, whose fault it is. It’s that camarilla at court … especially Montenuovo, who’s always been my enemy. He would stop at nothing to humiliate me … he, and those others … they’re my enemies, all right. Always have been. Always.’

Still trying to soothe him, I escorted King Ferdinand to his place in the oratorium gallery. There, however, although he was still fuming with rage, I had to take my leave. After more angry words he at last finished his tirade by saying: ‘If I’d known it, I wouldn’t have come!’ Then, quite suddenly, he looked at me with a friendly smile and in a most charming way started to praise my ancient Hungarian dress as if to make it quite clear that whatever else he thought he didn’t blame me.